Biting Red Ants

Those are not the kind of ants we have infesting our house. We have picnic ants. Little tiny black picnic ants.

Everywhere.

Not all at once. No no, no no. First they were in the shower. That was back in August. Then they were in the back shower. Then they disappeared for a week. Then they showed up in the kitchen. We would plug holes. We would spray RAID into cracks and crannies and yes, I just said crannies because that's what this old dying house has.

And they would come back. Every day in a new and different place.

We got little traps. It didn't help.

Most recently, they have started coming through my outlet. The outlet that my computer plugs in to. The outlet RIGHT NEXT TO MY HEAD. This is actually how I know that (despite what roommate says) they are not biting red ants. I would have bites by now if they were.

They are the most annoying creatures in the world though.

Roommate says, "just put duck tape over the outlet."

Clearly she isn't aware of the two problems this presents. 1) IT COVERS THE OUTLET. How can I recharge the source of all my sanity of there is duck tape covering the outlet?? 2) This will probably push the ants somewhere else. Perhaps to the other side of the wall. That would be her room.

She's the type that calls me at work if there is a spider that needs to be killed. I highly doubt she wants the ants in her bed. She's also the type that presents the following argument for duck tape:

"Besides, several will probably get stuck to it. Then all the other ants will find out and run far far away."

She made the same argument for the RAID and the traps and the Febreeze (because we tried Febreeze too. It turns out Febreeze is just scented water.). Clearly that is not the ant's mentality.

Our landlady said that an exterminator would be called but we're still waiting on that. Heather suggested I go over to their house and get in bed with landlady and landlord and say, "I can't sleep in my bed because of the biting ants. I hope you don't mind."

The District Sleeps Alone Tonight

You seem so out of context
in this gaudy apartment complex
a stranger with your door key
explaining I'm just visiting

Taking a red eye flight seemed like a good idea at the time. Save time by flying while sleeping. Get a full day in here and arrive with a full day to go.

What a grave mistake.

I remember traveling to the airport on a Tuesday night. It was before Thanksgiving and my hippie friend, Sierra (her parents met while backpacking through the Sierra mountains), was taking me in her baby blue '82 Buick. The car didn't have a heater but she did burn incense. The incense started up my asthma and I remember coughing so hard I thought I was going to die. I also remember laughing so hard I thought I was going to die.

I almost missed my flight; we hadn't accounted for Thanksgiving traffic, I mean it was almost midnight. Who else in their right mind travels in the middle of the night? But we waited there, with the incense, and the broken radio, in the chipped paint Buick in line for the off-ramp.

I got through security with the usual pat-down and onto the plane. I had an aisle seat so I could put at least one leg out straight. And then the dreadfulness began. The Postal Service was right about recycled air. It was so cold. I had layers, several of them, I was, after all, traveling to Chicago. I was still cold. Those little pillows were thinner than my sweatshirt and the blankets are hardly large enough to cover my freakin' tray table let alone my body.

Four hours of hell later I landed, shortly after 6 a.m. in the Windy City. I went to baggage claim and leaned over waiting for my luggage. I think I finally fell asleep there. I got to my mom's house and crawled into her bed as she was leaving for work. I slept for several more hours with my cell phone next to my head. It rang four times and I never heard it.

Well, I learned my lesson. I booked my plane ticket last week to Washington, D.C. I will be traveling during the day, folks. Late morning departure, early evening arrival. Will I be bored on the plane? Probably.

But when I get there I hope to procure a job at an unnamed D.C.-based national paper. My life has the potential to be cool. Also, I'll get to see some people.

The Old Farmer's Almanac says the average temperature will be 56 degrees on October 19 and I couldn't be more excited.

Why exactly it took me so freakin' long

We were making dinner side by side when it dawned on us that we were out of Albertson's French Bread. A meal cannot be had without the bread and I pondered the possibilities of procuring bread before dinner was ready.

The grocery store is about a 80-second drive away. Factor in check out and I should be able to get the bread and get back in less than five minutes. It's been done before.

