Show Yourself

This is me, being 31.

This is also me wearing some makeup for the first time in... three weeks? Maybe longer? Even that was only for a doctors appointment. Before that, who even knows.

Welp. I'm older. What a time to be alive, amiright?

Last year, I referenced my "plans for shattering life the tiniest bit."

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHahahahahahahahahahahaha *wipes hysterical tears*

via GIPHY

Tiniest bit may be the greatest understatement I've ever made in a semi-understated life.

Things I did while 30:

• Left Seattle
• Moved to Texas (without housing)
• Found a temporary apartment
• Signed Alex up for preschool/daycare
• Started a teaching gig
• Bought a house
• Left my teaching gig
• Spent six months (and counting!) unemployed
• Hosted more visitors in the past six months than I did during seven years in Seattle
• Watched my dad die
• Spoke at my dad's funeral
• The world underwent quarantine for a global pandemic

And here we are.

It seems like every time I took a breath this year—every time I cleared a hurdle, squared my shoulders, and thought now, this is it, this is where I find a routine and things get back to normal—there would be an email, a phone call, a new urgent need sending me scrambling to find some sense of equilibrium.

And yet, despite that cursed list above, despite my constant anxiety and yearning for the world to just settle on down a skosh, there's been deep satisfaction this year.

Alex turned three and became my movie buddy. We've watched endless loops of Totoro, Rango, and Frozen. We've cuddled watching Avatar: the Last Airbender, crunched popcorn while giggling at School of Rock. Afterwards, her rush to act out scenes or continue the story with whatever doll or toy or simply her fingers and thumbs together like a puppet, electrifies me. She's not a baby. I have a goofy, stubborn, sensitive, creative kid in my house. It's a blast. 88% of the time, anyway.

Taylor, forever my partner, has cared for me and my family this year. He's talked to people, handled endless paperwork, held my hand, and comforted me through heartbreak. He's done all that while experiencing these strange events in lockstep, and been a rock through it all. I'm so grateful for all those choices that brought us together.

Texas. So. I love Texas? Believe me, I'm more surprised than anyone. We moved to a suburb, and I so love being part of a cozy neighborhood, one with a grocery and furniture stores and every fast food restaurant I would ever want within a two-mile radius. I love Austin itself, the warm night atmosphere, the patio lights and outdoor seating and omnipresent guitar strums. I love that the sky lives up to each and every giant testament, a limitless scope set off by perfectly scruffy treescapes. I love the wildflowers, the cactus, the river shores surrounded by dimpled rocks. I love seeing lightning again.  

Right now, everyone seems to be baking.* This year I am dough. I've been folded, twisted and turned and stretched. I've had to be elastic, to easily stretch to accommodate and mold into each new situation. I really hope something tasty happens now.

When Alex watches Frozen 2, there's a song that pulls my heartstrings and yes, brings me to suppress sobs. At this point I've heard it so much you'd think I'd be immune, but nope. It feels intensely personal. Almost written for me in this moment.** There's a part where Elsa sings "show yourself, step into your power," and I break into the chin-quivers. That is what I've always wanted. That is what I hope for.

31, let's get some power.

30. 29. 28. 27. 26. 25.

*I'm no exception. I've got the mason jar full of freshly established sourdough starter to prove it.
**Does it feel weird that this type of self-recognition comes from a Disney property? Yes. Yes it does. Now let's move past it and never speak of this moment again.

I wrote this at 11:40 PM, and went to work six hours later. I am old and now am tired.

The way to do something is doing it.

I once had a journalism professor—a famous, bloated wound of a man who harvested cliches and sprinkled them like fresh grown wisdom—relish in telling his classes that the cure for writer's block was writing.

Duh doy.

And yet, like all the best advice, it's the simplicity that makes the task so daunting. We (and yes, I'm dragging the general public into this) believe that there's got to be some other secret, a magic key that only reveals itself to the recipient at some opportune moment. There's a magical combination of words, or a ritual performed under the right moon, or even just the fallback of knowing the right person to make things true.

Some of those have a kernel of truth. After all, I do firmly believe you have to toss spilled salt over you shoulder. Rituals have weight.

But results come from action.

Last year, I lost weight and got healthier by exercising. At least thirty minutes a day, five days a week. No shakes, no programs, and I didn't count calories (though I know that's worked for others). I just did it. No exceptions. Not even at full capacity every day. The action mattered.

This applies to everything, absolutely everything, we want from life. Take any of my artistic ambitions. I don't know why it's taken me almost thirty years, much of which was spent editing the work of other writers, to realize that writers are people who write. I won't suddenly have more time. I won't suddenly have better ideas. I have to write. I have to put in the work.

Source

The past six months, I've written when my students write. I've given myself dialogue challenges. I've created characters. I've written fantasy and mystery and dystopia. Most are trash. Some are...intriguing. A few characters have stuck with me, and always the ones I discovered as I freely wrote.

I'm writing. And I can see a future, a misty-edged vision of morning pages and filled notebooks. I just need to do the work.

The cure is writing.

Rooted on the Brink

This is me, being 28.

Oh hi, wee hours of the morning. 

It is with great aplomb that I say—look at that! I've finally conquered the fear of selfies! So many selfies.

I'd like to thank Snapchat and the discovery of working my angles for this momentous achievement.
Also no, you can't follow me on Snapchat.

