Mom left me for my first night of real life last night. It was sad as it always is, me whimpering, "No, mommy! Can't you stay just a few more days?! Don't leave me yet."

My mom got on a plane to return to Florida. I just wanted to cry like when I was twelve and my parents dropped me off at YMCA camp for two weeks and I felt abandoned and alone, which doesn't make sense because I was at camp! Freedom! Friends! Archery!

And I drove away, assigning metaphorical value to every turn the car took, every bump in the road, and every tree alongside the highway, vascillating between excitement, tempered hope, and utter horror: I'm driving into my future, each tenth of a mile taking me further from a past I can no longer return to with a simple flight home; these trees that line the path to my future will comfort my journey with their familiar brown trunks and green leaves; surmounting the cracks in the worn streets of Louisiana will strengthen me to mend the fissures -- geographically, emotionally-- in my own life.

How do you grown-ups do it? Why is there no return policy on this "life" business?

You would think that in a new construction, all the appliances would be in tip-top shape, the cabinets clean, and the piping functioning. You would think wrong.

As much as I'm enjoying my new-home ownership, making design decisions, and choosing a color palatte, I'm left wondering why the builder couldn't have just gotten it right the first time. Seriously.

My tub leaks into the carport below; the master bathroom sink leaks into the cabinetry; the kitchen sink leaked and was fixed two days ago; the dishwasher stubbornly refuses to drain and there's no discernable reason why; the electricity to the doorbell and one plug (on the same wall) doesn't work; there appears to be the beginnings of a leak in the front window; the wooden front door is splitting at the bottom; one window isn't double paned (per code and every other window); and the dryer is making funny sounds.

PLUS, I missed The Real World Tuesday (no cable yet). This was, by far, the worst of my troubles. Are Danny and Melinda still hooking up, or has he realized that he wants to take his turn to be a mhore (man-whore)? Has Wes realized he just isn't it? And why does the ratings board not care that Wes is shown excessively drinking in public establishments when the Internet informs me he's NINETEEN-years-old? I was asked for my social security card AND passport when I tried to patronize a Boston alcohol-serving establishment and was STILL refused entrance -- keeping in mind that I AM ACTUALLY 21.

Speaking of The Real World and its namesake, I have a shrimp to de-vein with the show's producers ("bone to pick" seemed too blase): I certainly hope the castmates had more (and more intelligent) things to say about the war in Iraq than what was aired. Producers, you are doing a disservice to my generation and your increasingly younger viewing audience by allowing a potentially politically-engaging moment pass without pause or thoughtful comment. By focusing soley on the heated argument between Nihamia and Rachel about her contribution to the war, you didn't probe anyone to think more about why they do or do not "believe" in this war, or even today's politics and policies in general. Perhaps the cast didn't have anything intelligent to say other than, I disagree with you and you're stupid and I'm going to talk louder without having any rational reason to support my opinion, but that's a sad social commentary on where my friends and I are at, as viewed by the rest of popular culture.

Maybe that's the whole appeal of the show, though -- well, nowadays anyway -- to live vicariously through a group of people doing ever-more outrageous (sexual) things. Or maybe I'm just disconnected and don't realize that what I see on The Real World really IS the real world. Don't get me wrong, producers; I don't want the cast to prostelatize their opinions just because they have an incredible platform from which to do so. I want to watch people my age engaging in thought-provoking, reasoned conversations; I want their opinions to broaden my own understanding of other peoples' perspectives, instead of having the show's conversations reaffirm the stereotype that partying and pensiveness are mutually exclusive.

Anyway, it's time to sleep in preparation for another day of unpacking, stress management, and fun with my new, bright green vacuum with hose attachment.

Next time, I'd like to discuss the idea of cultural Jewdaism (sp?), my (raised Baptist) mom, and hyperbole. I know you're counting the seconds until that post :)

Goodnight world!

10:41 pm, CST

I'm in Metairie.
I'm unpacking.
My mom and I are both still alive. At the same time, in the same place.

Doesn't that say it all?

"I'm a hustler ... I sell salt to a snail"

Tonight, saying goodbye for a while to Hanson and Danny. *tear*



The Tripod will live on.



T-minus six hours: the drive to New Orleans begins.