"Will you watch my chicken if I go get the bread? Just move the stuff around with the spatula once or twice."

I left in the Explorer blasting Barenaked Ladies and trying to decide if I wanted to use my car cash or my debit card for the $1.98 two loaf purchase.

I parked and was in the store in the allotted 80 seconds. I grabbed the bread and then got into the 15-items-or-less-line.

Then things turned ugly.

Two junior highers were at the front of the line. They were buying candy. And they were paying IN CHANGE.

A. Are these girls not aware that this place sells the most amazing bread in the world?

B. Get a freakin' checking account already.

And then I realized I had become ...

... grumpy old lady. I am only 21 and I am grumpy old lady. I might as well have a bumper sticker that says, "I brake for BINGO" and you know, be buying Grape Nuts.

It took over ten minutes round trip but I didn't notice because I was too busy checking for gray hairs and convincing myself that I still think buying candy is important.

Because I do. And sometimes I pay in change--I do have car cash. And I use it at McDonald's on Dollar Tuesday. You can get a 6-piece nuggets for A DOLLAR! Now is that a deal or what?

Water Cooler Olympics

What's that? You're not familiar with water cooler olympics?

Meet Co-worker Joe. Co-worker Joe laughs like Eddie from Friends. Chandler's crazy roommate Eddie.

Joe informed me that putting the giant water bottle into the water cooler was really hard. I says, "Joe, who are you kidding? What are you, weak? It can't be that hard. Next time the water runs out I want to try."

Well that time came upon us Friday. I went to get my mid-morning tea and the water cooler was empty. I says, "Joe! I'm gonna change the water!"

Joe comes a runnin' just in time to see my first attempt.

It turns out the problem isn't so much the weight of the bottle but the angle at which it must be dumped. All you office-types are thinking I'm crazy and that it's easy but clearly you haven't seen this water cooler.

It is behemoth. It has cords going into it and coming out of it. It has child-safety locks. And it is impossible to fill.

I thought if I filled it partially then I could just heave the top over when it was lighter. But the reservoir only holds so much water and not enough to make the bottle any lighter.

I got scared. I says, "Joe, I can't do it I'm scared."

The rest of the office came into the kitchen and gathered round to watch. I says, "I'm scared! I refuse!"

It was like the trust fall they tried to force me to do at summer camp in eighth. Then they were asking me to turn around and fall backwards off a boulder with hopes that I'd be caught. Yeah right.

"It's too hard. I'll make a mess. There will be water everywhere!"

They told me they'd help me clean it up but that I just needed to do it. I was scared. I don't know exactly what my fear was rooted in. It could have been failure, it could have been the chance that I might damage all those cords, it could have been knowing for sure that I wouldn't be able to successfully pull it off (or put in on, as the case is here).

Joe made me do it.

After ten minutes of deliberations, I got the bottle on the cooler, water got pretty much everywhere, and everyone, including Chandler's crazy roommate, had a good laugh. Then we all cleaned it up with quilted paper napkins. I think I could maybe go back to that boulder now and try the trust fall again.

But we're definitely making someone new put the the next one on.

The first (sticky) paycheck I ever received smelled liked apples and cinnamon

Ladies and gentlemen, I have a secret.

A long time ago, I was illegally employed by a little shoppe called the Long Grove Apple Haus under the table because I wasn't of working age yet.

They hired me for a weekend to assist for the Annual Long Grove Apple Fest, a tradition "as American as apple pie."

Long Grove is a Historical District, founded in 1838, with over 80 shops with names like Charlotte's Chapeaux (selling hats for all ages!) and Paddy's On The Square (Irish music, art, and sportwear!) and about a gazillion antique stores that my grandmother frequented often. This place had to be the prototype for Gilmore Girls' Stars Hollow.

My grandmother had secured me the position. When antiquing she would stop at the Haus and get some apple good for the way home. After discovering that one of the owners had a grandson MY AGE she immediately offered my apple services.