I let myself wake up at 5:20 this morning, a strange rush of sleeping-in rebellion that tasted so sweet. Here's the first song of my 28th year, listened to while I savored the rebellion aftertaste (as rebellious as a responsible working adult/mother can get):



Chased by this, and this, and this. And then a little taste of this and this in the evening. It's been a good music day.

Keeping with the tradition of eating delicious breads for breakfast on my birthday, I sauntered in to work with a warmed croissant from Starbucks. There, I enjoyed a full day of endless Diet Coke, courtesy of the best co-workers I could ask for.

After a day of caffeinated tribute from my colleagues/students, I returned home to a thoughtful, inspiring gift from my husband. I walked in the sunshine with my daughter. I ate steak and ice cream and chatted with those dearest to me. Did I have a great birthday?

It was the best.

It was the best, and yet nothing too out of the ordinary happened. I hope this is a sign of that age, how perfectly content I am with the small beauties in life.

Like my obsession with the sky. Sky in the morning of my birthday (left), sky in the evening (right).

Oh man. 28. Can you believe I'm that young? Didn't 28 happen, oh, five years ago or so?

No. Not for me. Five years ago is when my husband turned 28, a thought that fascinates me. For him, 28 marked the cusp of life. He was on the edge—the edge of marriage, the edge of leaving Utah, the edge of further education and career. For me, 28 is old and stodgy and pretty well progressed in the world.

I love it. Here, at the end of my 27th year, I treasure my capability. It's amazing to feel like I actually can do anything. And I'm not talking about "I'm a starry-eyed college student and the world is the limit I'm going to revolutionize the whole country!" sort of anything. I mean that I know how to work, how to talk to people, how I can realistically achieve goals. It's an eerie sense that anything I want to do, I can do. Yes, there's prioritizing, and working, but everything is feasible, plannable, possible. What strange and heady power.

In my career, I'm perfectly capable. Sure, there are things that I want to improve at, but I've mostly moved past the desperate fumblings of a total beginner. In my marriage, I'm totally capable. Taylor and I have figured out how to communicate, serve, and work together. In my writing, as much as I wish I did more, I feel like I can draft and edit and revise and have a firm, strictly "Cat" voice. I'm so capable, I managed to create a human life.

Which is the most awe-inspiring part of this year. Childbirth and motherhood terrified me, seemed like the most arduous task one could ever undertake. And I did it. I know how lucky I was. How lucky I was that pregnancy did not bother me at the time, and quickly became a new standard of normal. How lucky I was in delivery, so lucky my doctor told me not to speak of it for fear of giving unrealistic expectations. But the luckiest of all is Alex herself. I pictured motherhood as pain and sacrifice, late nights and ear infections. gritting as my soul was stretched tight by endless screaming.

How could I have know the joy? And it's very influenced by the fact that Alex has been so lovely, so patient, so endlessly full of happiness and smiles. There is sacrifice, but it's the kind of sacrifice Taylor and myself needed and are able to handle, the kind that has made us perfectly grow as people. Our family and home are exponentially sweeter. Alex has brought a completion I couldn't have understood.*

Probably my favorite picture of me ever.

Through motherhood, and each minute choice that comes within that minefield, I know I can. I can accomplish anything. I can trust my instincts. I can make choices, and those choices are correct.

And now, as I face down 28, I hope to channel that capability. I've become as settled and established as I wished to be. Now, it's time to push for more. In 28, I'm going to search. I'm going to reach. I will take this newfound capability and create something spectacular.

After all, I'm standing on the brink of sabotage. There's bound to be some explosions.

It's going to be a great year.

27. 26. 25.

*Which is the most cliched thing I've ever heard, but for us it is true. Note: for us. Not everyone needs an Alex to get to that point. She is what I needed to become softer and more compassionate. She is what Taylor needed to become more service-oriented. Alex forced us to grow in ways we didn't know were necessary before, and which I'm glad we experienced, but I don't think that parenthood is the only way to develop in that manner.

Bird Watching

Hi.

My name's Cat, and I've been pretty depressed lately.

I know.  SHOCKER!  It's not like it's been pretty easy to decipher that fact if you've been following my blog, or are friends with me on Facebook, or if you're one of those near-mythical "real life friends" (seriously, do such things exist anymore, or are they just relegated to icons between ads on Facebook?) (I kid, I kid, you know I love you, people I have actually interacted with in the physical world).

But I've been alluding to it as if it's over, or close to over.  You know, I'm "coming out of a funk."  Or, "the last few months have been hard, but it's getting better," or even the more cynical but no less silver lining-ed "it's tough now, but I still have so much good in my life."

Well, I lied.

I'm not coming out of it.  It's not getting better.  And yeah, there's good in my life, but that just makes this pervasive darkness even more oppressive.  Of course there's good in my life, so where do I get off feeling so crummy?  Seriously.  What an ungrateful little turd I am.  Man, I suck.

My life, as depicted by http://thankyoucorndog.tumblr.com/.

This comic describes my feelings.  When I talk to people about my sorrow, it turns into a laundry list of why I shouldn't be so sad.

"But Cat, you're so smart!"

"But Cat, look at all you're doing!  You're owning grad school!"

"But Cat, look at the opportunities you're getting!"

"But Cat, you have a loving husband and a really good life!"

"But Cat, there are so many people that love you!"

"But Cat, you are really so blessed!  Look at all you have!"

But, dear friends and family. But, while that is all true and well and good, but.  But that doesn't automatically make me happier.