Listening: Dashboard Confessional, A Mark, A Mission, A Brand, A Scar

I long for my days to mean something again. I long for my days to be definitive demarcations of passing time, instead of just a legal definition: to contain 24 hours.

Like quantum physics (I think), in which the experimentor must be included as a factor in the results of the experiment since the mere presence of the observer affects the action, music's impact on emotions and which of those proverbial heart strings a song tugs more relies almost wholly on the listener's previous mood. The words I hear speak to my problems and are analyzed with the benefit of my particular experience; when you hear "I am missing":

(It's a long way) is there anything
(For an answer) worth looking for
(Is there any news) worth loving for
(Is there any word) worth lying for
(Is there trauma) is there anything
(Or a struggle) worth waiting for
(Am I missing) worth living for
(Was the body found) worth dying for

do you question, like I am right now, how important work is? how valuable a new location is to becoming your own person? how likely it is I'll be as happy or make as good of friends or love? Do you find yourself questioning if a physical "long way" is worth it, or what is worth loving for or lying for? Wondering why your mind tells you, logically, you make appropriate decisions when your blood rushing tells you something completely different is worth living for. Or dying for, for that matter.

My mind is a scratched CD that keeps trying to skip track 3 without the confidence that there is a track 19 to eventually play. Though I feel strangely between dreams, between goals, right now, there's also some unknown yanking me to fast forward, that I'll suddenly recognize my new goals when the right track plays. I'm stressed that I don't feel stressed; I'm worried because I'm so calm and settled when I should SO not be.

My fingers nervously scramble about the keyboard, trying to find the strokes to fulfill the racing, spinning records that are each vying to sing a different story of emotions in my heart. With my room empty, the dinged-up white walls scream memories of what used to be there, yelling at me to remember, remember, remember. When do we stop remembering? When does remembering stop being bittersweet and remain just sweet? Do we ever stop wondering if we're doing the right thing, even if we really are, or do you know when you stop wondering that you're not listening to your heart anymore?

Blog, can we just pretend to go back to the diary days, when you'd coax me with your open and fresh screen to release my thoughts, relieve my pressured, swollen, confused, little girl's mind with simple, monosyllabic, trite words? I'd sob and get the keys wet and that was enough for the both of us. Remember those days? Back when "bigger picture" meant you had too much blank wall space, not that you were ignorant to larger, more "important" issues. Back when I knew that as much as I worried, things were going to be ok. I just knew. And as much as I still think things are going to be great, I realize more every day how responsible I am for how these prodigal "things" turn out. I just want to wish on falling stars, the man on the moon, and the fortune in my cookie.

Through the tumult raging upstairs, I've stayed sane, happy, and peaceful because I've been able to express it to you, friends; maybe not in a way that made any normal sense, but I've felt comforted, supported, and encouraged. To the special people I'm smiling about right now, thank you.

And bloggy, soon enough these overly squishy end-of-a-major-phase-in-life emotions will be replaced by the next concerns life drags out. For now, though, I want to revel in how it feels to love, and be loved by, friends.

Have I mentioned that I'm helping to start a book club? I'm so excited and proud, I need to dork out for a minute here and share. A few friends and I, who all took both AP English-es (grammar and literature, maybe?) together, have started this book club with our AP English teacher (the very one I gushed about in a previous post after spending the afternoon with her). We're going to read Jonathan Livingston Seagull first, and discuss it on a blog.

Yes, this summer I have become a network system administrator (ye-ya, guess who knew to release and renew their IP address to make the internet work again this afternoon? bee-atch) and a blog-starter for a group including members who had no idea what a blog was. I am Tech Support. I've come a long way from Atlanta, that's for sure. :)

If you'd like to follow along with our bookish discussions, or even if you'd like to join in!, you can check us out at www.shahandehbookclub.blogspot.com

Danny came over tonight to play tennis, and when I told him about the SBC (he was in Shahandeh's class too) he responded that he'd only join in if we had a Magazine Club, "So what'd you think of the article in this month's Maxim, Jen?" haha

I also shared my stress and random thoughts from this past weekend in Atlanta with D, who recommended that my top priorities when I get to NO be, in this order:
1. food
2. TP
3. TV
4. couch
5. "men" (he used a different - uh, more expressive? - word)

As for number four, if you're familiar with my tropical-caribean-pacific-west indies theme goals, then you'd know that I've already bought a sleeper sofa and loveseat. Sadly, I got a call from the furniture store today that they messed up the order and, basically, I have no couch. My dream room must be created with the help of some other furniture store. And after I had already sworn off furniture shopping for the next five years of my life because it's so mind numbing. *sigh* But enough of the mundane day-to-day (which also happens to be a great NPR show on at noon on my local NPR station) recap, on to the more interesting (and comment-able, hint hint :)) swooshing around in my mind.