Being only 15, I had no apple services. I really had no services aside from the quadratic equation and AOL instant messaging but, hey, everyone likes money. Especially secret government-free money.

The thing about being paid under the table is that you don't get things like overtime. Overtime would have come in handy since we worked the entire festival. I'm talking 12-hour days working at an Apple Haus. Haus, people!

It was so sticky. My first duty was boxing the fresh-out-of-the-oven pies. The kitchen of the establishment was in the basement. It was a cellar really. An I-cannot-believe-it-passed-fire-code cellar. They put my fifteen-year-old self down there with the big scary oven with a stack of brown bags. I boxed 30 pies that morning. I also boxed another 30 pies 15 minutes later when the first 30 had already sold.

Did I mention it was raining? In good Chicago fashion the weekend was filled with dreary, damp weather. I have never seen so much rain--or apples--in my life. After I caught up with the oven I was sent outside (in the rain!) to give away free samples of the famous Apple Cinnamon Donuts.

I met THE SON there, under a soggy tent distributing mini sticky donuts. We chatted a bit and I fell in love. I wondered what he thought I might look like not covered in sugar. I wondered what it would be like to be dry again. I never saw him again. I turned 16 before the next fest and moved on to a timecard-punching job.

At the end of the fest they let me bring home tons of apple pies. I couldn't stand the smell of them. They lasted for almost a week. My mom says she knows they lasted that long because it's so memorable that there was actually enough dessert to last that long.

I still can't remember what was worse: standing outside in the pouring raining distributing hot cider and donuts for six hours straight, being in cellar hell with no promise of survival, or having to smell all those Apple Haus smells for days after.

Tags: Apple Pie, First Jobs

Wherein Heather and I discuss Center Stage at length

"I don't understand why one person sees potential in Jodie but no one else does."

"Cooper saw potential in her. So did Charlie. Cooper picked her to be a principle in his company."

"Cooper Nielson School of Dance."

"It's not a school. It's a company."

I could watch this movie endlessly. It is everything I really could ask for in a movie: attractive people, hilarious script, and enough slow parts that I can read the internet whilst watching. Heather and I have the entire film memorized. We also have to ration our viewing to keep us normal.

"Cooper Nielson is so unattractive. Sick."

"I used to think he was hot in high school."

"Gross."

The first time I watched it with my mom was a turning point in our relationship. That's right, we watched a sex scene together. Awkward? Almost. If Cooper wasn't so frightfully Cooper I might have been nervous.

"This is the scene that took away my innocence."

She taught me a Sally truism: dancers are sluts.

"Like Jonathan really wouldn't know that Cooper was bringing a motorcycle on stage."

"It's not of this world. It's about the music."

My mother never watches movies. Somehow, though, we've managed to see this movie together multiple times. A testament to the quality of the film? I think so.

Hot Chocolate and Turtlenecks

Yesterday, it rained all day long. It also stormed the night before with thunder peels so loud I woke up and listened. Listened for several minutes as it tore across the sky and then listened when my roommates came piling into my room and on to my bed.

"We'rescared! We'rescared! We'rescared!!"

We all snuggled tight and I told them the story of the day they were born.

Wait. This is the wrong story.

I mocked them and then we all went back to sleep because I had to work and go to school and read a book all during Tuesday.

I got it done all during Tuesday but that didn't leave me much time to think about the rain.

So, today, when it is sunny and warm I am wearing a turtleneck and a cardigan. I have also been a fan of turtlenecks. I wore them for about 6 years with stirrup pants until I reached the age where that was social unacceptable. Also, I don't think they make stirrup pants anymore. Or maybe they just don't make them my size.

An old friend of mine, once told me that turtlenecks were his least favorite item of women's clothing. He was at the height of his game, having secured the women he loved, and apparently felt enough authority to make an objective call on turtlenecks.

Well, I object.

Turtlenecks are great with cardigans. Or with a pair of colorful pants. They are great for keeping your neck warm when you want to have your hair up. And hiding things (like hickies).