If anything, it makes me worse.

Because those reminders and encouragements only add to the mental tally, and yes it is a constant tally, of things I'm doing wrong.  It becomes another failure.  That Cat, having all these lovely things and yet somehow, selfishly, brokenly, remaining depressed.

I'm trying to pull myself out of this mire.  I'm chasing that freaking bluebird of happiness with a titanium butterfly net, tricked out with rocket launchers and an army of drones in the handle.  And there are times when that lovely little creature will circle around my head, nearly landing on my shoulder but not quite there yet.  It's there on a sunny afternoon when I sit by the Charles and feel my skin tingle under the sun.  It's there when I dance to The Ballad of Mr. Steak with wild abandon during a Kishi Bashi concert, arms flailing underneath colored lights and layered sounds.  It's there while watching Veronica Mars and having good conversation with fine folk that give me hope in humanity and my place therein.

But for each time the bluebird almost lands, there are tenfold moments where it flies into a thorny hedge and refuses to budge.  These are the times where I stare into the void of a growing inbox of requests and freeze.  When my hands linger over a chapter to be edited, or a writer to be researched, or a TV show that I've watched and taken notes on and elucidated my thoughts in outline format, or even just the thought of moving that dang ol' dishrag off the counter and hanging it on the rack, and yet the next step halts.  

It's times like today, where I lie on the couch watching Party of Five* and eating Cheetos Puffs.  The cheese-spun cylinders make me feel marginally better, right before making me feel exponentially and inevitably worse.  You know how it is.  Curse you, sweet sweet snacks!

Today is extreme.  Usually it's just this heart-squeezing, gut-tearing feeling of misery and loneliness and failure that never really goes away.  

I keep telling myself that fessing up to it is better than gulping it down and pretending it's not there.  You know, saying outright that yep, I'm basically a champ at the whole self-loathing thing.  I recognize this and want to change, and like any good addict admitting I have a problem is the first step to recovery.

And blast it all, I'm trying to recover.  I'm doing the exercises, eating the healthy foods**, seeing the therapist, making the happy lists.  Pushing myself to get out and socialize.  Forcing myself out of the solitary comfort zone my jerkbrain prescribes.  Doing all the maddening suggestions that well-meaning people give me when they try to help.  I mean, I still find myself crumpling on the ground almost every day, but I'm giving it the college try!  Happy face!  Attempts!

I'm still chasing the bird, but I'm running through quicksand, and for all the leverage I get I still am sliding down, sucked into the depths.

So what, right?  What now?  Why write this?  Why talk about this?

Because somehow, it's making me feel better.  Writing is a great way to figure things out.  It's why English teachers assign essays.  Well that, and the feeling of enjoyment we get from hearing the groans.  Sweet music to the ears! 

"The shortest distance between a human being and the truth is a story."  Anthony de Mello.

Right now, my story is sadness.  And anxiety.  And defeat.  And by writing about it, I hope to see the truth in this experience.  I want to be able to figure out what this means, to see patterns in my malaise.  If all goes well, these words will form a ladder to tug me out of the sand.  They will shape into wings where I can catch that damn bluebird in his own turf.

*What a truly terrible TV show, by the by.  Full House on steroids and with an over-inflated sense of importance.  And yet, there's something about Matthew Fox's hair on this show.  I can't look away.  I want to, believe me I want to, but every time I try stupid Jack is there with his stupid 90's mane waving in the non-existent breeze and whispering Caaaat.....loooook at meeee.....Caaaaat....

**Most of the time, all Cheetos cheats aside.

Out of the Mouth of Swanson

Ron Swanson.  The ultimate wise man.

Right now, I'm doing a piss-poor job of living by this advice.  I've upped this ante by 100 percent, splitting my time and concentration between four things (well, technically seven if you count each individual class).

I might have made some errors in judgment this semester.

Conceived by Mommybloggers

This is a quick check-in, to make sure that this still works.  And also because I'm having thoughts, and it's either a really long Facebook statues (UGH) or a blog, and this setting works much better.

I have a ton of big projects and articles coming up and, as I always do in times of stress, I've been procrastinating by obsessively reading blogs that I would normally never read.  Like, Stay At Home Mommy blogs.  Blogs of women who have nothing in common with me, and whose opinions and views I do not always agree with.  I mean, I cherish motherhood.  The thought of having a child of my own is slowly becoming a reality to me, and it's a notion that does not fill my soul with dread.  In fact, it's generally a quite nice notion, as babies have suddenly started looking soft and squishy and good-smelling.  (Sidenote- IknowIknow, that's not all the time, but don't burst my bubble now!  I worked so hard for that illusion).

But.  Back to the point.

Which is--I have an awfully good life.  I'm living the relatively low-stakes life of a student.  I'm doing that and making (a very, very little) money, working at jobs that I love and which are opening all kinds of avenues for me.  Seriously.  Check out the people I'm working for and things I'm working on.  And on top of all that, I get to write non-stop, I get to interview people on things I'm passionate about, I get to manipulate words and come to comfortable terms with my writing voice, and I get to come home to a small suburban apartment and a husband who's kicking trash and taking names as a family therapist.  That in itself is pretty dang cool.

