tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-55637499353086783812024-03-19T23:58:19.446-04:00A clever leapSarah G.http://www.blogger.com/profile/07949984074585817107noreply@blogger.comBlogger229125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5563749935308678381.post-25662887833698985412014-06-17T23:06:00.002-04:002014-06-17T23:06:24.421-04:00Half marathon.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJgNswu6RW119CZWMuKdkQk-osCr-jhi36XHoIQa7RaeLjXpZjG3DrJAx2hKWNCl1sL-OiO65CDjvxyg1hLxg8RNTM-EuR8o6qtgQyw3THD6w0tz9JMQTpqrqL43VTugoqbH_vd_vEmslx/s1600/1494050162_02a70c04ea_m.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJgNswu6RW119CZWMuKdkQk-osCr-jhi36XHoIQa7RaeLjXpZjG3DrJAx2hKWNCl1sL-OiO65CDjvxyg1hLxg8RNTM-EuR8o6qtgQyw3THD6w0tz9JMQTpqrqL43VTugoqbH_vd_vEmslx/s1600/1494050162_02a70c04ea_m.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></div>
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<i><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">"Soldier of Marathon" by Jean-Pierre Cortot (photo by <a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/wallyg/1494050162/in/photolist-3h2p4y-nzfMeS-5RjfvA-dx2q9a-drythz-iCRY9Y-mSLT9Q-drrm3F-9GAPeE-dryQqC-4wd6hd-92jEdr-8x1GTW-5u7Ydh-ed3Wtz-awk4DB-a2698M-jU9RNj-r4NiA-9rPEy2-aBh5Ka-9RdHVm-9aQRwK-dry9kX-ifbLb1-65aXP1-ecxUUR-heEuqk-35iJwG-dryCgV-c6DHQQ-dryB4W-6gFCGc-drrK7F-aqVSGU-4n5six-eB661Y-ifbL7d-9BRMaR-niaJ7k-5B9oFP-9Q68Sh-xznsR-9BnbPh-8RvXEi-8RK62Y-drAxdY-drs5H7-kHdQcz-drAua4">Wally Gobetz</a>)</span></span><span style="font-size: x-small; text-align: left;"> </span></i></h3>
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<span style="font-size: x-small; text-align: left;">Two days ago, I signed up for a half marathon. At this point in my life, I've only run three 5Ks. I've always thought about running longer distances, but 13.1 miles always seemed a bit excessive. I enjoy running for the most part, but after a while my mind wanders and I want to stop. I get tired of the music that's on my Spotify playlists. I feel a pinch in my lower back that won't go away no matter how much I try to ignore it.</span><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">However, I've recently noticed a shift in my attitude. A couple weeks ago, I ran 3.2 miles without stopping. I did it again two days and four days and six days later. I started thinking about what it would feel like to run further and that, if I took it slow, maybe I wouldn't get bored. If I bought a pair of running shoes that fit my feet better and if I woke up a little earlier in the morning, perhaps I could go even further without hurting myself. I picked up a book about running and spent hours checking out blogs about running.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">And then, two days ago, I signed up for the half. I'm nervous, and I'm not 100% sure about what I'm getting myself into. I have to slowly increase the miles I run over the next eight weeks, and I've never done this on my own. And, didn't the first </span><span style="font-size: x-small;">marathon runner die from exhaustion after he ran more than 24 miles from Marathon to Athens to let the Greeks know that they'd won their first victory against the Persians?</span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> Good thing I'm only doing half of that. </span></div>
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Sarah G.http://www.blogger.com/profile/07949984074585817107noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5563749935308678381.post-14368053234948390962013-09-19T21:17:00.003-04:002013-09-19T21:17:32.430-04:00"The times they are a-changin'"<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijKHTsYvbiND6ItSBpPJ40h9oTA8IhAvrnLLX_Ux_2IwCbZfOxr6Bfbkhpyebk16DceeZmxLgn3Xh4UYMb_Lzl6yGdx4SqM0AmXrxTyaGFl9dZZBRUW5O4JvHDL1Bcxe0PWjMfkzC5ASCx/s1600/29.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijKHTsYvbiND6ItSBpPJ40h9oTA8IhAvrnLLX_Ux_2IwCbZfOxr6Bfbkhpyebk16DceeZmxLgn3Xh4UYMb_Lzl6yGdx4SqM0AmXrxTyaGFl9dZZBRUW5O4JvHDL1Bcxe0PWjMfkzC5ASCx/s1600/29.jpg" /></a></div>
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<i>Photo courtesy of my good friend, Laura</i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
<br />
A lot has changed, folks. Since my last post, I've gotten married, traveled to Mexico and back, moved into a house that has windows and a yard and is only a seven minute walk from work, landed a new job (a different position within the college), and started another semester of teaching.<br />
<br />
I have a husband! I'm in a new office! My house is a mess! My weekdays are incredibly busy!<br />
<br />
But, life is so, so good.</div>
Sarah G.http://www.blogger.com/profile/07949984074585817107noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5563749935308678381.post-10621283115607664652013-06-19T23:04:00.000-04:002013-06-19T23:04:02.220-04:00Preparing for a marriage.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Right
after my fiancé and I got engaged, I announced to him, "When it comes to
wedding planning, we should focus more on preparing the marriage. That's what
is most important: we're going to be together for the rest of our lives, and we
really need to prepare for our future together."</span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">What
better way to do this than to read books and to spend time learning from the
experts? I immediately read Tim Keller's <a href="http://www.amazon.com/books/dp/0525952470"><i>The Meaning of Marriage</i></a>--a book that I
think every person should read--and asked my parents and others questions about
their marriage and what advice they had. I continued reading the posts and
comments on APW, which I'd been reading daily for almost a year before we got
engaged. We started meeting with a pre-marital counselor, whose questions and
comments helped us to think deeper about finances, communication styles, and
family structure than we would have on our own.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">As I
started brainstorming for the wedding and the reception, I didn't think that
keeping our future at the focus of our wedding would be difficult. I envisioned
something simple, something small, something that wasn't overly expensive. I
didn't want frills, and I wanted the wedding to show our love and commitment to
each other. I pictured our friends and family surrounding us with the same love
and commitment; it would be one big community of people who love each other.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">But, as
the months passed and the wedding date loomed, I became more focused on the
fear that I'd disappoint my guests if I didn't have all the right wedding
stuff. This fear was perpetuated by outspoken co-workers, kind-hearted aunts,
and creative friends who freely gave their opinions about what they thought our
wedding should be. I heard that July was a terrible month to have a wedding,
that the venues I was considering were overpriced and not pretty enough, that my
color choice of black and ivory would make my wedding look like a funeral. Most
of their opinions were given out of love, and I implemented some of the
suggestions (spray-painting wine bottles with gold spray paint worked out
wonderfully for us, by the way). But I--as a pessimist and a people-pleaser by
nature--also heard and internalized the negative feedback I heard about my
wedding plans. Subsequently, I spent the last five months stressing over
planning, choosing, purchasing, rethinking, and questioning.</span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">"What
will my guests think about not having a flower girl or a ring bearer?" I
worried. "What if this possible caterer has really bad food or isn't as
gourmet as everyone expects? Will people like the color scheme? Should we get a
DJ? Why do people keep telling me that the wedding venue is too big--are they
right?"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">It wasn't
until recently that I realized that--even if they meant well in their
suggestions--those people offering their opinions about my wedding never
mentioned any thoughts or advice about what mattered more: Preparing for my
marriage to my fiance. And, in my earnestness to impress my future guests, I
forgot that the reason why they are coming to the wedding is to be part of our
great celebration of us as a couple, not our perfectly arranged centerpieces or
delectable hors d'oeuvres.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Mindy
Belz's recent article <a href="http://www.worldmag.com/2013/05/wedding_bills">"Wedding Bills"</a> in World magazine encapsulates
all I've been feeling recently about wedding planning. It's easy in our
culture--especially with the oftentimes suffocating Wedding Industry Complex--to
see how "the to-do list reigns, the budget-busters rule, and the meaning
of marriage gets lost": <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">"But
bringing the meaning back is about more than cutting costs. It’s about being
'the makers of manners,' as Shakespeare would say. That means we can let go of
things for pure show and instead serve those who surround the bride and groom
on their wedding day, reflecting for a wider world not only a happy marriage
but a happy community too. And that’s about investing not only in the wedding
day but also in the process of getting there, and making it all good."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I was
reminded that I should step back and really think about what the purpose of a
wedding and a reception is in the context of what marriage represents: two
people who, in the presence of friends and family, pledge to spend the rest of
their lives together. In approximately one month, I will be married. My family
and I want to show hospitality to our guests who are driving or flying long or
short distances to be with us on our big day; we want everyone who comes to
feel as included and as special as we think they are.</span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">But, my fiancé
and I also want our guests to stand beside us as we commit ourselves to each
other for life. We want our friends and family to love and support us at our
wedding; we want them to help us as we take baby steps in this new phase of
life called marriage.</span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Last week,
one of my friends sent an email to ask how our wedding plans are coming along.