I do not support turtlenecks with patterns around the necklines. I am okay with the Olympics logo.

As Brandon would say, I've completely fallen down a tangent. I'm going back to the hot chocolate now and the (not) rainy day.

Blue Shirt Guy

"But what if I don't get the job? What if I graduate with NO JOB?"

"You'll be fine."

"But my credit card bill! What if I NEVER pay it?"

"You'll be fine."

"But but but ...!"

"You'll be fine."

Thus was the conversation Blue Shirt Guy overheard at Starbucks while he was eavesdropping. And lest you think I'm the voice of reason, I can assure you I was the one freaking out.

He kept leaning back so he could hear more and I would look at him. We would make eye contact, enough that I assumed the first time he would be uncomfortable enough that he would at least pretend to be reading. Clearly an amateur.

And he was judging me. Every time we made eye contact he was saying (with his eyes), "you are irresponsible. I can't believe you use a credit card. You're charging your way to hell."

I forgot about him shortly thereafter. I talk loud; I'm used to people overhearing my conversations. Heck, I post them on the internet. No secrets here.

But then I saw him at work, in my very office. He walked by in his blue shirt and did a double take. I smiled, pretended I didn't know him, and asked him if I could help him.

He stumbled over his words, I mean he probably couldn't believe that my irresponsible self had a JOB with a DESK and a NAME PLATE. My competence overwhelmed him, really.

"Uh, no, no thanks."

Yeah, that's right, buddy. Now please excuse me while I go back to whining about my life.

Crash Into Me

We reach the gate, out of breath. I laugh again even though I'm breathing so hard it hurts. We scold each other for doing this to our bodies. For running when we don't have the lungs for it; for going out in the cold when we're sick, and we laugh again.

I'm not ready to sleep yet even though people are already starting tomorrow on the Atlantic. You say let's go.

To the Atlantic?

Close enough.

Your name is familiar to me. In the same way people say you know your own hand, I know every serif of your name. I could spell it backwards. Sometimes I do, for fun.

Sometimes I dream, too. Dream about what it would be like to known you years from now when you have a job and a life and a plan. I laugh then too. Not because I don't believe it, but because I can't imagine anything more fun than now.

We reach the ocean. It takes longer because all the good parking spots are taken and you insist that we can find free parking. I was angry. Why would there be free parking if they could charge? You just looked at me indignant and asked me if I had ever played Monopoly.

You have to wear my sweatshirt because you don't know where your jacket is. You think you might have lent it to some girl. I bristle at the thought of her wearing your jacket and I chide myself for being irrational. It's cold out and the water is dark. It's not poetic and still or romantic and wild.

From far away the pier looks so close to the beach and its water. Close enough to touch. But from underneath the pier looks so high up.

The Side Room (or The Boyfriend Club, part 1)

One of the boyfriends is here for the weekend. He's got frisbee gear and computer gear and skills. Not just regular boyfriend skills. Trading Spaces skills. It's like he walked out of Extreme Makeover: Home Edition and into our house with swatches and paint samples.

He came just in time too. Just in time to rescue us from the disaster that is, insert dramatic pause, The Side Room.

The Side Room is this malignant tumor off our living room where we put all the reject furniture. We're talking old school recliners-- the kinds with twelve different parts and impossible to move. It isn't a real shape either. An irregular polygon, if you will. A trapezoid... almost. Two of the walls are robin egg's blue thanks to the previous tenants. And it needed a vision.

Boyfriend rescued us. We sat around, staring at it, burnt out on robin's egg blue and the polygon and he just started talking.

"We could give it a Starbucks feel. Get some panels for this wall. I've been watching a lot of HGTV lately."

He and Emily spent all day shopping. There is gear. And tonight, after we all go to sleep Boyfriend and Emily will redecorate The Side Room. Like elves they will come in the night and redeem the tumor.

I wish elves came every night. And I wish Boyfriend would makeover all our rooms.

Cake and my friend, the Internet

My real life friends got jealous of my internet friends.