So even though my heart still yearns for West Coast life, I've managed to find some good people, and more importantly, some good food. I consider myself awfully lucky that I get to stretch my writing muscles, and that I have this blessedly uninterrupted time to develop my talents and make them work for me.  I've only been here for roughly six months, and my Seattle self is already a distant memory.  Let's not even discuss my Provo self ( who? what? selfish/insecure/lazy-much?).  I'm proud of the person this place has made me.  I'm proud of the family Taylor and I have created.   I'm proud of my university, and how ridiculously supportive and wonderful it is. And I'm proud that I can say that we did it, that we are here and living in the city of our dreams.

This is all to say--I'm doing just fine.  I realized my good fortune.  And sometimes, that's a needed realization.

Now back to writing.  I have two articles due in the next sixteen hours.  It's all just part of the adventure.

Right.  Write.  I'm on it.

Trying my Heart Out

Yesterday, the official School Spelling Bee was held in my classroom.  All three participants were there.

Clearly, it was thrilling.

Afterwards, I sat and watched the third place girl with the shiny eyes and the quivering lip. A nine year old at a school desk, body shaking with the pressure of holding back sobs.  Elementary life is awful.  To a child, life is black and white.  How can they understand losing not because they were bad, but just because someone else was better?  To them, it's only interpreted as one thing: ultimate failure.

One co-worker went up to her. Instead of sympathetic hugs and empty words of "you did great!," this teacher offered a firm handshake and some wise words:

If we don't try, then we don't know what we can do.

Never trying is as tempting option. No criticism.  No defeat.  No disappointment.

But there's the other side of the coin. No admiration.  No victory.  No success.

My own decision to try has led me here:

There might be tea in that harbor!*
*note: that is not "Boston Harbor."  There is no tea.  Don't be ridiculous. 

Behold.  As of this August, that dreamscape of history and culture will be my home.  And this lovely institution will be my new alma mater:

Boston University, baby!

It's exhilarating.  It's terrifying.  I'm gearing myself up for the greatest failures, criticisms, and embarrassments I've ever had.    But I'm also ready to work harder, be more passionate, and experience the fruition of my dreams more than I imagined possible.  It's all going to happen.

In preparing for the world of Boston, I've started making a Boston movie playlist, something I can chip away at over the summer months.  It's surprising how many Boston-set movies revolve around crime and despair.  Is there something in the water?  Does the Revolution-inspired air of freedom encourage people to flout societal laws?  I mean, I know that I'm planning on joining the Irish mob and causing some mayhem once I get there, but I didn't think that was the norm.  I just thought Boston was full of preppy Harvard types and tweed-clad intellectuals.

"Happy" Boston Movies

Fever Pitch

Legally Blonde

Ted

"Depressing, Gritty, often Crime-related" Boston Movies

The Departed

The Social Network

The Town

Boondock Saints

Gone Baby Gone

Mystic River

Shutter Island

Does my quest to watch Boston movies mean I'm relegating myself to a summer of drama?  Or are there quality offerings that make the city sparkle?  You know, other than things like 1776, because I seriously cannot handle any more Revolutionary War songs.  Leave our Founding Fathers and their vocal chords alone.

A Portrait in Thirds

My eyes are leaking?

Crying is a much more accepted and typical part of life right now.  This is not a comfortable fact.  It's a strange type of growing pain, just far later in life than I thought it should be.  Perhaps this is the phenomenon known as a "quarterlife crisis," only it shouldn't be.  It's the regular adolescent trauma of self discovery, delayed by several years.  Arrested development, if you will, but this time it's for reals and there's no Jason Bateman to be the calm voice of sanity.

Emotions have always been verboten to me.  I eschewed them as a sign of the weakness I could not let myself show.  I was the poster child for the wall-builder, constructing my safe little oasis bricked up tight within a corner of my heart I had forgotten existed.  But the past few years I have been chiseling away at the grout, creating chinks then gaps then tearing down load-bearing beams.  I can successfully say that I have gone from pure robot to someone capable of emotional health.

But the part they always skip with emotional health is the necessity of pain.  Those walls were built to keep me from having to feel hurt or sad or even empathy.  I was me, and everything rolled off like so much water on bird feathers, fluffed out to repel any drop.  Since letting myself feel I have experienced life more sweetly, cherished moments and relationships I never thought possible.  But along with that comes suffering.  And that's what needs to happen.  Being healthy means being OK with the hurt along with the joy.  But it's difficult, especially when the pain chokes your chest and compresses your feelings.  And that's this week.  A week of pain and frustration.

A teacher perspective on the shootings on Connecticut. 

 I have never taught kids as young as my current students. Even though I am technically in "middle school,"  I am surrounded by children ages 10-12.  Most of my time is spent around the 10 year olds, and I will not lie.  It's... how to say this diplomatically?... not my favorite.  My specialty is older students (who thankfully understand sarcasm and culture references), I didn't go into elementary education for a reason, and I often struggle with connecting with these young students, students who need more nurturing love and care and attention.

Today my fifth graders were practicing musical numbers for their play about the American Revolution.  They sang jazzy tunes about taxation without representation while I read about how children had been shot, how an entire class was missing, how parents and teachers were trying to account for everyone.  And I couldn't stop my breathing from becoming labored, couldn't stop the immediate watering of my eyes.  Throughout the day, I tried to stay abreast of the news, but my reaction was the same every time.  It wasn't until I came home late that afternoon and read the full story that I broke down.  Alone in my living room, punctuated by Christmas lights and the glow of the computer screen, I heaved and sobbed and had the reaction I'd avoided for so long in my life.

