Today our class was amazingly interesting, as far as learning how to teach unmotivated undergraduates goes.
We had a guest speaker who was full of energy and pep, which somehow reminded me of one of my roommates. I think if these two girls met, they'd be insta-friends.
This Instruction Library was extremely passionate about teaching and libraries, and so animated that it was hard to keep from smiling or laughing at every pause in the classroom dialog. She's a firm believer in humor as a necessary component of library instruction, which is great. No more stodgy librarian crap. We're fun people, didn't you know?
The guest speaker had so many great one-liners and cute comments that Kate and I began keeping lists of possible T-shirt or button slogans, a few of which follow. I'll try to get more of Kate's this weekend, she copied down the best ones.
First, Buttons:
Information literacy = life
Librarians = Control Freaks
Next, T-shirts:
I've got some problems in my pocket...that I brought for you.
Librarians are always genuinely interested.
13 July 2006
I needed a new profile picture
mostly because I'm vain. Let's be honest.
But the old one is from March, and it's July, and I thought it appropriate to update.
So the new one will be this one, which is me after a long, hot walk from school to my home, well almost to my home. This is the apartment complex that I walk through every day during the school year.
Apparently, they have a perfectly wonderful lounging rock near the algae-encrusted pond, where I have many turtle and frog friends. Mom insisted on taking this picture.
11 July 2006
Life resumes...no, it picks up
Sometimes the little breaks are the best.
I took a long weekend to spend with my family, my entire family (minus one very-missed brother-in-law). This is such a rare occurrence apart from any major holiday (meaning Christmas), that I couldn't resist traveling home, despite the ever-increasing gas prices. Somehow, at times like this, money is a means to get somewhere more important, to be with people who inspire and encourage me to continue with "normal" life, which is often quite boring.
None of us slept very much. And we ate too much, every day.
But we laughed a lot and we talked more than we ever used to, making the inconveniences disappear, for the most part.
Yesterday, Evan, Emily, Dad and myself resumed our stress-inducing regular lives: distracted from the disappointment and letdown of a week beginning and a fabulous weekend fading away by the details.
Today, Leslie reconvened her march: over 1,000 miles left, 3 months to go.
Tomorrow, Emily and the girls head back to their desert to take up where they left off: QuickBooks, anyone?
Even though this week and the next may be my most trying and exhausting this summer, I'd do it again. I'd go home and spend time with the only people who consistently love me and challenge me to be a better individual. How could I not love them?
Cheers to time well spent. To laughter and games and dark chocolate s'mores.
I took a long weekend to spend with my family, my entire family (minus one very-missed brother-in-law). This is such a rare occurrence apart from any major holiday (meaning Christmas), that I couldn't resist traveling home, despite the ever-increasing gas prices. Somehow, at times like this, money is a means to get somewhere more important, to be with people who inspire and encourage me to continue with "normal" life, which is often quite boring.
None of us slept very much. And we ate too much, every day.
But we laughed a lot and we talked more than we ever used to, making the inconveniences disappear, for the most part.
Yesterday, Evan, Emily, Dad and myself resumed our stress-inducing regular lives: distracted from the disappointment and letdown of a week beginning and a fabulous weekend fading away by the details.
Today, Leslie reconvened her march: over 1,000 miles left, 3 months to go.
Tomorrow, Emily and the girls head back to their desert to take up where they left off: QuickBooks, anyone?
Even though this week and the next may be my most trying and exhausting this summer, I'd do it again. I'd go home and spend time with the only people who consistently love me and challenge me to be a better individual. How could I not love them?
Cheers to time well spent. To laughter and games and dark chocolate s'mores.
Power of Persuasion
It's amazing what adults will do for a child.
I knew that Maddie (3.8 years old) had some sway on every member of the family, but until Sunday afternoon, I had no idea how much of an influence she could be.
I found myself in the family room late in the afternoon, as I was searching the house for everyone else. I came upon a somber scene - Maddie "up front," as it were with a candle snuffer as a microphone, and five adults seated around her on the couches and leather chair, each with a book, pretending to read. As I walked in, Maddie said, "You can have a seat. Let me get you a hymnal." I wasn't aware she even knew what a hymnal was - her church at home doesn't have them.