She didn’t ask how big our wedding party is, or if we’ll have oodles of flowers
everywhere, or if I’m finished fitting my dress, or what I was thinking when I
picked <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that </i>venue. Instead, she gave
more forward-thinking advice. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“What an
exciting time in your life!” she wrote. “Don’t let the stress get to you. Enjoy
this in-between time, and know that all the details will come together. It’ll
go by fast, and you have such great times to look forward to in your future as
a married couple.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Now that’s
the kind of advice I like to hear.</span></div>
</div>
Sarah G.http://www.blogger.com/profile/07949984074585817107noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5563749935308678381.post-38676322187289247672013-04-10T17:59:00.000-04:002013-04-10T18:01:20.179-04:00Where is spring?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
The only reason I got out of bed this morning was for an Americano and a peaches-n-cream muffin from the Fruited Plain. Call me dramatic, but knowing that it's mid-April and that the trees are bowed low by thick layers of ice made me want to crawl back under my comforter. <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2BDrGp0E_KxIZ-oVp8BIV_-yOJhM_lm-PUdHL1CMyyAjsVB36_hZBADokyegdAVeN0syBXfKD3graxlbjapbudbhaRz8V1UQahOgXAr8KXi81XKSvp8JR1a3QXCtv6dpfWAsmzbHZkgI5/s1600/ice.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2BDrGp0E_KxIZ-oVp8BIV_-yOJhM_lm-PUdHL1CMyyAjsVB36_hZBADokyegdAVeN0syBXfKD3graxlbjapbudbhaRz8V1UQahOgXAr8KXi81XKSvp8JR1a3QXCtv6dpfWAsmzbHZkgI5/s320/ice.jpg" width="180" /></a><br />
When I walked outside to turn on my car, I saw that the sidewalk, the neighbor's house, and the grass were coated in ice. It took twenty minutes for me to de-ice my car today, and I had to take toes-first baby steps so that I didn't slip down the driveway.<br />
<br />
Despite all the discouragement--where is spring?--I have been trying to remain positive. At least a tree branch didn't crash onto my car in the middle of the night. At least I rent an apartment in this small town--if I owned a home, one of the trees on my property would most likely be in shambles. At least I didn't lose power last night like the majority of the residents did. At least the Fruited Plain was open for business this morning. At least I get the joy of wearing these winter boots one more time (even though I packed them away last week and hoped to not see them again for six months).<br />
<br />
Two days ago I went biking outside in a short-sleeved shirt. Now, I can't step outside without a sweater. The buds on the tree branches were just starting to emerge on Monday; last I checked, they are broken and covered with ice. My co-workers roll their eyes and sigh as they tell me that more sleet and snow is on the way. <br />
<br />
Spring, where are you?</div>
Sarah G.http://www.blogger.com/profile/07949984074585817107noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5563749935308678381.post-65981298589886097352013-04-02T09:36:00.000-04:002013-04-02T09:36:41.807-04:00Break.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
In addition to teaching English composition, I do administrative and event planning work. If you know much about college structure, this means that I don't have a spring break or a summer break. <br />
<br />
Well, it means that I don't have a <em>traditional </em>spring break where I leave my tiny town and travel to other parts of the country or the world. What I do get is a break from the normal routine, and that's something I needed after a busy semester.<br />
<br />
This week during spring break, I caught up on projects, events, and editing. I walked up and down the peaceful and dark hallways, and I could use the computer lab without having to apologize profusely for stealing someone's computer. I arrived early enough to make the first post of office coffee, and I used filtered water instead of sink water. <br />
<br />
I didn't have to prep my lesson plans; I didn't have to rush back from a lunch break to gather my books and papers for teaching. <br />
<br />
Basically, I had a different type of break. And it was awesome.<br />
<br />
Starting on Tuesday, it'll be great to have the students back on campus. It's nice to smile and talk with students and faculty; a busy campus seems to be a healthy campus. But, it's also nice to pause and catch up every once-in-a-while.</div>
Sarah G.http://www.blogger.com/profile/07949984074585817107noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5563749935308678381.post-23749255467277392112013-03-04T22:05:00.002-05:002013-03-04T22:05:47.178-05:00Try-athlon.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYFi7CiUleVRwQQlY6UCA34YEWc4qfdSfB8ukHuMjbQkbQ-nLwBoABeh1u4VhXh5X5aVBqdxceNsns9MXZq27MQoug_yqMyQWdeqnXS0DL5jjEtZ-1woCXoUsJP0v1BRjqp3sClCVbwNBv/s1600/DSC_1131.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYFi7CiUleVRwQQlY6UCA34YEWc4qfdSfB8ukHuMjbQkbQ-nLwBoABeh1u4VhXh5X5aVBqdxceNsns9MXZq27MQoug_yqMyQWdeqnXS0DL5jjEtZ-1woCXoUsJP0v1BRjqp3sClCVbwNBv/s320/DSC_1131.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This picture is from last summer, when I ran the Muddy Titan.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
If you read my bucket list from college, you'll find my sophomoric ideas of edginess (such as "get dreadlocks" or "get my nose pierced"), or nice--albeit presently unattainable--gestures (such as "hang out with such-and-such more," a girl who has since moved to California).<br />
<br />
I've disregarded most of my bucket list. But, one of the goals I actually hope to cross off my list this spring is to complete a triathlon.<br />
<br />
I don't have much of an excuse to <i>not </i>complete a triathlon. I can run for thirty minutes straight, which is much better than last March when I huffed and puffed from my driveway to the end of my street. The triathlon I'd like to do is shorter than a sprint or an Olympic triathlon. Also, the running portion is <i>literally</i> in my backyard.<br />
<br />
Despite all the reasons why I should complete the triathlon, I keep worrying about what might happen. I've worried about whether or not I will be ready to swim and bike in 60-ish days, since I haven't gone biking in months and swimming in, well, years. I don't have all the right gear, and I'm not sure I <i>want </i>to buy all the right gear.<br />
<br />
I'm slowly coming around to the idea, though. Yesterday when I was eating a piece of leftover cake, lounging on my sofa, and researching tips for newbie triathletes (yes, I realize how ironic this description is), I came across Joel Runyon's "<a href="http://joelrunyon.com/two3/how-to-sign-up-for-your-first-triathlon">How to Sign Up for Your First Triathlon</a>." Runyon's article made me feel better about my desire to complete a triathlon. This was especially true when he said that that "once you’ve decided internally that you’re going to do a race, you’re already 51% of the way there."<br />
<br />
Also, his post challenged me to think about my biggest reason for not wanting to swim, bike, and run my way to the finish line: "If you’re worried you’re not going to be ready for your race, let me reassure you: <strong>You won’t be."</strong><br />
<strong><br /></strong>
So, we shall see. I might try a triathlon. I haven't signed up for it yet, but I ran yesterday afternoon and swam this evening. Maybe I'll be able to cross something off that bucket list I created so long ago. Maybe.<br />
<br />
<br />
</div>
Sarah G.http://www.blogger.com/profile/07949984074585817107noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5563749935308678381.post-23311487214912157022013-02-27T19:40:00.000-05:002013-02-27T19:40:01.341-05:00When it rains...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Oh, some days you simply cannot keep up, much less get ahead. For me, this is one of those days.<br />
<br />
Want a sure-fire sign that I'm having a busy couple of days? Check the state of my apartment. What usually takes the first hit is, well, cleanliness. The dishes pile up in the sink and on the counter since I'm the only dishwasher I have. My laundry basket overflows because I have to leave my apartment in order to wash my clothes. I'll leave papers and pens on my ottoman, and my blankets won't be folded. <br />
<br />
Now, my fiance and family know first-hand that a dirty apartment is a bad omen for my mood. When I get busy, I get a teensy bit stressed. I start talking too fast, stomping too much, shutting doors too loudly, worrying too much.<br />
<br />
And then, as the old cliche goes, "when it rains, it pours." Today, I'd change that to "when it rains, the technology malfunctions."<br />
<br />
Take today's class, for instance. First, when I tried to use the the document camera to make a point, the image came up fuzzy and green. I tried my best to explain my point, but I'd already lost the students' interest. Then, my laptop stopped functioning properly in class, meaning that even though I could type on the computer I had to look up at the projector screen to see what I was doing. Then, the wiki page on plagiarism that I'd spent so much time on failed to function the way that I thought it would--aren't wikis <em>supposed</em> to allow students to collaborate simultaneously on a project?<br />
<br />
Next time when I <em>have </em>enough time, I'll troubleshoot the technology before jumping head-first into an activity. <br />
<br />
Fortunately, I'm planning on doing my dishes and tidying up my apartment tonight. I will fold all the blankets, and I'll get ahead on some grading. The end is in sight, my friends.<br />
</div>
Sarah G.http://www.blogger.com/profile/07949984074585817107noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5563749935308678381.post-90349115319559722112013-02-26T21:34:00.004-05:002013-02-26T21:40:03.210-05:00"We don't know beans about beans."<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Here's an excerpt of a book by Barbara Kingsolver called <i><a href="http://www.animalvegetablemiracle.com/">Animal, Vegetable, Miracle.</a> </i>When I read this quote, I was reminded why it's so important to know where our food comes from and to (if possible) have a garden:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>"Knowing how foods grow is to know how and when to look for them; such expertise is useful for certain kinds of people, namely, the ones who eat, no matter where they live or grocery shop.</i></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>"Absence of that knowledge has rendered us a nation of wary label-readers, oddly uneasy in our obligate relationship with the things we eat. We call our food animals by different names after they're dead, presumably sparing ourselves any vision of the beefs and the porks running around on actual hooves. Our words for unhealthy contamination--'soiled' or 'dirty'--suggest that if we really knew the number-one ingredient of a garden, we'd all head straight into therapy...</i></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>"We don't know beans about beans. Asparagus, potatoes, turkey drumsticks--you name it, we don't have a clue how the world makes it."</i></blockquote>
<div style="text-align: right;">
<br /></div>
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</blockquote>
</div>
Sarah G.http://www.blogger.com/profile/07949984074585817107noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5563749935308678381.post-49249871216866504922013-02-26T21:19:00.001-05:002013-02-26T21:20:44.224-05:00How long is too long to wait for a book to improve?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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How long--how many pages or chapters--do you wait for a book to improve before setting it aside?<br />
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Last night, I gave a <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Revolution-Jennifer-Donnelly/dp/0385737645">work of young adult fiction</a> about 30-ish pages--four chapters total--before I decided that I couldn't read it anymore. <br />