 I felt small.  I felt hurt.  I felt tired of this, the second violent incident in as many days.  But I felt so grateful.  Grateful that it wasn't my school, that it wasn't my students.  Grateful for the realization that if that happened, I would do anything to protect my students--even the ones that drive me batty.  I pray that I will never have to do anything like that.  I pray that this can start dialogue, and that we can progress past bickering and stop this from happening. It's not a matter of no guns or more guns or right or left.  It's a matter of changing something.  A matter of regulation and accessibility--regulation of firearm use and accessibility of what the average citizen can attain.  Regulation of mental health and accessibility for those who need care.  And while I understand those who say this is not the time, I still feel the aching heart of the country, my own aching heart crying out for an end.

I guess you care what I'm wearing.

My mind was already wrung out before the shootings dumped on me.  I've followed Mormon Child Bride, the blog of Stephanie Lauritzen (better know as She Who Started the Mormon Women Wearing Pants to Church Day), for a little over a year.  I like it because she is snarky and honest and an English teacher, and we English teachers have to stick together.  And while I have definitely not agreed with everything she's posted--not all the poems she shares are that awesome, and I don't struggle with not having the priesthood--I have understood that she was coming from a genuine place, and I've respected her journey for that.

I haven't officially identified as Feminist Mormon, but I refer to myself as such in my mind.  I've lurked around the community, reading up on WAVE and FMH and so forth, and quietly formed my opinion on the matter.  I wish I could post all I've read, but I worry that it would misconstrue my own thoughts on Mormon Feminism.  Researching it has felt a lot like cherry-picking: yes, I agree with that one; oops, not quite that one; let's avoid this train of thought all together; oh yeah, I can totally get behind that!  The only thoughts I've found that I totally agree with are here, and while that post links to some great stuff, I still want to stress that it's not a wholehearted alignment I feel.  It's an understanding and kinship, one where I believe the spirit of the cause, if not the specifics, are just.

As far as this Sunday goes, no.  I will not be wearing pants.  But not because I think it's "ridiculous" or "evil" or "just those crazy feminists looking for an excuse to leave the church."  In fact, for the record, I understand where they are coming from.  Right now, the pants aren't to say 'let's have the priesthood' or 'let's be more casual.'  It's an attempt to bring attention to the inequality in the church culture, and I support that.  I would like to hear more from women in Sunday School and Sacrament Meetings.  I do think there should be more women speaking in General Conference.  I definitely think the Young Women program needs to be completely redone, and I do think that there should be more open discussion about the role of women beyond that of wife and mother.  We are amazing.  We are strong,  We have a divine nature, worth, and capability that is greater than we are ever told.  It isn't enough to just be told that we are righteous and blessed.  A basic principle of education is modeling,  Unless girls are told about and shown their potential and the many different facets it has, how will they learn self-respect?

Despite my sympathies for the movement, I will not wear pants.  Partly because a piece of me does believe this event has the potential to undercut the sacred ordinance of the sacrament.  Not necessarily intentionally (even though there are probably a couple women who are doing it in that spirit), but because the motion is created to cause upheaval, and I personally don't feel like I would feel comfortable doing it in that setting.

But a main reason for my discomfort is the choice of pants as a symbol.  NOTE: I do not think there is anything inherently wrong in wearing pants to church, and I do think that it is more about the respect in presentation than anything else.  I am far more offended when women wear foam flip-flops to church than when women wear pants.  But in this particular case, holding up pants as a symbol of the masculine reign, shoving that particular gender dynamic in the face for awareness, well.  That makes me uneasy.

My wrestle with feminism vs. femininity vs. what-have-you has been documented before, but I just want to reiterate.  I am not in the camp where feminism means being equal with men which means being the same as men.  I think that a large part of female strength and power comes in the differences.  And not just in how we can have children--there's also the differences in social and emotional dynamics that set us apart and give us value.

But it took a while for me to get to that point.  So much of my youth was spent believing that in order to be respected, I had to be unsexed.  I couldn't be overly girly or feminine.  I had to play by masculine rules--another reason for my detestation of the weakness of emotion while I was growing up.  It wasn't until far too recently that I learned to embrace myself, curves and skirts and attractiveness and all.

How valuable it would have been if someone had told me that I could wear dresses and makeup without trading in my self-respect and ambition!  I would have had such a great head start if I had come to terms with being strong and feminine at the same time.  So no, I'm not comfortable with donning pants as a symbol of male power.  Because I am powerful, whether I'm wearing high heels or sneakers.  And that's a message that I think anybody, males and females and everything in between, can benefit from.

Notes and Nemeses

When I left my last full-time teaching gig, my students made me a binder full of letters and pictures from all 200+ of them.  And might I say, if you haven't had a bunch of adolescents write about how great you are, you should find a way to make that happen.  It's great.  And hilarious.  Tonight, in a fit of teacher nerves and need for validation, I flipped through those recorded bits o' wisdom and ridiculousness I inflicted upon them.  As someone who is all too susceptible to the curse of the demon nostalgia, all too familiar with the painful backward glance, this was a bittersweet experience.  I really loved my kids last year.  I can't believe that a few short months can take a bunch of strange, remote looking teenagers and make them all unique personalities that I cherished.  Even the terrible personalities were part of a fond remembrance, if only for the craziness I went through with them.

One of my favorites was this one:

While I have no clue where his weird, anti-environmental message is coming from, the last section of the note contains two of my legacies from that year.  1 - introducing them to the 'alot,'  and 2- that every no name paper turned in killed a puppy.