I sat on the carpet and took the book that I was given, Zoo Animals, and opened it to the middle, where the page was falling out. Maddie proceeded with the event.
It was church. Not just any church, but a Methodist service. Earlier that day had been Maddie's first experience in an entire Methodist service, and she needed to process it by acting it out. She was the pastor, "Today we're gonna talk about God, guys," she kept saying.
Then she'd sing a song, that had a lot to do with "just because" and "God loves me" and "God loves you." No one could really figure out what the song was, but I had tears streaming down my face, nonetheless. It was hilarious. She was so serious as she sang.
Then came the disturbing part. "Lana." She walked towards me, grabbed my hand and attempted to lift me from my seat on the floor. "It's your turn to sing."
I did my best to assure her that Grandma, in fact, was a great singer and should be the one to sing. All the while, Grandma was telling Maddie that I had the nicest singing voice. (Neither of these statements - by me or my mom - are true, by the way.) Maddie grew impatient.
"Everybody has to sing!"
She chose a singer - Aunt Leslie. Maddie then indicated that she, herself, would be the dancer, this time around. Dancer? I thought this was a Methodist service, you say. Well, this is true, and while liturgical dance isn't common in this setting, an very sweet 8-year-old girl happened to do a dance involving a shiny ribbon on a stick that very morning in church. Maddie had a pink scarf that would substitute nicely for the ribbon on a stick.
So, Leslie sang; Maddie danced.
Then, Grandma sang; Maddie danced.
Then, Maddie sang; Lana danced.
Then, Maddie sang; Leslie danced.
It continued. But when she extended the candle-snuffer/microphone to Papa (her grandpa, my dad) he simply shook his head, and there was no argument. [Maddie had, an hour before, jumped on my dad while he'd been sleeping. In the shock of sharp knees hitting his chest, he'd jerked his arms toward his face and knocked her in the nose. She promptly sat down on the coffee table and explained to Papa why she didn't like being struck in the nose. He was so not amused.]
How is it that this highly imaginative little girl can get her family to do almost anything for her. If there had been hidden video cameras, that may have been the most embarrassing afternoon of my life. Luckily, no one even had a camera handy. We were all saved, for sure!
I knew that Maddie (3.8 years old) had some sway on every member of the family, but until Sunday afternoon, I had no idea how much of an influence she could be.
I found myself in the family room late in the afternoon, as I was searching the house for everyone else. I came upon a somber scene - Maddie "up front," as it were with a candle snuffer as a microphone, and five adults seated around her on the couches and leather chair, each with a book, pretending to read. As I walked in, Maddie said, "You can have a seat. Let me get you a hymnal." I wasn't aware she even knew what a hymnal was - her church at home doesn't have them.
I sat on the carpet and took the book that I was given, Zoo Animals, and opened it to the middle, where the page was falling out. Maddie proceeded with the event.
It was church. Not just any church, but a Methodist service. Earlier that day had been Maddie's first experience in an entire Methodist service, and she needed to process it by acting it out. She was the pastor, "Today we're gonna talk about God, guys," she kept saying.
Then she'd sing a song, that had a lot to do with "just because" and "God loves me" and "God loves you." No one could really figure out what the song was, but I had tears streaming down my face, nonetheless. It was hilarious. She was so serious as she sang.
Then came the disturbing part. "Lana." She walked towards me, grabbed my hand and attempted to lift me from my seat on the floor. "It's your turn to sing."
I did my best to assure her that Grandma, in fact, was a great singer and should be the one to sing. All the while, Grandma was telling Maddie that I had the nicest singing voice. (Neither of these statements - by me or my mom - are true, by the way.) Maddie grew impatient.
"Everybody has to sing!"