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There are a couple reasons I couldn't continue with this particular book. I though the protagonist was a bad-tempered, egocentric girl who couldn't look past her (admittedly horrifying) problems. In fact, the protagonist was so glum that another character tells her, "You're battery acid." <br />
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Perhaps that's what the author wanted--a main character who is relatable to those who are suffering/have suffered from teenage angst?--but I can't say that it worked for me. Perhaps if I had waited just a couple more chapters, the character may have transformed into someone less acidic. But I couldn't give the book that much more time; I was already irritated with the girl. <br />
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Also. The writer. Used quirky prosody. She thought it was a good idea. To include. Periods. Every few words. As emphasis. And that really distracted me. For some reason.<br />
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The fact that I didn't finish this book is a good example of my current stance on leisure reading. I used to hold onto library books for weeks, continually trudging through bad narration and terrible character names and silly plot twists. These days, I don't hold onto books that don't capture my interest. I don't have much time after work to read, so the books I choose have to fit my current interests if I'm going to finish them. There may not be anything wrong with the book; sometimes I'm simply not interested in it.<br />
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If I start losing interest in a book, I cut corners. One way I do this is I flip through the rest of the book to see if the characteristics that irk me are going to continue. For instance, in this book, I paged through to see if the writer continually sprinkles period marks throughout her writing. She did, so that's one clue that I won't be able to finish the book. <br />
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Or, when there's a lull in the story line, I skip chapters to see what's next. Does the protagonist's angry personality change? If not, then I'm not sure I'll continue reading.<br />
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You might think I should have given the book another chance or that I'm too impatient with books. Maybe that's true. But, I still think that there are so many good books out there that I shouldn't wait too long for a book to improve before I move on to the next.<br />
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Sarah G.http://www.blogger.com/profile/07949984074585817107noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5563749935308678381.post-47848469641104948072013-02-21T13:19:00.002-05:002013-02-21T16:49:54.074-05:00Where's all the snow gone?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGqrD84vDltMtieQ7hzeCyOw0hzNpqhH51SUf89m6rp-w9GTtlZ0EI7jAb4qrobfLm0FQlfDX0tK7yR9uFHb1H_Fl209yh2LiQZmGlZIEmvIE9CJMkqGKYsJm_csuKqj4kvDoA9JRHjH9S/s1600/IMG_20110211_080000.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGqrD84vDltMtieQ7hzeCyOw0hzNpqhH51SUf89m6rp-w9GTtlZ0EI7jAb4qrobfLm0FQlfDX0tK7yR9uFHb1H_Fl209yh2LiQZmGlZIEmvIE9CJMkqGKYsJm_csuKqj4kvDoA9JRHjH9S/s320/IMG_20110211_080000.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Today, somewhere in southern Texas, a woman is planting a tomato plant in the dirt; her spade is not hitting frozen ground. <br />
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Somewhere in South Carolina, Florida, or Georgia, a man is pulling his push mower out of the garage and turning on the engine. He's probably exhausted even before he starts, because this isn't the first time he's mowed his lawn this month.<br />
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In Kansas City, a weather man stands out in in the falling snow with a microphone in hand. He is bundled up in a blue winter coat, gloves, earmuffs, and snow pants. "Don't drive unless it is completely necessary," he says as he is turned toward the camera. "I've seen cars in the ditches on nearly every street. In total, we're expected to have a bigger snow storm than we've had in 20 years."<br />
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In my little corner of Iowa, everyone is wondering where all the snow has gone.<br />
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"Three days ago, when I went to the store, there wasn't any toilet paper or canned soup on the shelves," says my co-worker.<br />
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"There was 100% chance of snow for today starting at 4 a.m.," says a professor. "But now they've pushed it back to 6 p.m., and we're only supposed to get 3-5 inches?"<br />
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"I was looking forward to a big storm," laments another prof.<br />
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Personally, I'm counting the days until I can go running outside and can plant flowers in my future front yard. I'd much rather be the person in Texas who is sweating outside than the person who has to turn the apartment heater on high in order to stay warm. But, it is funny how we can all get so excited about a potential snowstorm only to be disappointed when it becomes snow flurries.<br />
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Sarah G.http://www.blogger.com/profile/07949984074585817107noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5563749935308678381.post-39423101288540060672013-02-19T20:54:00.000-05:002013-02-19T21:00:08.136-05:00The time I tried to tip a cow.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1vIW4Lv7sfyiBWOAE2wpbLRVPpFRmXzacz6OiS62vRpXFDkE48xrXs3nJCwrEo5JMj-knvyz4SSpLVjtwmgeOxaysUY_UaV8NJR6_7JnFmVH4wd45TN5UhTYw09rnsw2QQZclC3kDQVTC/s1600/IMG_6863.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1vIW4Lv7sfyiBWOAE2wpbLRVPpFRmXzacz6OiS62vRpXFDkE48xrXs3nJCwrEo5JMj-knvyz4SSpLVjtwmgeOxaysUY_UaV8NJR6_7JnFmVH4wd45TN5UhTYw09rnsw2QQZclC3kDQVTC/s320/IMG_6863.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">No, not sheep. Cows. We tried to tip <i>cows.</i></td></tr>
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Once, in high school, some friends and I tried to tip cows.</div>
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This was a long time before I moved to the more practical state of Iowa, where cows are only second to corn. This was back when <i>I, </i>Sarah from the St. Louis area, was considered the country kid. My parents owned seven acres of woods; I lived within walking distance of a field that Iowa residents would call a small hobby farm. But, I was from the country when compared to my high school friends who lived in neighborhoods and had a square patch of grass in the back yard. </div>
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We were on an all-school trip--I went to a small Christian school that had a total of 40 students--to go canoeing. We drove in separate vans about three hours away to a campground located between a barbed wire fence and the river. </div>
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Somewhere in the early hours of the morning after all the chaperones had fallen asleep (oh high school), a group of us were sitting on the ground holding flashlights. J started talking about the barbed wire fence near our campsite.</div>
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"I bet there's cows back there," he said. "Who wants to go tip a cow with me?"</div>
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"Do what?" I said. "Can you actually do that?"</div>
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"Yeah, I've heard of people doing that," said W. "I hear that cows sleep standing up. Some of my hick friends used to tip them over for fun."</div>
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"Sure, I'll go," said C, who in his skinny jeans was just about the most unlikely person to tip a cow as any of us. </div>
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Frankly, none of us had probably even been very close to a cow before. I'd seen them from the road, chewing away at some grass. I'd petted a calf at a petting zoo. And, like I said, I was the country kid out of the bunch. </div>
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Hyped up on caffeine and on the adrenaline of breaking rules, seven of us--three girls, four guys--left the group to try cow-tipping. </div>
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To start, getting over the barbed wire fence was not easy. K was a tall, thin, and brave girl--she ran up a fallen log and leaped over the fence. J managed to get stuck on the wire and ripped the leg of his pants. C stepped in a puddle of mud. "Dude! My Converses are ruined!" he said, kicking a branch. My friend M hung back; she had to be convinced that this was a good idea. </div>
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Once we were over the fence, we had to walk past some trees before we were into the pasture. It was dark, and we only had one flashlight. J pulled out his cell phone to shine a light. M grabbed my arm. "What was that?" she said. </div>
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"Watch out for the cow poo," said W. He shined the flashlight this way and that until we saw it: a bit, black, hulking cow was staring right at us, the beams from the flashlight reflecting from his (her?) eyes. Near the cow, we saw black squares of other cows, just hanging out in the pasture. </div>
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M squealed. "You woke it! It sees us!"</div>
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"Shh, you're going to wake the others," said J. </div>
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K giggled and broke out into a run straight into the dark. I ran after her, even though I couldn't see where I was going. As our eyes adjusted to the darkness, we all started running around , trying to find a cow that wasn't awake so we could push it over. I probably stepped in a cow patty or two, but I didn't care. It was thrilling to chase a loafing bovine around a field. </div>
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"Why won't they let us touch them?" said W, stopping to catch his breath. "And why are some of them laying down?"</div>
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"They keep running away," said K. "I thought they weren't supposed to do that--"</div>
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"I don't get it," I said. "It's really late. Don't you think they'd be asleep by now?"</div>
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"Uh, guys," said W. "I don't think that one looks very happy."</div>
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"What do you mean?" Said M, her voice shaking. "How can you tell?"</div>
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W turned the flashlight toward the cow. The cow was breathing heavily, and it was stamping a hoof on the ground. For a second, I thought the cow had horns--what if it impaled someone?</div>
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"Guys, it looks angry," said W.</div>
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M shrieked, and we all started running toward the barbed wire fence. I saw C trip and almost fall face first into the mud, and I could not stop laughing. We darted between the trees and to the fence, each of us trying to scramble over as quickly as we could. </div>
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By this time, the cow wasn't even chasing us, but it was just as much fun to flee the scene as it was to chase cows around a pasture at 3 a.m. like a bunch of city-fied lunatics. </div>
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Sarah G.http://www.blogger.com/profile/07949984074585817107noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5563749935308678381.post-77406944037202958552013-02-18T19:15:00.003-05:002013-02-18T19:19:28.737-05:00Thanks for the candy, skinny.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<em>"<a href="http://24.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_laxd0kR0JP1qds8l1o1_500.gif">Thanks for the candy, skinny</a>."</em></blockquote>