At the time I was a little confused by what appeared to be a sort of backhanded compliment.  Thanks, I guess?  I thought I did OK in the public setting?

Well, shows what I know, since that little snot-nose was right.   One year later, and where am I?  Teaching at an "independent," a.k.a. private, school for gifted and talented children.  And you know what?  I'm loving it. 

OK.  So Fact: I haven't officially met the kids yet.  But I've talked to a few parents, and they seem almost overwhelmingly supportive.  Also, Fact: I don't think I've ever seen such a friendly, open and relaxed staff.  Usually I feel lucky to find one person to talk to at staff meetings, but here I can strike up a conversation with anyone I sit by.  It's one of those dream faculties where everyone respects each other and is working as a team to benefit the student.  Imagine that!  Working so that your students are getting the best education possible! If this is a dream, I certainly don't want to wake up.  Here's hoping it lasts.  I've got a feeling it just might.

However, in the interest of full disclosure, there is one downside to the job.  I have a new nemesis.  The classroom bulletin board.

Hello, SATAN.

Ugh.  The staples.  The creativity.  The cutting out of construction paper and spatial planning (definitely not my strong suit).  How I hate it so.

So be warned, bulletin boards.  You're On Notice.

Cat's Hit List

1. Ferris Wheels

new addition! ------> 2. Bulletin Boards                        

High and Dry

I was watching The Newsroom today when an interesting thought hit me... oh, you haven't seen The Newsroom yet?  Really?  That delightful new concoction from Aaron Sorkin that mixes cynicism with wild, patriotic optimism?  The TV show about a news show that wants to be fair, and thorough, and actually return to the state of honest journalism that has been sadly nonexistent in recent years?  That show starring Jeff Daniels and Sam Waterson and Emily Mortimer and Alison Pill (who was my favorite part of Scott Pilgrim) and Dev Patel (who I've hoped would do something to redeem his last appearance in the worst movie ever).  You know.  That show.*

Anyway.  Back to my evening and the inevitable exciting-ness therein.  As I was watching the second episode of The Newsroom, this aching started.  This slow burn spread from my sternum, burrowed though ribs and lungs and settled into a white hot point of despair right between ventricles and arteries and whatever necessary tubes lead to the heart.

I want to have a job I care about.  I so, so desperately want to have a job I care about.

There's a reason I haven't been writing a lot lately,either here or privately.  It's because while life is going great, and while I love being in Seattle and adjusting to being married (surprisingly easy, actually) and having new friends and new experiences, there is this constant drag on my spirit.  My job has been the greatest source of strife for me over the past few months.  Every day, I wake up soulsick, knowing that I have to drive and drive and then sit and sit, trying to fight apathetic teens and over-zealous parents, teaching a test I believe is fundamentally flawed, all while struggling against a broken system.  I hate it.  I HATE IT SO MUCH.

It's not a difficult job.  It's just mindless, and soul-sucking, and my branch is run by people who have absolutely no business being in charge of anything.  I'm lucky that I have an out soon, and that come August I start an excellent job at an excellent school.  But right now I'm stuck in the middle of this disaster.  It's a strange experience, witnessing a workplace fall apart.  I feel like I'm watching the tail-end of a year-long decline at my company, watching the students and teachers abandon ship one by one, and anxiously waiting for the time when I can put on my life preserver and jump off.
  
That's why it's difficult for me to view people that feel so strongly about the importance of what they are doing.  I am self-aware enough to know that I'm driven by passion, that I studied a field that could feed that need and that I'm quite skilled at to boot, yet here I am.  Drowning in the after tow of life-progression blues.  Trying my best to survive these two months until maybe, just maybe I can feel some drive and inspiration again.  Until I can float atop the waters, soaking in sunlight, rather than being sucked into the riptide.

*It's also that show that has some salty language, so if you have sensitive ears maybe it's not quite the show for you.  But may I recommend the first four seasons of The West Wing?

Style Maven

I couldn't really think of a creative title, and I think the word "maven" is cool, so there you go.

So I shouldn't be writing right now, because I'm trying this new thing called "being efficient and finishing schoolwork earlier than three hours before class". Right now I'm attempting to trick myself into believing a paper is due tomorrow, instead of Thursday. Sadly, I'm not buying it. Why can't I be more gullible?

That was a very long-winded way of saying that while I was slacking off (typical paper-writing process), I found something most excellent.


Tavi is thirteen and blogs about fashion. I know what you are thinking. Why would Cat be interested in fashion? This girl who wears nothing but Converse, jeans, t-shirts and cardigans?

Don't fret, I am still as fashion oblivious as the next person. More so, probably. But Tavi is blowing my mind! At points I can't believe she is that young, because she's so hip and intelligent. Forget fashion, her blog is delightful to read. It's witty, colorful, and peppered with references to some of my favorite things (30 Rock and Freaks and Geeks! Let's be friends). I also like the beautiful images she posts. And the way she dresses is truly outrageous. I LOVE it. It's how I would dress if I had A) guts, and B) siblings that didn't make fun of me when I wear their super cool over-sized flannel shirts, John.

I'm probably breaking some law by posting that picture and linking to her blog, but until I get caught I ain't gonna stop.

Sidenote: I would probably be a successful rapper. Right? Right?

