Thursday, April 24, 2008

I Know God Loves Me Everytime I Get A Left Turn Arrow (and other things that make me happy).

  • I know God loves me every time I get a left turn arrow at a light. I'm not the greatest driver ever, and it is so reassuring to know you can just turn left without having to worry about who is coming in my direction for once, and I can just GO! I love it.
  • I know God loves me when I get oatmeal for breakfast. I like oatmeal, especially the Quaker kind. I like to combine flavors, that is cool, and my favorite mixture is Raisins & Spice and Apples & Cinnamon. Then you sprinkle sugar on top. YUM! Oatmeal is so warm and sticky, it just makes me feel like I could live forever!
  • I know God loves me when it is windy enough to fly kites. In my opinion, flying kites can be so enjoyable and thrilling. A piece of nylon fabric is suspended in midair fifty feet above because you and the wind worked together! It never gets old.
  • I know God loves me when I find lip gloss in my old jeans. I don't know what it is, but I always feel bad for the clothing articles I don't wear as much. What if they feel left out? I think they get so lonely and dejected that they keep important items hostage. Like old pairs of pants that don't fit right- that is where I find all my lost lip gloss. If I was nicer to all my clothes and wore them all equally, (even if they made me look bad) at least I wouldn't have to loose my lip gloss as much. However, I feel so jovial when I discover a prodigal lip gloss in a pocket.
  • I know God loves me when I hear falsetto. I'm not sure why, but I know God gave falsetto to men as a gift. Its true purpose: unknown. But whatever the function, I adore hearing men go up into their upper recesses and exploring their vocal atmosphere in dry, hooty, mock-female tones. It makes me laugh and wish I could do the same.
  • I know God loves me when I pick up a good book. Like the Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, or Twilight. I just can't stop. I love it when I just have to keep reading... while I eat, while I blow dry my hair, while I am riding in the car, etc. What is best is that I don't think about anything else - like ANYTHING else. And then I imagine myself in the plot and warning the main character of danger. I go crazy, and thus, I get really happy.
  • I know God loves me when they serve cheep Chinese Food at lunch. Actually, I'm not sure it is Chinese, but it at least is oriental food. It is only $2 and well worth it. It is always the longest line, and my friend Wendy and I make sure we are at the end of it because then they give us the extra chicken as the line is winding up. The cafeteria ladies don't like extras. If you request no vegetables (because I'm not sure they're really vegetables) then they'll give you even more chicken. Not only that, but they provide egg rolls AND fortune cookies. At our lunch table we always add the phrase, " bed." To our fortunes, and it is quite interesting indeed. It makes me happy.
  • I know God loves me when I find a very inky pen. I love writing with a very inky pen as you well know. Pens of that merit are so difficult to come across but when I encounter one, I can't help be be grateful.
  • I know God loves me every time I lie down on precisely buzzed golf course grass. I live by a golf course, and let me tell you, stretching out on that stiff, fuzzy grass is so relaxing. The thick kind is good, but so is the really short kind. I could fall asleep on it. In fact, I think I have...
  • I know God loves me every time I get to take an afternoon nap. You know those naps that are so light and fluffy? I love it when I'm conscious enough to feel like I'm asleep and I can relax. Even if they last only twenty minutes, a crash after school is a remedy for a better day. And speeking of naps, I'm going to take one right now.

Monday, April 14, 2008


Today, in a valiant but futile effort to make a difference for the environment and my thighs, I rode my bike to school. Usually I drive myself, but the weather was warm and I felt the urge to enjoy the fresh air. It was a new sense of freedom.

I thought back to when I would do anything to have the liberty to drive and have a car all my own. Now I try to avoid driving whenever possible, but when I was fifteen, a license was a ticket to freedom.

But freedom isn’t free. I was forced to journey across student parking to a portable out in the boonies, sit through a class that was a stale as the residue on a McDonald’s counter, copy word for word out of the driver’s handbook, and watch hypnotizing videos.

I didn’t really learn anything from class, but I did learn a lot on the road. My driver instructor was named Coach Buchanan and even though he was married, a lot of girls secretly were in love with him. He was cool… he used his cell phone in class and turned on the hottest hip-hop in the driver’s ed. cars. He coached, of course, as well as taught driver’s education.

Vani and Halden were my driving mates. We began at stark different levels of experience. I don’t know if was just because he was a boy and had natural abilities or he had spent hours of pre-permit practicing, but Halden was drove so well I wondered if he was a NASCAR driver in training. He didn’t necessarily make you feel comfortable while he was driving, but you could tell by the way he handled corners and accelerated that he wasn’t afraid of the road. Vani didn’t have any experience until our first day driving. But by the time I got used the jerking, she had improved a lot.