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Have you ever seen the show "Freaks and Geeks"? It's a cult classic and, even though it only aired for eighteen episodes and I've only seen the first six, I'd say it's worth watching.</div>
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In the episode "Tricks and Treats," protagonist Lindsay Weir (<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Linda_Cardellini">Linda Cardellini</a>) stands at the bus-stop with her sorta-friend Millie Ketner (<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sarah_Hagan">Sarah Hagan</a>). There's a clear contrast between the two girls: Lindsay wears her father's grungy green army jacket to fit in with the freaks, while Millie wears a button-up shirt and a tweed skirt, her boney elbows jutting out. </div>
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As the girls wait at the bus stop, Daniel Desario (<a href="http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0290556/">James Franco</a>) and his on-again-off-again girlfriend Kim (<a href="http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0005311/">Busy Phillips</a>) pull up in a convertible. They are Lindsay's new friends, and Millie doesn't like them very much. The four high school kids converse about Daniel's loud muffler and the fact that Millie is eating <a href="http://www.oldtimecandy.com/lik-m-aid.htm">Fun Dip</a> for breakfast (do you remember that candy?). Millie offers the sugar packet to Daniel, and he tries it.</div>
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"Thanks for the candy, skinny," Daniel says. He and Kim laugh before speeding away.<br />
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As I watched the episode, Daniel's words stood out to me. To Daniel, Millie is a weirdly dressed religious girl who eats sugar candies like a six-year-old. When Daniel said "skinny," he doesn't mean it as a compliment. He sees his girlfriend Kim, a regular-sized woman, as gorgeous. He doesn't see knobby-kneed Millie as anything more than a geek. When writer Paul Feig inserts a comment like "skinny" into Daniel's bag of comebacks, he means it as an insult.</div>
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Using "skinny" as an insult? Does that happen these days? Take a look online, and you'll see enough "<a href="http://www.skinnygossip.com/thursday-thinspo-kasia-struss-natasha-poly/">thinspo</a>" images and articles of thin girls trying to get thinner that you think skinny was <em>never </em>an insult. Thin is definitely in.<br />
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The definition of "skinny" is not the same as that of "thin," of course. One <a href="http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/skinny">definition</a> of "skinny" is "lacking usual or desirable bulk, quantity, qualities, or significance," while a separate <a href="http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/thin">definition</a> of "thin" is "having little extent from one surface to its opposite." Not quite the same thing, right? It seems that, traditionally, "skinny" is colloquially used as more of a derogatory, offensive term than the word "thin."<br />
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That sentiment could be changing, though. A definition that one user wrote in the Urban Dictionary is interesting: being skinny is "something that a lot of girls want to be." Also, did you hear that supermodel Kate Moss <a href="http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/celebritynews/6602430/Kate-Moss-Nothing-tastes-as-good-as-skinny-feels.html">declared</a> that "nothing tastes as good as skinny feels"? Yeah, <i>that's </i>not a negative use of the word "skinny," especially since she places skinniness about something that we all require to survive.<br />
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The last episode of "Freaks and Geeks" aired in 2000, and a lot has changed in our society since then. However, it was not a new phenomenon in 1999 to idolize the slender and slim; supermodels like <a href="http://bleubirdvintage.typepad.com/blog/2009/10/style-muse-twiggy.html">Twiggy</a> grew in popularity during the sixties. When this episode aired, the media still believed that there was something positive about a woman who maintained a healthy weight. Has that sentiment changed in the past 13 years?<br />
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All I know is, it's doubtful that a present-day TV show writer who wants to impress a teenage audience with something like "Pretty Little Liars" would use the word "skinny" as an insult.</div>
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Sarah G.http://www.blogger.com/profile/07949984074585817107noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5563749935308678381.post-64671275517679977932013-02-17T12:23:00.004-05:002013-02-17T12:23:52.807-05:00How do you respond to that?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br />
"You're from the United States? So, is your life like <i>Friends</i>?"<br />
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As he asked me this question, I took a bite of my digestive and washed it down with some hot tea. While living in Oxford I attended a small church in Headington, and I often stuck around for the social hour that followed the service.<br />
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I'd been in England for almost four months, and his question was a first. Acquaintances had asked me if Iowa was near New York City or California or Florida or Texas ("You're from America? I have a cousin who lives in New York City! Do you know such-and-such?"). But, I'd never been asked if my life was like <i>Friends</i>, especially from a guy at church. Was Iowa anything like New York City? No. The on-campus apartment that I'd lived in the previous semester had been cramped with seven girls for a two-room apartment. We had a great time, but it definitely wasn't a situation that could last for longer than four months. Did I have romantic escapades on par with Rachel and Monica? Not in the slightest.<br />
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But how do you respond to a comment like "Is your life like <i>Friends</i>" ? I don't want to make him feel awkward for his strange question. I could have thrown back a sarcastic comment or a witty quip; but, I'm not that smooth. Instead, I chortled and replied, "Ha ha ha, no....not really..."<br />
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Fast forward three years. Yesterday, my sisters and I went to a steakhouse not far from where I now live in Iowa. The decor consists of light-up Christmas houses and 70s-style wooden paneling and bad fluorescent lighting, but the steaks are some of the best you'll find anywhere. As we each ordered an alcoholic beverage, the waitress stared at my sisters' IDs.<br />
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"Whoa," she said, "<i>Why</i> are you <i>here</i>? And where is the date on these things?"<br />
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My sisters and I stared at each other. My sisters live in Kentucky, and the waitress had probably never seen an ID from Kentucky. But "why are you here" seems like a strange question to ask complete strangers. Should I say, "We're here to eat dinner," or "We are spending time together," or "Ha ha, you're funny," or...?<br />
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"I think we're ready to order," said Rachel, completely ignoring the waitress's question. No awkward laughter, no witty quip, no sarcastic comeback. After the waitress took our order and walked away, I raised my eyebrows and shrugged my shoulders.<br />
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"That was awkward," says Em.<br />
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"I know," I said. "How do you respond to that?"<br />
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Sarah G.http://www.blogger.com/profile/07949984074585817107noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5563749935308678381.post-90456463033922801812013-02-16T12:08:00.000-05:002013-02-17T11:42:21.118-05:00Gestures and behaviors that define our age.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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The other day, I came across the article "<a href="http://www.slate.com/blogs/the_vault/2013/02/08/early_color_film_from_1922_actresses_vamp_for_the_camera.html?wpisrc=most_viral">This 1922 Kodachrome Test is Strangely Bewitching</a>." The article includes a clip (in color!) of women who showcase the gestures of the 1920s. The clothes that the women wear are fascinating, but what's even more interesting is the way the women behave. As writer Joan Neuberger says in the article:<br />
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<span style="line-height: 17.984375px;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">They act out fluttery, innocent modesty; warm maternal love; and in the longest sequence, sexy, puckered-lip vamping. Their open expressions of feeling and the particular way they move their hands and tilt their heads, even more than the fashions of their clothes and makeup, immediately mark them as women of the interwar period. </span></span></blockquote>
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Neuberger ends the short article by asking the reader what behaviors, gestures, or acting styles will define our age.<br />
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We could talk for hours about social media's influence on social behaviors and gestures. What about teenage girls who take pictures of themselves making <a href="http://knowyourmeme.com/memes/duck-face">duck faces</a>? What about the hand-on-hip sorority pose that was popularized by college girls? There are many more ways to express ourselves to the outside world today than there were in the 1920s. We have Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Pinterest...I could take pictures and videos of myself in varying poses all day long and post them somewhere.<br />
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I'm sure that our wedding photography poses will be remembered for being opulent and somewhat odd. Why is it popular for photographers to focus in on a bouquet of flowers, <a href="http://24.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m6p0swazJw1r7ncxco1_500.jpg">completely eliminating the bride's head</a> from the picture? Why do we need a picture of the bride's shoes on the floor and <a href="http://www.stylemepretty.com/gallery/picture/897386">not on her feet</a>? Why <a href="http://pinterest.com/pin/42925002670811811/">do the bride and groom not look at the camera</a>, and why do we value a picture of a bride <a href="http://pinterest.com/pin/42925002670811808/">whose face</a> we can't even see? Who decided that the (really expensive) photographer should take pictures of the <a href="http://greenweddingshoes.com/a-dark-romantic-wedding-lindsey-nate/">boutonnieres</a> on a table instead of Great Aunt Bonnie shedding tears of joy? Why a picture of the bride and groom <a href="http://www.stylemepretty.com/gallery/picture/895039">kissing a dog</a> instead of a picture of the bride and groom kissing the groom's grandmother?<br />
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These are typical shots of present-day wedding photographers, and people pay big money for them. What do these images say about what our society and our age values?<br />
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I bet that, when future generations look at images of our age, they'll note that we loved our stuff almost as much as our own images.<br />
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I'm not saying that mentalities of past generations are far superior to our generation's mentality. Watch the clip from the 1920s, and you'll know that the poses that the women strike are a bit odd. Most generations looking back on another wonder, "Why did he stand that way? Why didn't they smile for the camera? Why did Aunt Cindy wear that <i>awful</i>-looking flower print dress?"<br />