Good conversations with D tonight also centered on the relationship continuum - you know the one - love, falling out of love, realizing you've fallen out of love, deciding what to do about falling out of love, breaking up, selfishly enjoying individuality, feeling guilty and scared about starting to want a new relationship, wondering how relationships work again, wanting to be selfish and in a relationship, being terrified about messing things up again, remembering how great and horrible being selfish and alone is.

We don't know the rest of the stages yet, though.

The greatest thing? Having friends to float through the continuum with. Having GREAT friends to do so. In the past 6 months I've learned more about the way true friendships work than I had in the previous 21 years of my life. Before, I was blindly bumbling my way through, lucky enough to have people around me who had already figured the whole process out and were willing to let me stumble back and forth in their arms. Now, I realize how important it is to give yourself to the other person, emotionally and mentally and with words; you can't just be a great listener, selfishly taking their woes and joys without sharing your own. As much as it hurts, it's proving that you trust your friends to stick by you when you complain and cry by complaining and crying with them; that you are just as trust worthy by giving them a shirt sleeve to wipe their snot on, and to slap them around when they're being ridiculous. I credit Dr. Shippey with helping me figure this out :)

Referring to Jonny's recent post on loyalty, I don't think my notions of friendship exemplify infallible loyalty; instead, I want to continue to strive to prove my loyalty in the sense of the (although obsolete) third definition of the word from Meriam Webster Online: legitimate. I want to prove myself to be a legitimate friend, worthy of the other person's investment of time, heart, and words in me; I want for it to be okay for me to re-evaluate a friendship for its legitimacy, and I want my friends to do the same. People change, hearts change, allegiances change, and love changes. I want my friendships to be relevant.

There's something to be said for the past (you can't invest in the future without relishing the treasures of the past) and the friends that molded you, grew you, and grew with you, but there's also something to knowing when a friend moves from being a current, pertinent part of your foment to a sweet memory that should be relished for their gifts without feeling guilty about present transgressions like not calling.

And yet, that's one of the hardest things to do. To mutually recognize that as much as you love a person for what they've given you - each's ability to share more insight, grow, challenge, and enjoy each other - that it's time to withdraw, seems nearly impossible.

Which is why long-term, truly relevant friendships that have evolved over time - offering different joys than when they began - amaze me. Their ability to change, each friend's ability to be disloyal at some point and let their faith in the other be challenged, is what has allowed them to persevere. And that's why I love my long-term friends from the bottom of my heart. You guys are the best.

This post doesn't feel quite right for some reason. Like my sentiment isn't working, or my ideas don't mean the same thing here as they do in my mind. Help me figure out what I'm trying to say and tell me what you think.

America, I honor you today. Kristy and I meant to throw some tea into the banks of your swollen river in Boston (there aren't really "banks" so much as sea walls, and it wasn't so much "swollen" as it was polluted; I just really like that phrase) but we forgot to take our free packets of Brassica (this uber-hippie tea made with some new fangled broccoli compound that inactivates free radicals blah blah blah) to toss. So now, brewing my free bag, I'm going to think of Patrick Henry and Benny F. and Paul Revere and thank them as I consume my tannins.

I'm trying to finish packing in preparation for the movers' arrival Thursday, and yet a transcendent wall has positioned itself between me and the bits scattered around my room. I had given myself a clean bill of psychological health - I would walk away from my moving experience emotionally unscathed, and now my neurons are backfiring on my plan. I think I might be sad. And stressed about leaving home, again.

Oye.

Fulfilling My Personal Vendetta: A Tirade Against The Sprint Cellular Phone Company

If you've had a conversation with me on my cell phone in the past two years, you're well aware that it is nearly impossible to complete such a conversation without my phone losing the connection, turning off, or reaching its spindly little wires out of the speaker holes to poke me repeatedly in the ear. I especially like when the phone inflicts physical pain.