"You guys, I got the nicest email from my internet friend Heather today. She said something like I was her favorite place on the internet or something. It made my day."

I resisted opening the email and reading it all to them. They didn't let me read emails from previous relationships, they're not about to listen to my internet friends' nice things to say about me.

But seriously people. They were concerned.

"You guys, can I tell you a funny story about Heather Anne?"

"ehhh, I don't think I like her," my roommate whined. She looked hurt, like a three-legged puppy I had just kicked.

"Are you seriously jealous of her?"

They thought that maybe I wouldn't hang out with them anymore. That I would betray them for Atlanta. Three thousand miles away.

"You guys! I don't like her better than you, I like her differently. We just, we just understand each other."

It was like trying to tell my high school boyfriend that me and my lab partner weren't having an on-the-side relationship. "It's not that kind of chemistry."

Roommate No. 2 thought about it for a while, read some of her posts and decided, "you know what, I'm okay with the Cake Pilferer as long as you don't pick her over us."

Sometimes, after conversations like these, I feel a little bit like my life is a joke. I mean, seriously, do real people have conversations about real life friends vs. internet friends?

It always feels good to be loved by both my friends who are jealous of my internet friends and my internet friends who make me feel warm and fuzzy. I take pride in this site. Not in the bad I-can-tie-my-shoes-faster-than-you pride but the good pride like when your mom think he's boyfriend material because "he takes pride in his work." You know, I've mentioned boyfriends three times now in this post and it's not even about boyfriends. I think it's time for the wrap-up.

Thanks friends, e-migos, and e-migas. Have a delightful weekend. I promise to post more.

I'm sorry; my life is really complicated

Why I might have been late for work:

I might not have been able to brush my teeth because someone might have been in the bathroom.

I might have finally decided to get dressed and then I discovered that what I wanted to where wasn't clean at all.

I might have been thinking about leaving but then my roommates starting cooking breakfast. I'm talking cooking, like with frying pans and, and ... orange juice.

Why I might not have done all the homework I was supposed to:

I might have gone to that Baby Shower because I wanted to see what gifts we got her.

I might have forgotten the book I read last month and therefore can't write a paper about it.

I might have gone to Chipotle for dinner and was just so full that I couldn't do anything for two hours.

Why I might have written a horrible blog post today:

I might have felt an excrutiating burden to my readership.

I might have tried to talk myself out of trying to impress people but I failed (failed in the talking, not the impressing).

I might have also failed to impress people.

I hate that.

Make that three languages I suck at

Just in case you weren't sure, I am getting an education. How do I know, you ask? We speak German.

Yesterday in class we kept talking about zeitgeist. Translation: the spirit of the age. Pronunciation: ZITE-guyst. Meaning: whatever the hot philosophical trend is right now.

People were throwing the term around left and right: " blah blah blah ... which is a zeitgeist." "And I mean, that's just a zeitgeist." "What really is the spirit of this age?" "Is the zeitgeist different now than then?"

It's like we don't even need translators anymore because we're so brilliant.

We have name tags because we can't learn each others' names but GERMAN, well German is necessary for our understanding of the text.

Guess what my zeitgeist is? Graduating. Yup, the spirit of my age (and we all know the world revolves around me) is graduating and that means I really don't care if the giant was just an illusion or if he was really striving for the island ... or the idea of the island. I probably should care because APPARENTLY the giant is the embodiment of the zeitgeist. Who knew?

Lauren passed me a note. It said, "you know those days when everything you say makes you think 'Why did I just say that?'" because every time she said something every one kinda looked around glassy-eyed like she was a crazy person.

I, personally, thought her naked jokes were funny.

I told it was because she didn't say zeitgeist.

P.S. The blogger spell check knows how to spell zeitgeist but doesn't know what the word blog is. Is the whole world out to get me?

And who will get the art?

The house is going on the market on Thursday. Even though the market is slow, they think it will sell fast because of the neighborhood. They've lived here for 45 years. The new apartment, in the retirement community, doesn't have shower doors. You have to buy shower curtains.