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So, someday--not too long from now--we'll be seen as odd for the facial expressions we made and the poses we struck and way we did our hair. People will say that we were a bit more <a href="http://www.slate.com/articles/life/doonan/2012/06/narcissism_how_to_be_vain_without_being_a_jerk_.html">narcissistic</a> than previous generations, but not as bad as others. They'll laugh at us and say, "Grandma, why do you look like that?"<br />
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After all, the grass withers and the flower fades.</div>
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Sarah G.http://www.blogger.com/profile/07949984074585817107noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5563749935308678381.post-69721347325176869542013-01-09T08:37:00.001-05:002013-01-10T14:13:54.861-05:00Sales pitches from a bridal show.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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When I went to my first bridal show last Sunday, I met many vendors who used their best sales pitch to convince me that I absolutely <em>needed</em> their merchandise or skills. I'm one to buck anyone who tells me that I <em>need </em>anything; despite my initial trepidations, I had a great time and got some great ideas. I also had my fair share of interesting conversations:<br />
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<strong>At the eighth DJ booth I visited:</strong><br />
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"With the deluxe package at a low price of $1,000, we'll play music for you for seven hours, including three hours for your cocktail and hors d'oeuvres and then four hours for a dance party," says the bald, green-eyed DJ.<br />
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I stifle a laugh. Seven hours?! Someone at my wedding might die from exhaustion of over-dancing. Thanks, but no thanks.<br />
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<strong>At a booth for a tuxedo rental store:</strong><br />
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"Suspenders are really trendy on the coasts right now, but the Midwest hasn't picked up on that trend yet," says the sales lady with big curly hair.<br />
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She leans in and raises her eyebrows, poking my shoulder. "You can be one of the first in the area to be part of that trend, unlike most around here who won't get into that for a couple years."<br />
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"Huh," I say.<br />
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Is she telling me this because I am wearing a cheetah print dress and some checkered tights, a trendier alternative to the other brides in hoodies and sweatpants? Or, maybe she is playing to my ego. Most likely I am over-thinking her suggestion. Regardless, I'm not going for suspenders for the reason she named: I won't go for trendy just to be <em>trendy.</em><br />
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<strong>At the party bus booth:</strong><br />
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"We have a bus right here on display!" says the twenty-something sales girl, straightening her hipster glasses and smiling widely. "Go on inside if you want!"<br />
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My future mother-in-law and I take two steps toward the bus before I notice the disco lights, bright red strobe light, and--right at the center of the aisle--a shiny stripper pole.<br />
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"No thanks," I say.<br />
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<strong>At a booth for a local casino:</strong><br />
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"Our casino makes a great wedding reception venue!" says a plump blonde woman.<br />
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"Thanks, but we already picked the reception venue," I say.<br />
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"Bachelorette parties, then! Or rehearsal dinner! A weekend getaway with your future hubby!"<br />
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"Thanks," I say. "I'll give it some thought."<br />
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"Well, go over and they'll teach you how to play Black Jack."<br />
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I laugh, thinking she's making a joke. She stares at me with her mouth open as I walk to what I think is the next booth. Sure enough, there's a Black Jack table set up, and there are two guys behind the table who are trying to convince us to place a bet.<br />
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<strong>At a booth for a tanning salon:</strong><br />
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"Do you know about our tanning salon?" asks a woman whose skin looks more orange than tan.<br />
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"Um, I know about it, yes," I say. <em>I know that you can get skin cancer from too much tanning in a sun booth. Isn't there talk of a sun tax, too?</em><br />
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"Oh well gooooooood!" she cooes. "Have you ever visited our store?"<br />
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"No."<br />
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"Well this is good for a free tan any day of the week," she says, handing me a card.<br />
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"<em>Great.</em> Thanks...."<br />
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<strong>At the fifth photography booth I visited:</strong><br />
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"My photography starts at $3000, but I throw in a free engagement shoot so that we get to know each other better and so that day-of isn't so staged," she says. "In fact, I'll throw in the 'Trash the Dress' if you book me today." <br />
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She picks up her nail file, crosses her legs and looks down at the table. "It's a bargain if you ask me."<br />
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<em>Right.</em> "Thanks, but I already had my engagement photos taken," I say.<br />
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<strong>At the nineth DJ booth (my favorite booth of all):</strong><br />
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"So, how's it going for you?" says an older man with a goatee and a Hawaiian print shirt.<br />
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"Oh, fine," I say. <br />
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"You're probably feeling overloaded with information, huh?" he says.<br />
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"Yes, yes I am," I reply.<br />
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"So, do you have your reception booked yet?" he asks.<br />
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<em>Why is he asking me about my reception when he's a DJ?</em><br />
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"Yeah," I say. "I'm feeling a bit behind with everything else, though."<br />
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"Good work, kid," he says. "Most of the brides I've talked to today don't have their reception booked yet. I think that's the first thing you should do--book a reception place and then everything else doesn't really matter. You're ahead, in my opinion."<br />
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"Thanks! I needed to hear that," I say as I smile and pick up a brochure from his booth. "Have a good day."</div>
Sarah G.http://www.blogger.com/profile/07949984074585817107noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5563749935308678381.post-11966729885017527282012-11-29T20:18:00.002-05:002012-11-29T20:18:54.024-05:00Engaged.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
One month ago, Micah proposed to me on a walk through the Dordt prairie. I was elated; all I could do was jump up and down and say "I'm so excited! I'm so excited!" He picked out the engagement ring, and it suits me perfectly. We've spent the month of November celebrating and starting the planning process.<div>
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I'm not new at planning events. Last month alone, I planned an on-campus conference and two other smaller events that hosted over 500 people each. On a monthly basis, I set up events for speakers who visit campus. I know how to get events done.</div>
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However, I'm finding that wedding planning is an entirely different beast. As a young girl, I never considered my future wedding. In fact, I balked and laughed at people who said that they'd been planning their wedding since the third grade. </div>
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Now that I'm supposed to be planning mine, I'm having trouble fielding the barrage of questions because I've never had any set answers. "When's the date? Where's it going to be located?" were the questions I heard during the first week of my engagement. The following week, I heard, "Have you picked out a dress yet? What are your colors? Bridal party? Honeymoon?" </div>
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The worst was when a co-worker told me, "Once you're married, don't plan on waiting too long to have kids."</div>
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<i>Seriously?</i> I thought. <i>We've barely been engaged for four weeks, and you're encouraging us to produce offspring. I don't think that's how it's supposed to work.</i></div>
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Those who ask questions mean well and, frankly, I'd be asking the same questions if someone I knew was recently engaged. Also, it's probably unfair of me to assume that girls who've planned their wedding since childbirth are a step ahead of me. I wouldn't have trusted my third grade self to pick out colors or a wedding dress style.</div>
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The hard part, I've found, is answering the questions for myself. I haven't picked colors--I want something timeless and classic, which means that any patterns or bright colors are most likely out. We've decided to get married in mid-summer in the town where I currently live, but we haven't booked venues as of yet. We haven't booked a photographer; we don't have a caterer. We don't really have much of anything, actually. </div>
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What we do have, though, is a lot of excitement and two families that fully support our decisions. We also have some creative genes to design invitations and centerpieces. There's also those with practical, honest genes who say, "Sarah, it's a nice thought, but we can't really see you making the wedding cake yourself and coming out alive." I appreciate those greatly as well.</div>
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We'll see how this whole wedding thing turns out. I'm excited to be Micah's wife, and I'm thrilled to move into the next stage of life. The next year will be rather crazy but good. I'm looking forward to it.</div>