This past weekend, my phone -- let's call it "Buttface" -- so this past weekend Buttface imploded. I had thrown it to the ground (gently and lovingly) one too many times; I had stomped one too many times on Buttface with the intent to release every angry thought and frustrated moment onto its mockingly unscathed and clean face plate. Buttface gained a pulse all of its own, turning on and off like an automon, buzzing and chiming to the chorus in Buttface's internal Phone World. Without one final, large sputter Buttface just stopped. And died. No hope for resusitation.

The details about why I'm waiting another month past when my phone contract ends (on July 25) to buy a new phone and a new, non-Sprint plan are unimportant, but I still need an operable phone for the next 6 weeks or so. One that I'm not going to pay $150 for. Which led me to call Sprint customer yesterday in an attempt to have my number assigned to my mom's phone since my phone is too old to be fixed or replaced under warranty.

I called Sprint customer service FOUR times. The first time, I wasn't even put on hold - the connection was lost somewhere in the middle of typing in the first sentence of Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban with proper punctuation, for account security reasons, and the three times after that I was disconnected by the reliable Sprint system while jamming to Bach's 76th symphony on the hold soundtrack.

So I freakin' drove to the store. The Very Crowded Store Filled With Equally Annoyed, Disatisfied Sprint Customers Out For Blood And Money.

I waited in the line. The Very Long line.

I explained the situation to the person behind the counter - we'll call her Slow to protect her identity - and Slow took me over to the bank of for-sale cell phones attached to the wall to call customer service. Guess what happened? While talking to Corey (his real name) in customer service, the call was dropped. Not by customer service this time, but BY THE FREAKING CELL PHONE BECAUSE SPRINT SERVICE SUCKS MORE THAN A REALLY EXPENSIVE PROSTITUTE AT THE CHEETAH.

I returned to Slow's counter feeling a renewed sense of vindication and this time we called customer service from her land line behind the counter. This time, I was able to get through the call after repeating myself 16 times because apparently Slow's sister answered my customer service call. And after telling all 4 of the customer service people I talked to in the store and on the phone while there that no, I did not want to take "advantage" of $150 rebate on a new phone for renewing my contract. I told Corey that, and I quote, I WOULDN'T TAKE A $1,000 PHONE FROM YOU IF IT MEANT I HAD TO HAVE ANOTHER CONTRACT WITH SPRINT. That's actually right about when the cell phone lost service, coincidentally enough.

I also had to tell Slow and her sister that no, I did not want to reassign my contract to someone else because I'D RATHER SLOWLY ROAST MY FRIEND OVER A ROTISSERIE PIT WITH RAVENUOUS LIZARDS LOOKING ON THAN ALLOW MY FRIEND TO USE SPRINT.

So, for now, my cell phone number works and goes to my mom's working cell phone. Feel free to call me. I thought I figured out text messaging but I haven't gotten any back so maybe it doesn't really work.

And remember the moral of this rant: Lizards like to eat rotisserie.

I'm sitting on the floor in the "A" line waiting to board my Southwest flight to New Orleans; my condo closing is this afternoon. (There's free wireless internet in the terminal) My mind hurts, though, because I've been thinking too much, gathering ideas, figuring out how to order them, since my last post, since Kristy's comment, and since I finished reading Michael Crichton's novel, State of Fear. Seeing as I'm in a very transient place (sitting on the floor), I'm going to try to get some thoughts out now but they might be cut off randomly and in a nonsensical place. I apologize in advance for my not following proper complete-blogging rules. (Which there aren't really any of)

The world is warming, of this I am sure; though I suspect it will increase by less than an integer amount over the next hundred years. This incremental increase begs the question of where the cost-benefit lies in certain "green" technologies and treaties like the Kyoto Protocol. Papa S and I had a discussion two nights ago about Kyoto: I say it has perhaps the right intentions but possibly bad science motivating those intentions, Dad says that it encourages growth and monetary infusion in clean technologies and more efficient production. Those are good things, yes, but is the money necessary for minute changes the best approach, and is the goal of decreases a few numbers by small amounts worthwhile on a macroscopic scale? Let's flush this out a bit more...

Is it fair for us to continue developing cleaner technologies that are extraordinarily expense to implement for lesser developed countries with the idea that they can skip our environmentally-unfriendly developing schemes and go straight to using the clean technologies they can't afford, that don't address how these technologies will be integrated into very different cultures and societies in a successful way?