"We've never had shower curtains."

She seemed lost thinking about the curtains. I wanted to tell her that I would take care of the shower curtains. That we could just pick them up at Bed Bath and Beyond with that coupon in her purse.

"There are more women than men here because women usually live longer. Paul is really excited about moving here."

She has been using a Mileage Plus credit card for the past eight years and she hasn't traveled for five of them. I asked her how many miles she had. She wouldn't reveal the number. It has to be huge. But her face still held an expression of want.

"Maybe after you get all moved in you can do some traveling ...?" I suggested. I emphatically wanted her to travel again. To visit the farm one last time and see the memorial again in D.C. I was worried, though, that maybe she never would travel again and maybe I was just reminding her of that.

"Maybe," she said. "I tell people I'm buying my freedom."

We saw two other residents in the elevator. They had just come back from the fitness center even though they were wearing slacks and crocheted sweaters. They introduced themselves (Ruby and Julianne) and told her she was really going to like it here.

"There's so much to do here. We'll make sure to get you a calendar." There really is so much to do. Bridge, bunco, happy hour, a movie every night (with new releases on Saturdays!). Meals in the dining hall for everyone and all sorts of classes, even lip reading.

She wasn't receptive, though. She told me that when she moved in she was going to sleep for a month. After that, I think she still won't be involved. She has too much pride for this place. Too much pride for bunco and new releases on Saturdays.

This is my 100th post and it is about music

You know music snobs? They're the people who won't listen to "mainstream" music. They also say things like, "omigosh, The Shins are such sell outs. I knew them before they were big" and they go to sketchy underground concerts and usually wear clothes from goodwill.

My roommate, Heather, she's a little bit of a music snob. She has Sigur Ros and The Mars Volta on her hard drive and she's had a Thrice sweatshirt for as long as I've known her. Heather, though, while technically being a music snob isn't at all snobby about it. For example, she can appreciate a good romantic comedy soundtrack and she doesn't judge me for listening to Hilary Duff. In fact, I think she auditioned to be Hilary's background vocals (seriously, listen to So Yesterday on headphones. The "if you wanna" part will change your life).

Heather is also humble enough to give me a little every once in a while. The other day we were getting in my car and when the CD started Heather said, "oo, Frou Frou, I haven't listed to her in a while." And I said:

"Ah, hello, it's Postal Service."

And she felt awful for confusing the two and she was so proud of me for being a music snob.

Last night I went a show. Not a concert, a show. There were three bands playing with three very different sounds. The first group reminded of Dashboard, the second group "rocked hard" as my brother would say, and the third group, well they were straight out of an ad for Music Snobs 'R' Us.

Seriously, they had super tight pants in various shades of brown, gold, and tan. Their shirts were equally tight and threadbare. And they danced like they were pigeon-toed. Intentionally. Their music was a lot of tambourines and twangy on geeeee-tars with extra base and a side of drums. It hurt my ears a lot.

But they had this huge huge fan base of guys wearing equally tight clothing and girls wearing bohemian hair wraps and flowy skirts. I was there with my brother, a music snob, and he turned to me and said," these guys are so cool that we are getting cooler just being near them."

However, when I said I really wanted to go he said it was okay (even though he really liked them) because this show wasn't the right environment to be listening to them.

"We should be in some international coffee house drinking fair trade coffee."

"And writing our poetry? And making our own clothes?"

"Yeah."

Mobilized

My dear friend and neighbor and all around favorite person, Lauren, has been called by the Red Cross and will be in Texas within 24 hours.

We're really glad it's Texas and not Louisiana because they told her during training that you needed to be ready for gators and sharks in LA (they think it escaped from the aquarium?).

Please pray that surprises aren't common, that she can help where needed, and that her group can travel and work together. Also, pray that when she comes back she will be able to catch up with school work and assimilate back into university life.