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Sarah G.http://www.blogger.com/profile/07949984074585817107noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5563749935308678381.post-14818646179219071312012-10-16T14:00:00.000-04:002013-01-29T17:33:41.600-05:00A mouse in my house.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">T</span><span style="font-size: x-small;">here is a mouse in my apartment. I've heard it for the last couple days crawling and scratching around in my ceiling tiles at night. I've tried my best to ignore it, to not think about it crashing through the tiles and onto my head in the middle of the night. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-small;">But, this morning at 5:00 a.m., it woke me up with particularly loud scratching. All I could do was shiver under my covers and dream up a long letter to my landlord. "Dear landlord," the letter would say, "I have a mouse the size of a small cat walking around in my ceiling tiles. Please save me from this horrifyingly large varmint before it eats me alive like rats did during the dark ages..."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">The noise got so loud that, when my alarm went off at 7:15 a.m., I hadn't slept since the first loud scratching sound. I turned out my lamp and carefully put my feet on the ground, wondering if the mouse had magically found its way onto my floor. I was relieved to not see anything on the floor except my boots and a backpack. I threw on my black shirt and a green cardigan and walked toward the bathroom.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">As I switched on my bathroom light, I heard some scratching. I looked toward the shower and gasped loudly. A mouse--albeit a tiny one with big brown eyes--poked its head out from behind the curtains. I gasped again and quickly shut the door, running to the kitchen to grab the blue broom. When I opened the bathroom door, the mouse had disappeared--vanished! I was shaking, so all I could do was grab my toothbrush and my contacts and go into the kitchen to finish getting ready.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">As I brushed my teeth, I mentally revised the long letter to my landlord. "Dear landlord," the letter would say, "Not only has the mouse infiltrated my ceiling tiles, but it has proceeded into the most sacred room in the apartment. I beg you to please set up traps and rid it of my establishment. Until then, I'll be sleeping in my office. Or in my car..."</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-small;">This morning, I arrived at work fifteen minutes earlier than usual. My office never looked so wonderful to me. </span></div>
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Sarah G.http://www.blogger.com/profile/07949984074585817107noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5563749935308678381.post-58534147187879964042012-09-29T15:16:00.001-04:002012-11-14T15:20:43.916-05:00The old lady who once lived down the street.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">On my street, there is a house with white siding and black awnings. The front yard is bare except for four perfectly trimmed hedges along the gray sidewalk. At the front of the house are four large, dark windows. It used to look like all the other houses on my street--empty and silent. That is, until recently.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Until recently, an old woman with white hair and gnarled hands always sat right beside the front window. She tried to hide behind lace curtains and a large hanging doily that read "HOME SWEET HOME," but I always saw her.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">She stared at my boyfriend and me as we walked by her house, and she stared at me when I ran down the street in my bright pink shorts. She reached up to pull aside the curtains, squinting her eyes as she peered through the holes of the doily. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Sometimes she turned on an old lamp in brazen nosiness; other times, she tried to stealthily cower in the shadows in a chair only a few feet from her usual spot by the window. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">At first, I felt sorry for her. <i>Why does she spend all her time by that window? </i>I thought. <i>Doesn't she have anything better to do with her time than to stare at the rest of us? And why doesn't anyone ever visit her?</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Then, when I drove my car by her house late one night and saw her snap on a lamplight to see whose car was passing by, I was irritated and creeped out. <i>What a weird old lady. Please, Lord, don't let me be like that when I'm ancient.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">And then, one day, there was a "FOR SALE" sign in her immaculate front yard. I never saw a moving truck; I never saw any relatives come to pack up her things. I only noticed that the giant doily was gone and that the curtains had been removed. The house was as dark as it had ever been.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">The house was sold within two days of the posted sign, and the new neighbors immediately invaded. They brought three cars and a giant moving van and set up a play set in the front yard. They planted a tree beside the play set.</span> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">The garage, which had previously been closed at all times, was open at all hours of the day. When I walked from my door to the car, I could see and hear a man using a power saw to cut planks of wood.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Three little blonde kids left their bicycles and tricycles on the driveway. Once, when I was biking up the street, I almost ran straight into a little girl who had lost control of the tricycle. Her older brother laughed and yelled for his sister to come back onto the driveway. A toddler giggled as he slid down the slide.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I don't know what happened to the old woman. Perhaps she went to a nursing home or passed away. Now, when I run up the street, I rarely recall the giant doily and the lace curtains and the woman's gnarled fingers. Now, I must watch for toy lizards and abandoned jump ropes and smiling, giggling children.</span></div>
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Sarah G.http://www.blogger.com/profile/07949984074585817107noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5563749935308678381.post-19719745467211484662012-08-30T23:27:00.003-04:002012-08-30T23:29:10.278-04:00Happy to be busy.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
As of this week, my summer is officially over. Students came back as of Monday, and the once-quiet campus is quiet no more. I can't bike or run through campus without seeing someone I know, and I can't walk down the hallway without running into a flock of students. I no longer recognize every car in town, and I'm more likely to see 18-22 year-olds at Walmart than I am to see young mothers or old men.<br />
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I no longer have a slow, steady work pace, either. I'm now chin-deep in projects, event planning, meeting minutes, and web management. I am teaching one section of English composition again this semester, so I spend every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday at 10 a.m. at the front of a classroom trying to help students improve their writing skills.</div>
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I'm slow at readjusting. This week, my boyfriend and his roommate have repeatedly reminded me that I shouldn't be in work mode when I'm not at work. I use my busy work week as an excuse to eat as much bad food as I can (frozen pizza and chocolate ice cream last night, Mexican food tonight), and I try as often as I can to stare mindlessly at a television screen so that I don't incessantly worry about projects that need to be completed by the end of the week.</div>
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I know myself well enough to know that my temporary anxiety is, well, temporary. At some point in the next couple of weeks, I'll be able focus more on my running and on eating well. I will start reading normal books, not <i><a href="http://bedfordstmartins.com/Catalog/product/stmartinsguidetoteachingwriting-sixthedition-glenn">St. Martin's Guide to Teaching Writing</a> </i>(which, by the way, is an awesome book). I will still worry about how class went, but I'll be at least a bit better at compartmentalizing so that I will enjoy my time off.</div>
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I struggle to readjust to the changes, but I secretly enjoy how busy I am at work. It makes the days zoom by, and I feel as if I am accomplishing something important at work. I feel as if I'm making a difference in my job and in the lives of others. It is rewarding to be so busy, and I'm grateful for all the wonderful opportunities that I've had through my job.</div>
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Sarah G.http://www.blogger.com/profile/07949984074585817107noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5563749935308678381.post-82956682067693487402012-08-20T23:25:00.001-04:002012-08-20T23:25:02.920-04:00Long hair.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I have spent the last couple of weeks debating internally about whether or not to chop my long locks. It took me months to grow them out and--now that I'm a week and a day away from stepping back into the classroom--I'm worried that my long hair will detract from my professionalism as a prof. <div>
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What a strange worry, don't you think? I should spend most of my time reworking the syllabus and reconsidering old lesson plans, which I have. But, I've also had a lingering concern in the back of my mind about appearance, especially since I've had a number of people in the community recently ask me if I'm a college student. I look a lot younger with long hair, mainly because most people who work 8 a.m. - 4:30 p.m. office jobs like I do cut their hair very short and in layers. I just haven't been able to do that and stick with it yet.</div>
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"Just wear more makeup," Em says. "Then you'll look older."</div>
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"I like your long hair," says my boyfriend. </div>
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"Keep it long," says one of my best friends.</div>
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Yet, I have still worried. What if I get snarky comments from students? What if my co-workers don't approve? </div>
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But, should I worry, and why do I care? It's not as if the students will take me any more seriously if my hair comes down to my ears. Perhaps I'll look a bit older, but it's how I act that matters, not how I wear my hair. It's a childish worry, really.</div>
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Tonight, Em and I were sitting with some of her college friends. They know I work for the college, and one of them was asking me if it was strange to work at my <i>alma mater</i>.</div>
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"Yes, sometimes," I said. "Especially when I feel like I should be your age."</div>
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"How old are you?" he asked.</div>
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I disclosed my age and sat back in my chair.</div>
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"You're <i>how </i>old?" he said, "Wow, you <i>are </i>old."</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
I should have laughed or tried to defend myself. But, considering my hair was brushing against my shoulders and I wasn't wearing a stick of makeup, I felt pleased with his comment. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Thanks!" I said.</div>
</div>
Sarah G.http://www.blogger.com/profile/07949984074585817107noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5563749935308678381.post-82608848886188023312012-07-22T23:31:00.001-04:002012-07-22T23:35:25.990-04:00Rules on how to be a responsible adult.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgq72spKMfVUjpaWvg_3kO-vrebCndVkSL7zdo4DN5HPTxhXUcH9F5ltJxIMP0gPRRSmSJcTJ7a7h1BFWVcUeBSaniJo_XWE1o_vCIDNry23dKB71wddWmlurOVLrwdZqqeazqD0AljA2Y/s1600/4thofjuly.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgq72spKMfVUjpaWvg_3kO-vrebCndVkSL7zdo4DN5HPTxhXUcH9F5ltJxIMP0gPRRSmSJcTJ7a7h1BFWVcUeBSaniJo_XWE1o_vCIDNry23dKB71wddWmlurOVLrwdZqqeazqD0AljA2Y/s320/4thofjuly.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: x-small;"><i>A responsible adult always smiles perfectly for the camera.</i></span></div>
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></b><br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">A responsible adult:</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l7 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">1.<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span>Eats her leftovers, even if the bread is a
little stale the next day.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt 0.5in; mso-list: l7 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">2.<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span>Does not forgo leftovers to make California rolls.