And even since Aldo Leopold, the "father of adaptive management" we haven't come very far in learning how to "preserve," successfully, our environment. The earth's surface has constantly been altered by the beings ruling the food chain at the time -- so what is "natural" and "original" that should be saved for future generations to observe, for current generations to use and enjoy. As discussed in my environmental ehtics class last fall, where's the balance between "saving the environment" and providing beauty for the society who pays for the preservation to enjoy? At what point can you say "you can't use this public good any more because you'll cause it more harm than good" but what is harm? foot traffic, littering...

so what do we know what to save? how do we measure "success"? this i'll think about on my flight, which i have to go board now.

Listening: Dixie Chicks, "Set me free" and Dashboard, TPYHCTFTM

Thinking an amalgam of thoughts inspired by a solitary visit to the family- and couple-friendly New England Aquarium and Boston public transportation. Bear with me for the disjointed stream of thoughts.

I don't want to be trapped in the cage of human conventional society. I'm being smothered by the "adult world" and its attempts to make me fit into its boundaries. I still want to change and question and wonder. I don't want my curiosity and awe to leave me. I don't want to know everything and I don't want to stop being impressed.

Like the Little Blue Penguin frenetically shaking its left tagged flipper (female), I'm trying to shake off the morays I can't adhere to -- proper rules for the right love, beauty, conversation. I'm struggling to force my personality and self into this world that is already so full, so manipulated and manufactured, that it's turning my thoughts radical. IT IS OKAY to feel alone. AND TO LIKE IT. I just have to ignore society to believe it.

Public transportation in a foreign city feels like "The Dating Game" gone horribly awry; I'm the only player and am confused by the rules. Always looking around - hatching (note: "to hatch" verb, intransitive to engage in eye sex or intense staring) - searching for someone - to be my friend? To reaffirm that I'm a friend-worthy person enough or somehow merituous to stare at in return? But then I remember that I enjoy being alone.

How can we be so egotistical to try to control everything? Education is good, but entrapment is not. And I still don't believe we've figured out how to teach caring from the heart and passion for the world, let alone its environment. Of the hundreds of zoos and aquariums and science centers in the nation, there are possibly ten that offer their forced inhabitants as many creature comforts as their paid visitors. Tears boil in the back of my eyes when I see two sea lions rapidly traverse a 20 ft long tank, narrowly missing the fake rocks scattered about for a dose of realism. What about the fish they'd be chasing? What about the dung they'd leave on the rocks? What about the loud barking sounds that always accompany sea lions? What about the tangy smells that identify sea lion territory from miles? Where's the reality of my childhood in Monterey, CA, that saw free swimming sea lions as natural? And what about the reality of penguins waddling around next to a giant tube of fake coral reef and tropical fish? My heart cries for the kids who stare all googgly-eyed at these animals they've never seen before, that this has to be their first, uninspiring introduction to the world that beget them millions of years previously. The world that has been slowly, quickly squeachled by us.

This world is not the one I learned about saving. It's already changed, altered so very much. Its people are satisfied with plastic, contained versions of reality, displayed for them in neat disposable boxes with easy explanation placards (but not overwhelmed with too much information!). Young children are rewarded for their indignant screams and whines by being pushed, unapologetically, to the front of any line. Adults are rewarded for their indignant screams and greed with respect and "position" -- but only if they don't have to work for it. Quickly it's clear that our handlers, like the penguins', don't think we can handle too much and force feed us Orwellian messages laced with fear and unnecessary promises.

I just want to be a revolutionary zookeeper. Though I long to simply be a human being not trying to dominate, own, win, or have conquest over the world we're all apart of, it's not possible. It's not possible anymore to try to bury into the fabric of green struggling to remain functional. The world is such that now, whether we want to or not, we must become stewards of sustainability. I refuse to resign myself to letting the New England Aquarium and its breed of sub-par facilities educate my species.

One of my IAs, Jonny, wrote when I felt helpless about genocide in the Sudan:
"But at the end of all those little nudges to give a damn, it seems that silently, but strongly, society has tacked on one addendum, 'While you should definitely give a damn, it's not worth giving your life.' And I think that's where the problem comes in and what allows injustices to continue. People in today's society seem incapable to find something for which they'd give their life. I don't know what I'd do it for."