Dreamin' the Night Away

There are so many theories on what dreams really are. A random firing of synapses? Or a deeper portal into subconscious desires? Like the eternally frustrating question of just how many licks it takes to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop, it's one of those things the world may never know.

But regardless of how you interpret dreams, you can't deny that they effect us. A dream can set the mood for an entire day. It can make you wake up feeling unsettled, or laughing at how ridiculous it was. They enable you to conquer fears, experience new worlds, and create impossible landscapes. So yes, I'd say they are pretty necessary.

The past two nights, I have had crazy, CRAZY dreams. They've been vivid, intricately detailed, and completely ludicrous. Here's a list of some of the dream topics, to whet your curiosity.

Dream #1:
-Avatar
-James Cameron
-A punch in the face (see: a very deserving James Cameron)
-Robots
-Washington D.C.
-Booth and Brennan from the TV show Bones
-Disguises
-Jon Hamm

Dream #2:
-Bicycles
-Ashley
-Feasting
-Roast turkey and stuffing
-Lobster
-Lobster flavored apples
-My old house in Farmington

One of my co-workers was kind enough to show me dreammoods.com, a website that claims to decipher dreams. She said it was eerily accurate. Eerily vague is more like it, but it still kills an hour or so. I was pretty surprised that there was an entire category for Lobsters.

Lobster: To see a lobster in your dream represents strength and persistence. You will hold your own ground and overcome minor difficulties and problems. To dream that you are eating lobster indicates that you will regain your confidence.

See? Infinitely useful. I had no idea I had lost confidence, but now I know I will regain it! There's hope for me yet!

No, I kid. But seriously, there is something comforting in thinking that I will have the ability to overcome difficulties. Sure, I'm not buying the whole that's-what-the-lobster-signifies angle, but I will take some measure of solace in my dreams. Even if it's just that they make me believe my imagination isn't dead yet, and I have some spark of creativity in me. At least subconsciously.

Old Soul

I just got a sudden craving to be someplace ancient.

I have no idea where this came from. I was just sitting at work, trying to fill my empty time, and there it was. This overwhelming desire to sit among ruined stones. In my mind I'm outdoors, with gray skies and a vigorous wind teasing through monoliths and brushing against my cheeks. Or maybe I want to be within a shadowy hut, with a burnt grave of extinguished fire in the center. Or maybe I'm ready to face cathedrals again, to feel ancient beliefs rather than actual buildings.

My new favorite class is postmodern lit, and my professor is this tiny, opinionated New Zealander. She's basically fantastic. We've been examining the process of reading, trying to find the actual origins of the act, and she loves comparing books to artifacts. Each of us is an archaeologist, digging through books to find truths, to find parts of humanity, to find evidence for our beliefs and to learn new concepts. It's uncovering layers of civilization, unearthing what has created our essence.

I can't listen to all this talk of history without wanting to experience it first hand. I've read for years. I've felt the sense of intimacy that comes with the written word. But there's something about going to the roots, sitting in silence, and letting that presence wash over you. Allowing the weight of humanity to rest on your shoulders. It's a kind of immersion that can't be replicated.

So take me to the birthplaces of humanity. Find where the first word was uttered, where the first stone placed on another. Lead me to caves where philosophy was born, smeared in symbols against the walls. Take me to my origins, so I can finally visualize my role in the grand scheme. So I can feel insignificant in the abyss of time, yet important with the vastness of future potential.

From the Desk of a Bored Office Worker

Well, it's the casualist of casual Fridays here in the workplace. The main supervisor is gone for the day, so the minions can play. I suggested ordering pizza and having a dance party to celebrate, which I still think is a great idea, but no one else got on board. Some people have no sense of freedom.


Random thought #1: I kind of love being facebook friends with my oldest brother. We don't know each other at all, and now I'm discovering he is amazing. And listens to music I would never have expected. I'm loving the "rebel rocker" Chris. Thanks!

Random thought #2: Poets are endlessly inspiring. Today for the English Department Reading Series, Natasha Saje did a reading and WOW. I swear every poem expressed a thought I've had but could never express, and now there it was! Out in the open! Written in a wry manner that embraced allusions and mere word meanings to the greatest power possible! In other words, it's back baby. The poetry is calling me, so expect feeble attempts soon.

Random thought #3: Ugh. Never mind. I don't want to think about it.

Random thought #4: My new favorite saying? "This should be a Seinfeld episode". Uttered by an advisor after we had debated for a half hour over whether to ticket someone who had held a parking pass overtime, only to discover they had already turned it in. Classic.

Random thought #5: I've discovered the key to a incredibly great nights sleep. Listen to Glen Hansard as you drift off to dreamland and I swear on my still living mother's grave you will have the sweetest slumber in the world.

Random thought #6: This post doesn't have any substance whatsoever, but I am trying to write more, so there you go. And here's something for no reason.Have a great weekend!

Facebook is getting all KINDS of personal

I've heard so many complaints about the ads on Facebook. Via statuses (stati?), friends have whined because they've gotten too many ads about dating, political rallies, concerts that are out of their area, honestly, the possibilities are endless and apparantly always annoying. I've never minded them. Sometimes they'd catch my interest, leading me to new vintage stores or Beatles sites. Other than those, I've been able to successfully ignore them.

Until this one caught my eye:

Single Obama Fans
Meet passionate single Obama fans (First 10,000 accounts are free).