She also does not spend money on avocado, cucumber, crab, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">nori</i>, short-grain sushi rice, and wasabi when she knows that she
probably won’t finish it all. Does not allow aforementioned leftovers to spoil.
Does not stuff herself on California rolls when she should be watching what she
eats.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">A responsible adult:</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">1.<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span>Plants a garden and waters it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br />
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">2.<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span>Does not forget about the garden for two days.
Does not decide to haphazardly water the garden after remembering that it exists.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">A responsible adult:</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l6 level1 lfo3; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">1.<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span>Exercises regularly.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br />
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt 0.5in; mso-list: l6 level1 lfo3; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">2.<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span>Does not overexert herself while exercising—“I’m
going to be the next Marion Jones! I run so fast. I’m never going to stop!”—so
that she develops bad back pain the next morning. Back pain may then result in bad chair posture at the work computer. Does not continually grumble about her back pain with the
motive of coaxing her boyfriend into perpetually washing the dishes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">A responsible adult:</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l4 level1 lfo4; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">1.<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span>Wears a bike helmet when bicycling to work every
day.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br />
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt 0.5in; mso-list: l4 level1 lfo4; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">2.<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span>Does not buy a bike helmet only to shelve it for
weeks. Also does not use “I’m wearing my hair in a ponytail today” as an excuse
to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not </i>wear the helmet. Does not wear
her hair in a ponytail for seven days in a row simply to avoid the dreaded
helmet.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">A responsible adult:</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l8 level1 lfo5; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">1.<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span>Wears business casual clothing to work, even
when Friday is dubbed “T-shirt-and-jean day” in the office.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br />
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt 0.5in; mso-list: l8 level1 lfo5; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">2.<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span>Does not sport jeans, a t-shirt, knock-off
Chacos, and no makeup to work. Does not jump in the shower twenty minutes
before she’s supposed to be at work. Does not blow-dry her hair in five minutes
and immediately throw on a bike helmet. (Why is this irresponsible adult
shocked that her hair is shaped like a helmet when she arrives at work? She set
herself up for this.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">A responsible adult:</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l1 level1 lfo6; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">1.<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span>Sets aside an evening for laundry at least once
a week.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br />
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt 0.5in; mso-list: l1 level1 lfo6; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">2.<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span>Does not talk herself out of doing laundry
simply because she has to go to the Laundromat to clean her clothes. Does not
go for weeks without doing laundry. Does not try to hand-wash her undergarments.
Does not use her concern for the environment or for the economy as an excuse to
wear a shirt six times before washing it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">A responsible adult:</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l2 level1 lfo7; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">1.<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span>Washes her dishes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br />
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt 0.5in; mso-list: l2 level1 lfo7; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">2.<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span>Does not allow her dishes to sit in the sink for
a day or two. Does not throw a temper tantrum when she does the dishes after a
long day at work. Does not allow dirty dishes to ruin her night, even though it
took an entire 30 minutes to complete (first world problems, anyone?).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">A responsible adult:</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l3 level1 lfo8; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">1.<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span>Stays away from the computer when she isn’t
working. She knows that it is her job to sit on a computer for 8 hours a day,
40 hours a week and that there are many other fun activities to be done.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br />
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt 0.5in; mso-list: l3 level1 lfo8; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">2.<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span>Does not allow herself to obsess over Pinterest
and Facebook so that her inner dialogue becomes: “Pin that recipe! Stalk that
former friend! Ooh, new pictures…I wish I had that coral-colored skirt! What if
I randomly decided to go to Cinco Terra? Maybe I should become a marine
biologist…” Does not look up from the computer to find that it’s 9:30 p.m.
(almost responsible adult’s bedtime). Does not continue to sit at computer and write long, arduous blog post. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">A responsible adult:</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l5 level1 lfo9; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">1.<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span>Goes to bed on time. Gets 8 hours of sleep.
Wakes up early for a cup of home-brewed coffee.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br />
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt 0.5in; mso-list: l5 level1 lfo9; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">2.<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span>Does not stay up to read chapters of Pollan’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Omnivore’s Dilemma. </i>Does not find that
time slips by faster than she imagined and that it is now 12:00 a.m. Does not
continue to read until she reaches the end. Does not think, “Oh, I don’t need
eight hours of sleep anyway.” Does not wake up cranky in the morning…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">A responsible adult:</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l9 level1 lfo10; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">1.<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span>Realizes that her body can heal itself and
should not panic/freak out every time she feels slightly off.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br />
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt 0.5in; mso-list: l9 level1 lfo10; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">2.<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span>Does not assume that she has acid reflux disease
simply because her stomach hurts. Does not access Mayo Clinic’s website to look
at list of symptoms. Does not panic when she reads “cancer” as one of the
possible outcomes. Does not continually discuss her stomach abnormality during
break time. Does not contemplate going to the doctor. Is not surprised the next
morning when she wakes up with a perfectly content stomach.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></div>
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</div>Sarah G.http://www.blogger.com/profile/07949984074585817107noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5563749935308678381.post-60973257445449610472012-07-13T13:16:00.002-04:002012-07-13T13:16:56.996-04:00Like a responsible adult would do.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Like a responsible adult would do, I exercised last night: I ran to my garden, watered it, then walked back.<br />
<br />
Like a responsible adult would do, I stopped by my office to pick up my retainers.<br />
<br />
(According to my former orthodontist, I'm supposed to where them "24/7 for the rest of my life." I prefer to wear them haphazardly at work in my office--especially when I know no one will see me during the day--and at night. Aren't I the responsible one?)<br />
<br />
I took a shortcut behind my work, cutting through a recently tilled field. The sun was setting, and I was humming along to one of my favorite Tegan & Sara songs. As I was humming, though, I flailed one arm and managed to toss my retainers (which I'd been carrying in my hands) onto the ground. Oh no!<br />
<br />
So, like a responsible adult would do, I got down on my hands and knees and searched--by Ipod light--for my retainers. I searched and searched and searched...for nearly 20 minutes. I prayed and moved my hands around in the grass, grasping for anything that felt plastic.<br />
<br />
And then I found one. "Top retainer," I thought. "Should I leave the other, a casualty of my juvenile mistake?"<br />
<br />
I could see seventh-grade me in my head, thinking that I'd thrown out my retainers in the garbage. "I can get new ones," I would have though.<br />
<br />
However, as an adult, I now know how astoundingly expensive teeth and retainers and braces can be. So I kept searching. And searching. And then, there it was!<br />
<br />
"Thank you, Lord," I prayed. I sighed loudly and clutched the retainers close to me. And, like a responsible adult would do, I vowed to never walk home in the dark with my retainers again.</div>Sarah G.http://www.blogger.com/profile/07949984074585817107noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5563749935308678381.post-26057366808553984162012-06-13T23:16:00.001-04:002012-06-13T23:16:26.267-04:00Muddy Titan.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqi7dYB_j_JFK-V6hRuIK_FCd4tIP71UbdU53yIuLv8nT11QJHo8lY9OQof2xMSvaPOluNGwpkjpoSOj77JcOGs1D9MQOMlVhbqmtW97cWBxyVzkkUQRh3JLxJF1L-F9tjkxmPJFyvXkel/s1600/DSC_1100.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqi7dYB_j_JFK-V6hRuIK_FCd4tIP71UbdU53yIuLv8nT11QJHo8lY9OQof2xMSvaPOluNGwpkjpoSOj77JcOGs1D9MQOMlVhbqmtW97cWBxyVzkkUQRh3JLxJF1L-F9tjkxmPJFyvXkel/s320/DSC_1100.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
I've always had a hankering for mud. When my sisters and I were little, we'd dig a big hole beside our two-story playhouse and fill it with water. Then, we'd squash around in the mud, occasionally picking it up to feel the gooeyness between our fingers. It was an early form of exfoliation, I'd say.<br />
<br />
Mud is a strange substance to enjoy. I know of few women my age who would admit to liking mud, much less to playing it when I was eight years old.<br />
<br />
I also know of few women who were as ecstatic as I to compete in a mud race not because I could run 3.1 miles but because I'd get completely covered in dirt.<br />
<br />
Last Saturday, I ran the first-ever Muddy Titan. It was really great. If you're interested in jumping in over-sized mud puddles and aren't afraid of getting your legs scratched up by hay bales and rocks, I strongly recommend it (or other similar races, of course).<br />
<br />