Also, this is small but she really needs a small sleeping bag so if you're in the area and have one please let us know. If you're not in the area you can pray for that too. If she doesn't get one she'll be sleeping on a sheet (or "cotton pocket" as they like to call it at the Red Cross). Sleep is important when you're working 16 hour days.

The internet doesn't wait.

A first date is currently occuring about 20 inches from me and my computer. I wish it was further but there are about 70 people in this coffee shop. Seventy people.

She got a carmel mocha and he proudly got coffee. black.

"It's not coffee if you put other stuff in it." Really, then is plain cheesecake the only real cheesecake? What about toast, huh, huh?

She told him he was entitled to his opinion. He said, "well, I guess you're a girl, you don't like strong coffee."

Leave him now. He just made some sort of gender-coffee distinction. But moving on quickly he asks her the deep question:

"Are you an eye reader? Can you look people in the eye and know what they're thinking?" Well, Houdini, she doesn't have to because you're telling us all about YOUR EX-GIRLFRIEND.

That's right. Dear readers, he wants us all to know that it's still a little bit awkward. With the new environment and all, its taking some time to adjust. Don't worry, he's been "through a whole lot tougher times than what I'm going through now. This is mostly just an annoyance."

It's okay though. He uses exercise as a stress reliever. "i love working out.  Mostly running and swimming.  Oh, and i'm totally into lifting now.  That's new from this summer.  I haven't been able to run in a month and a half.  And that makes me grumpy, really really grumpy."

It just clears his mind. Really he wants to be back in the pool again, but he "can't wait to get back to running, man.  My roomate and I, we like to run.  Yeah, endorphines."

They had some great conversations last semester while running. And she is invited to join them. A threesome run. How romantic.

But wait. It just became more romantic. He's a pessimistic realist. She's an optimistic realist. It's a match made in heaven.

I'm starting to feel guilty. I should stop. And he just asked her a question. Things are looking up.

I know I brag about my church every Sunday

I was interested in journalism once, she told me. They said it's no place for women.

Well now j-schools are 75 percent women, I told her. I hesitated and then told her, but newsrooms are mostly men. The women leave the newsroom to have kids. It's a big problem in journalism education.

That was what they were saying when I was in school. Same thing with medical school.

I've promised the profession 10 years, I tell her. But they say that isn't good enough. And besides, they say I won't make it 10 years anyway. They say I'll fall in love and get married and make babies. And they say don't do it. Don't get married.

Dear, don't listen. I've been married 52 years and it's the best commitment you can make if you find the right person.

Majorie, this church has changed my life.

She had tears in her eyes. It's changed mine too.

Civilian

"People don't know what's going on! I want to see the water! The water running down the streets! I want to see buildings submerged! I want to see people crying!"

He had only asked me what I thought of the cover picture. I hated it. I hated that it was necessary to show the destruction for people to understand.

And I still do. I hate that people complain about the situations.

"The gas prices are too high."

"The President isn't moving fast enough."

"The people in there are crazy."

And I feel bound to my duty. I feel chained to truth in a greater way than I have in the past. Objectivity comes easy because truth is truth.

I may go there. If not I will continue to talk, write, and think about it. Watching movies and drinking coffee just isn't important anymore.

The way your voice sounds, after a good cry

He told her "You're wonderful," three times this week.

"Three times!" she exclaimed to me, voice wavering.

"That's good, right?"

She paused and looked away. She started blushing again.

"It just doesn't make sense. Why? Why am I wonderful?"

Because you get freckles when you go swimming. Because you pronounce your r's funny. Because you know exactly what he's thinking before he's thinking it. Because you're willing to admit your feet smell bad.

But he doesn't say those things and all she wants is to hear them.

"Why am I wonderful? I don't understand."

She doesn't want an ego boost. She wants a reason.

Life so often doesn't make sense. I knew someone once. He would call me every night before bed. He would check in on me when I had to work overtime. He would send me those emails that made me laugh so hard I would cry. The kind of emails no one else understood. He would ask me my opinion. And I never understood why.

I always wished I had asked.