First off, I'm not even sure how they knew I was an Obama fan. I'm only listed as a moderate. Creepy! Also, that is possibly the most hilarious picture they could have used for that ad. It seems so inappropriate, I love it. I guess passion and Obama just go hand in hand. It makes sense. You like Obama? Hey, me too! Let's run away together.

On a completely unrelated note, today while I was at work some serious questionable behavior happened. I was bending down to get a file, and one of the aged female advisors smacked my butt. And I thought leaving the Cannon Center would end the sexual harrassment. Oh well.

Takin' Care of Business

The job interview: is there anything more awkward, more stressful, and more uncomfortable? And no, I am not just talking about the outfits you wear to them. Sitting there, answering questions about your strengths and weaknesses. Why you are leaving your previous job and what you hope to gain from this one. It's just painful.


Question: So what interested you in this position? Interviewer #1 leans forward expectantly, one eyebrow raised in premature disbelief.

Answer: Well, I hate my current job, so I wanted a new one. I was looking for something where I could sit around most of the day, with higher pay. This seemed to fit, so here I am!

What I Told Them: Well, I've been looking for a position that would assist me in my major. As an English Teaching major, I thought it would be perfect to be behind the scenes and learn more about how the technical details of the program work. Helping others prepare to graduate, finding scholarships, etc., will better prepare me when I go through those processes myself. Also, I am hoping to work more hours winter, and this fits perfectly with my schedule. All said while looking interviewer straight in the eye, adding charming little smiles at appropriate times, and using my hands not excessively, but just to highlight certain points. Oh look how passionate I am. You should hire me right away.

Question: I see. As an advisor, we would require you to interact with students. Is that something you are comfortable doing? Interviewer #2 blinks several times, squints eyes, and looks at a spot on the wall just over my shoulder. What is he doing?

Answer: Oh, I am really good at faking emotion. You can trust me when it comes to pretending I actually care about a problem, even if I don't.

What I Told Them: I consider myself a social person, and I think those that know me would agree. I believe that a job isn't fulfilling unless you are interacting with others, and I find that helping people is one of my strengths. Now the real big smile breaks out. My eyes sparkle, as if I am talking about something I am in total awe of. Man, my cheeks are beginning to hurt. Is it just me, or is this chair really low? Anyway.

Question: Multi-tasking is an enormous part of this particular job. Would you consider yourself able to complete several tasks in quick succession? Interviewer #3 looks down at the sheet she is holding, then stares at me. #1 looks encouraging, but #2 looks like he is slowly drowning. Um... what did they just say. #3 is glancing through some papers. Is that my resume she's holding? Is the font OK? Focus.

Answer: Well, if it gets too stressful, my head might explode. Or I could escape to a corner and assume the fetal position. But overall... I might be able to do more than one thing. I'll most likely end up neglecting one of the things.

What I Told Them: I can absolutely multitask. I think every student has to develop that ability. How would we get anything done otherwise? Crack an adorable half smile, pause and wait for laughter. I earn a couple smiles. #2 gives a panic filled expression. Moving on...

Question: We use specialized computer programs. Are you able to learn new programs, and if so, can you give us an example of a time, either in school or in a past job, where this has occurred?

Answer: Well, yeah, I can learn new programs. But if I don't use them regularly, I forget them. Like there was this time in sixth grade, where we made the switch from those old school Macintoshs to desktop computers. It was a little traumatizing to get used to having a mouse and clicking icons, but I caught on after a few months. I still miss those green screens sometimes. Oh, and the way the printer paper had those serrated edges you could make boondoggles with? Classic. Ah, school days. What was the question?

What I Told Them: I am a quick-learner, and generally find that it only takes one lesson for me to catch on to a concept. For instance, with my last job, I would sometimes cover the cashier. It only took a quick run through of the system before I was adept at it, and my supervisors acknowledged that and knew they could rely on me.

Question: Why did you leave your last job... at the Cannon Center?

Answer: Because I hated that job with every fiber of my being, and knew that if I stayed there any longer I would get sucked in forever and slowly lose my soul, along with my will to live, and become a mindless zombie, automatically wiping tables and filling napkin holders and syrup bottles with no intelligent thought.

What I Told Them: As I stated previously, I am hoping to take on more working hours next semester. Because I will be working more, I wanted to move on to a job that was more challenging, and once again, would help me with my educational goals.

Question: Well, that sounds good. We don't have anything else to ask. We'll be making a decision by Friday, so regardless of whether you've gotten the job or not, we'll notify you by then. Do you have any questions for us? All three of them look at me intently. With great expectations. Think! Think!

Answer: No.

What I Told Them: Um, I can't think of anything right now. You've been very thorough, which I really appreciate. Thank you so much for meeting with me! They all lean back, a little deflated. What do they expect! Employers always ask that question, but when they've already told me when they will make their choice, and if I know starting salary, is there anything left? No! So what should I say? I really have no idea, and leave with an enormous sense of failure.

Flash forward to Friday. I've spent the past few days eating ice cream and pizza, mourning the interview that went awry. I'm going to work at the Cannon Center forever. Within a year, I'll be one of those people whose only joy in life is bossing people around and lecturing her staff about the correct way to place silverware in the carts. I actually scolded someone for not refilling the trays immediately the other day! It's too late! I'm doomed!!!

And then the call came.

To that lady who saw me dancing in the hallway of the JKB, waving my arms over my head and shaking my hips like Shakira, I should apologize. But I'm not going to, because I can kiss food service goodbye! SO LONG SUCKERS.