I have, prior to the Muddy Titan, run in a total of one race in my life. That race took place when I was in the fifth grade and had hardly sprinted much less run all the way around a track without stopping. When the shot went off, I gave it my best shot for the first twenty yards and then, exhausted, I walked the rest of the way. A rather portly child finished behind me but, otherwise, I would have come in last place. Embarrassing? Yes. Traumatizing? Well...let's just say I haven't desired to run in a race since then.<br />
<br />
So, when I decided to run in the Muddy Titan, I trained out of pure fifth-grade fear of being last. Since I signed up a month ago, I have been running on-and-off and have participated in step aerobics (both of which I did mainly out of fear of being in dreadfully bad shape). I picked out the right mud run-wear (non-cotton socks, non-cotton shorts, a durable shirt, really old tennis shoes, enough ponytails and hair spray to keep my hair from moving in the gusty wind) and gave it all a test run. I packed a bag of extra clothes, plastic bags, extra shoes, water, and socks for my sister and I (Em and her friend also participated). I woke up at 8:30 a.m. on Saturday, put on my outfit, took a long walk around the neighborhood, and then sat watching the clock until it was time to register.<br />
<br />
I was ready. And, thank goodness, it worked. I didn't come in last! I was certainly not first in my 1:30 p.m. wave as I ran and walked most of the way, but I wasn't last. I completed all but one of the obstacles, too!<br />
<br />
The start of the race was the most anti-climactic: a volunteer sitting at the starting line said, "Are you ready to go?" All 25 of us shouted, "Yeah!" And then, we proceeded to <i>walk </i>through the barriers since there wasn't enough space for all of us to take off running. I was immediately separated from Em and her friend, as I tried to run up and down and up and down mud hills and through pools of muddy water.<br />
<br />
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<br />
Other highlights of the race included walking with two heavy tires balanced on each of my shoulders, face-planting in the same mud pit twice (it makes for a great picture), learning how to hoist myself over hay bales, and successfully making it up and over the human wall (a huge slab of plywood that you had to run up).<br />
<br />
The most embarrassing part was splashing myself in the face while crawling under barbed wire. Five volunteers were standing above the barbed wire, and they gasped and chuckled as mud spewed all over my face. One lady tried to be helpful by saying, "It's OK, honey, I'm sure this happens to some people," basically indicating that I was the first person to splash myself in the face while trying to avoid being plucked by barbed wire.<br />
<br />
At the end of the race was a gigantic slip-in-slide with soap and a huge fire hose. I was glad to slide down it, but I was soon informed by one of my friends that I "had mud in my teeth." My boyfriend also said that I was muddier than most everyone else. I would have to agree with his analysis.<br />
<br />
In short, I still think mud is awesome. I now think that, despite my traumatic experiences with racing, a race can be awesome. Especially when there's mud involved. Or colored paint (I'm now thinking of doing a color run!). Or glow run (there's also a 5k glow-in-the-dark run in August. Is it obvious that I'm becoming a little obsessed?).<br />
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<br /></div>Sarah G.http://www.blogger.com/profile/07949984074585817107noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5563749935308678381.post-15468773432282519792012-05-07T13:17:00.000-04:002012-05-07T13:20:32.665-04:00Gr-apples to Gr-apples<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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This year has gone by quickly--I can hardly believe that all the students are gone for summer break. Work is bound to slow down now that all the professors are finishing up grading and are leaving campus in the next couple of weeks. But, even as I'm fervently trying to finish my own grading and am completing administrative tasks for other profs, I've had a chance to think about all the growing experiences I've had this year.<br />
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One such experience is teaching: I taught one section of English composition this year. I remember that, when I first stood up in front of the classroom last semester, I thought I would be petrified to be in charge of 20 students for an entire semester. What I soon found was that I really enjoyed it. I had a kind mentor who allowed me to borrow some of her lesson plan ideas, and I had support from my co-workers, family, friends, and boyfriend. When I stood at the front of the classroom, I found an energy that I didn't know I possessed. It was fun.<br />
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It wasn't always easy, though: teaching is tough, and I found that out first semester especially. I did not know much about teaching, so it quickly became a semester of trial and error. I spent many extra hours working on lesson plans that flopped (what teacher can say that he or she hasn't experienced this, though?), and at times I was so stressed that I could hardly sleep. Yet, I still enjoyed in-class discussions and lesson plan invention.<br />
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With the second semester of teaching, I took my knowledge of "what works and what doesn't work" and tried to plan fun yet stimulating lessons. I wanted my new batch of students to see why developing English writing skills is so important and how that knowledge transcends the bounds of college. Sometimes it worked, and sometimes it didn't. <br />
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Here's one example of a lesson plan that seemed to work:<br />
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"Can we play 'Apples to Apples' in class sometime?" asked one of my students. "The other English teacher let her class play. I think we should play too."<br />
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I laughed. "On the last day of class," I said. "Maybe. No guarantees, OK?"<br />
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For the next two months of class, he asked me every day if we could play. By the end of the semester, the other students were confused. "Why does he always ask to play 'Apples to Apples'?" asked one guy.<br />
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"I have the game if you ever want to use it in class," said one girl.<br />
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On the last day of class, I came up with a plan: I wanted to play my own version of "Apples to Apples." Thus began "Gr-apples to Gr-apples," a grammar review version of "Apples to Apples." Cheesy? Yes. Fun? I thought it would be. A learning experience? Most certainly. And, just because it was the last day of class, I threw in a bunch of candy too.<br />
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Did you know there's many ways to play "Gr-apples to Gr-apples"? You can play "Bad Gr-apple," which is where you have to cut out the wordiness and jargon from a sentence. There is "Gr-apple Turnover," where you must identify the grammar mistake in a sentence and then correct a sentence. There is "Lonely Gr-apple," where you must make one sentence subordinate to another. Also, "Passive/Active Gr-apple" (I think that's pretty self-explanatory). <br />
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This exercise allowed most of the students to voice any questions they had about nominalizations, subordinations, and even wordiness/jargon. When they took their grammar finals a few days later, they seemed to have a better grasp of the terms than they did when they took the grammar pre-test. Plus, we all laughed a lot together.<br />
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The spring semester is over now, and no one stood up on their desks at the end of the semester and said, "Oh captain my captain." None of the students "rose up and called me 'blessed,'" and I didn't expect them to. English composition is a course that almost all students despise. Even those who enjoy writing would much rather write poetry or short stories instead of research reports or critical analyses. <br />
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But, now that I can look back on it, I am glad that I tried out teaching English composition for two semesters. Teaching at the college level has always been a goal of mine, and to have the experience at such a young age was exhilarating. </div>Sarah G.http://www.blogger.com/profile/07949984074585817107noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5563749935308678381.post-85776366174958694352012-02-28T11:16:00.001-05:002012-02-28T11:22:10.883-05:00Leap year, baby.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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It is strange to not be celebrating my birthday today. For the last three years, I've made this day (February 28) the "big day": I wear a new dress, I eat cake, I go out to eat, I'm all smiles for no other reason than that it's my day.<br />
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But, today isn't my day anymore. Because, as a leap year baby, I finally get my real birthday tomorrow.<br />
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For some reason, the concept of having been born on <a href="http://www.reuters.com/article/2012/02/27/us-leapday-idUSTRE81Q24420120227">February 29</a> is more weird this year than it has ever been before. Perhaps I've lived my odd life without really considering the fact that it isn't normal. The average person has a birthday every year on the same day, whereas I am a birthday gypsy, wandering from February 28 to February 29 to March 1 and back again.<br />
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Now that I'm older and am more contemplative about the nature of Leap Year, I feel bad for my parents. Who wouldn't? Their daughter was born on a non-day, which meant that they spent three out of four years trying to make February 28 special. Then, once February 29 came along, their daughter often asked to celebrate over the course of two days. And we don't do simple birthdays in my family. I imagine it must have been a bit of a burden at times.<br />
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Or, how do you explain to a third grade girl why she received a binky as a gift at her birthday party? I had tears streaming down my face as Mom tried to explain to me the concept of a gag gift. I was a sensitive child, that's for sure.<br />
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I've since grown to appreciate the quirkiness of my birthday. It makes for interesting small-talk conversation, too. <br />
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"You're turning six this year!" everyone asks. "How old does that make you?"<br />
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The snarky side of me wants to reply, "Well, if you do the math, if I'm turning six, and you multiply it by four, you'll find that I'm twenty-four years old." I never say it. But it is remarkable what facts people forget from their fourth grade math class.<br />
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One of the upsides to being born on February 29 is that it's a big deal when I get a real birthday. When I turned 5 (that's 20, in case you're still wondering), my parents whisked my sisters and me away to a bed and breakfast outside of Sioux Falls. I stayed in a bright yellow room with a red comforter and a four-poster bed. How blissful is that?<br />
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This year, my wonderful boyfriend and my awesome friends threw me a surprise birthday party. I've never had a surprise birthday party before, so I wasn't exactly sure what to do when everyone jumped out to shout, "SURPRISE!" It was such a fun, unexpected surprise. <br />
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My mother recently told me that some parents are now given the option of listing their leap year babies' date of birth on February 28 or March 1 because being born on February 29 can lead to computer data mix-ups. Tsk tsk. Don't be prejudice against leap year babies, parents! We may be different and more difficult at times, but we love our big day.<br />
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Being a birthday gypsy is pretty cool, especially since leap year only comes once every four years.</div>Sarah G.http://www.blogger.com/profile/07949984074585817107noreply@blogger.com2