I'd give my life -- all its time, efforts, heart -- to saving the environment. Lofty ideal, yes. Something I can achieve in my lifetime? Maybe some tiny modicum of change - recycling, talking about it with friends, awareness, beach cleanups. I refuse to allow the human pandemic of apathy to consume me, too. So even if I don't change a damn thing, I must believe that it's worth trying. The world could self destruct in my lifetime or after and my actions might have no impact whatsoever on that; I don't care. I need to know that I'm not being a guilty bystander and letting my passion pass me by, waving forlornly from the future I push it into -- "I'll follow my dreams next year, when I have the time and money." I need, for my own sanity, to feel like I'm following my heart, recognizing what it's screaming at me. I need to face my Personal Legend (read The Alchemist, please oh please).

This strongly held belief has been in my heart for a long, long time, but now I'm making it concrete, to myself. I'm not going to get comfortable with my station or make excuses. Yes, I'm still going to work for a not-so-environmentally perfect company, but I really mean it when I say I'm determined to make a difference from the inside. Because preservation wouldn't work if everyone were doing it the same way. And even if I fail, at least I'll fail in search of my dreams. As the alchemist advised the boy, "...no heart has ever suffered when it goes in search of its dreams, because every second of the search is a second's encounter with God and with eternity."

You can litter if you want to, because maybe saving the world isn't your calling. But my adrenaline's, my heart's, my mind's telephone of inspiration is ringing off the hook and the green caller can't wait any longer. And I've finally recognized what I'm willing to give my life for.

Check this out: those ribbon car magnets


Allston, Massachusetts is known as the college ghetto of Boston; it's just on the other side of the Charles river from Harvard University, which is just down Massachusetts Avenue from the Georgia Tech of the North, which is also on the T red line that took Kristy and I to see the Boston Pops Fourth of July Spectacular last night.

In the fourteen hours we spent traipsing through downtown Beantown (origin of that nickname, anyone?), we took a for-purchase walking tour for free (accidentally, of course), had communist propoganda shoved in our hands, and followed almost half of the Freedom Trail. I reveled at being in the center of the liberal intellectual elite, a bastion of democratic idealists who support things like MoveOn.org, Sam Adams, and John Kerry. I say this partially in jest, though, since the party mindset of Democrats is just as bad as the blind adherence to party rules by the Republicans. I won't deny that I felt more at home, politically, here; I am, afterall, an unabashed supporter of global multilateralism and free thought.

Did I mention one of the points of interest on our walking tour was John Kerry's house? I took a picture. Ben, our tour guide, told us he went trick-or-treating to the Kerrys' and they gave out really big candy bars -- I wanted to ask if they gave out ketchup packets, but I didn't and instead just laughed to myself at my oh-so-adult sense of humor.

Besides lots of walking, we also celebrated the birth of the nation with lunch in a Cheers-replica restaurant, where we had a fitting Fourth lunch -- Sam Adams Summer Ale, New England clam chowder and a fried cod sandwich (for me), all while wearing red, white, and blue. Around 5:30 we made our way back to the "hatch" oval to stake out some seats for the outdoor performance. We ended up sitting in front of a family from Rome, Georgia, which made the pre-concert sound like we were waiting for a show at Stone Mountain because of their loud accents. The show was worth the wait - it was magical to be surrounded by 400,000 people listening to patriotic songs - and the fireworks were crazy crazy amazing. I wasn't swelling with a particular sense of patriotism from the whole thing (I think I've appreciated America more when I've been abroad for this particular day) but it was neat to be in the place that started it all, and I enjoyed the showmanship of it all.

I'm going to rewind just a little, because Kristy took me to work last Friday (she co-ops at a well known sound company), and it was so cool. That's really all I can say about it, since she's in R&D and proprietary stuff and all that .... but from work we made the three hour drive to her hometown of Kingston, NY, where we spent the weekend hiking at the Mohonk Preserve and kayaking on the Roundout Creek off the Hudson River. Both, very fun. Her mom's cooking, even better. :)

I posted pictures from this weekend to Flickr. So now I'm trying to get motivated to go to the New England Aquarium and finish the rest of the Freedom Trail we didn't get to yesterday. And tonight - we're karaoking. Hurry! The British are coming!