Then there was me. I’d practiced a little with my parents but that was all. Coach Buchanan would tease me and ask, “Now, what’s the gas pedal for?” And I would answer, over Vani and Halden’s chuckles from the back seat, “to accelerate.” I guess I was a little white-knuckled.

As much as a learned about turn-lanes and passing and putting on the blinker three seconds before you turn, I learned a lot about life. Buchanan may have been on of the most popular teachers in school, but he wasn’t an airhead. He didn’t like us to sit in silence and listen to the grinding beat of the hip-hop radio. One day, when we were doing freeway driving, he brought up a perplexing question, directed to us girls.

“What if your husband tells you he doesn’t want you to be a working mother?”

At first I was very defensive. I said that I would never marry someone that wouldn’t let me be myself and live my dreams of being successful. I could never love someone that asked me to stay at home and live a dreary life of a house wife. My mom worked, but I had to say she was there most of the time for us. Vani said she also supported women working.

Buchanan wouldn’t take that for an answer. “But what if you DO marry someone like that?” I struck back that I wouldn’t, but he persisted. “What if you do?”

We talked for a while, and I dug myself deep into a hole. I mean, the more I thought about it, the more I realized how wrong I actually was. Staying at home probably wasn’t so bad, and what if your husband wanted to provide for the family all by himself? But I couldn’t back out now. For the rest of the drive I argued my case.

Ever since that experience I’ve thought more and more about being a woman in the workforce. As for now, I’m still looking forward to having a career, but there are some things more important than a job, and that’s kids. Overtime I made the conscious decision to be as successful as I can be, but the best work I do will be within the walls of my own home.

I’m in high school – ya. Its weird I think so far ahead in the future, but isn’t that why we come to school? To learn about life, make decisions, and decide who we want to be. Trig identities are cool, but I think perspective is just as important. So in my quest for freedom on the road, I learned that about freedom in life and what’s really important. Stay-at-home mom a constricting job? No way.

Thursday, April 10, 2008


Well, I got my score back today from my retake test.

I'm beginning to believe there is a correlation between how long I study and my score. For instance, I spent roughly five hours in preparation for the first test. My score: 45%. I spent about seven getting prepared for my retake. My score: 20%. Tell me what YOU think.

Thursday, April 3, 2008


I used to stick straight to mechanical pencils, but this year I have learned to love pens. There is a subtle satisfaction to using ink, a sense of permanence and professionalism. The stark contrast between the stale white and stagnant blue to the dark, rich black is beautiful.

Pencil smudges and runs together, but it is nice for math, where lots of erasing is required (at least for me). When I do err using my beloved writing weapon, I have to ground it out by scribbling. That is one reason I prefer the pen: I am more conscience of perfection because I don't like scratching out my mistakes. Things just turn out better. A writing utensil should be very willing and generous. Creativity is severely harbored if one has to continually engage in ridiculous activities such as shaking and scraping the carpet in an effort to persuade the ink to come out.

For me, blue pens serve a different purpose than black pens. In a pinch either will do, but I have certain notebooks that are in black ink and others in blue. Blue is a bit more creative. Of course, it can’t be too bright, then it is classified as a ‘gel pen’ the legend of the nineties. No, it has to be dark, fairly mild and very inky.

Black pens suit me for such tasks as lists, homework, and other practical jobs. Black pens tend to be easier to find when one is out and about, and thus makes reaching consistence in a notebook simpler.

Pens, overall, are an important tool for any writer, student, or inhabitant of the planet. But I cannot conclude before extending a commentary on one of my most favorite sort of pen: the red pen.

Red pens are for fixing mistakes. Many fear this color. Perhaps because they believe it symbolizes danger, fire, communism, or love (even though those are scary things). I take it is as a symbol of constructive criticism. When I get paper back with a lot of little red markings, I know that my piece is just about to get a face lift, and that makes me happy. When I wield a crimson crayon of my own, I feel powerful knowing I am righting the wrongs of incorrect grammar usage.

In conclusion, I love to use pens for the reasons stated above. I love their inky smoothness and their tendency to advocate getting it right on the first try. I love creative that spawns from the tips of them, and the moral and grammatical righteousness for which they advocate.

A Second Try

I'm going to retake my math test today after school, so wish me luck. I'll keep you updated, but I don't know how hopeful to be. I spent about three hours studying, and I went to a tutor. We'll see what happens.