She chose a singer - Aunt Leslie. Maddie then indicated that she, herself, would be the dancer, this time around. Dancer? I thought this was a Methodist service, you say. Well, this is true, and while liturgical dance isn't common in this setting, an very sweet 8-year-old girl happened to do a dance involving a shiny ribbon on a stick that very morning in church. Maddie had a pink scarf that would substitute nicely for the ribbon on a stick.
So, Leslie sang; Maddie danced.
Then, Grandma sang; Maddie danced.
Then, Maddie sang; Lana danced.
Then, Maddie sang; Leslie danced.
It continued. But when she extended the candle-snuffer/microphone to Papa (her grandpa, my dad) he simply shook his head, and there was no argument. [Maddie had, an hour before, jumped on my dad while he'd been sleeping. In the shock of sharp knees hitting his chest, he'd jerked his arms toward his face and knocked her in the nose. She promptly sat down on the coffee table and explained to Papa why she didn't like being struck in the nose. He was so not amused.]
How is it that this highly imaginative little girl can get her family to do almost anything for her. If there had been hidden video cameras, that may have been the most embarrassing afternoon of my life. Luckily, no one even had a camera handy. We were all saved, for sure!
06 July 2006
Random Encounters
This week, I had to send out a couple important packages through the United States Postal Service. I don't often visit the Post Office, but it's always crowded when I get there.
I had several minutes to study the wokers behind the desk. They were all men over the age of 40 and they all spoke quiety and had very pleasant demeanors. None worked in a rushed manner, despite the line extending out of the door.
One man was busy setting up his station-counting money, tap-tapping the computer screen when necessary. He moved with slow, deliberate steps and you could tell he thought about everything step he was taking, to make sure that it was done correctly.
That's when I noticed...he looks like a Bridges brother. In fact, he looks like an elderly Jeff Bridges.
He moved his mouth in the same way that they do, which is so distinctive. It was amazing.
Then, as I turned around with this new revelation, I saw a girl who was good friends with my sister Emily in high school. There she stood, with her young baby in a stroller, a stranger who I hadn't seen in 10 years. She didn't look a day older. Then again, maybe I don't either.
I had several minutes to study the wokers behind the desk. They were all men over the age of 40 and they all spoke quiety and had very pleasant demeanors. None worked in a rushed manner, despite the line extending out of the door.
One man was busy setting up his station-counting money, tap-tapping the computer screen when necessary. He moved with slow, deliberate steps and you could tell he thought about everything step he was taking, to make sure that it was done correctly.
That's when I noticed...he looks like a Bridges brother. In fact, he looks like an elderly Jeff Bridges.
He moved his mouth in the same way that they do, which is so distinctive. It was amazing.
Then, as I turned around with this new revelation, I saw a girl who was good friends with my sister Emily in high school. There she stood, with her young baby in a stroller, a stranger who I hadn't seen in 10 years. She didn't look a day older. Then again, maybe I don't either.
02 July 2006
Sharing McSharerson
I may have mentioned here or to a few of you how odd it is that I find myself recently interested in sharing clothes with my mom and my sisters.
We have always given my mom hand-me-downs whenever we outgrew or grew to dislike an item of clothing. She gladly took the over-sized sweatshirts, colorful vests, and other things that we discarded, and wore them into the ground, as it were.
After our shopping spree last week, I wouldn't mind going through her closet every once in a while when I'm home to spice up my own wardrobe. A frightening new reality.
Last night, Leslie, Mom and myself spent the night trying on each other's clothes, trying to pick out the right outfit for church. This morning, it turned out, we were all going to wear black print skirts and Leslie decided that we shouldn't promote the mother-daughters twin ensemble. She opted for my new brown skirt at the last minute.
I wanted to wear my white pink-flowered skirt from last year, but I'd left my white heels at school. I was searching my closet for them but could find nothing but last November's 4-inch fuschia heels. They didn't exactly go with the skirt. I tried Leslie's white dress sandals, only to find that my oversized feet and bunions couldn't even slide into the strap. I looked like Cinderella's ugly step-sister trying to pry her long foot into that delicate glass slipper.
It's a fact that I've never been able to wear my sisters' shoes. I've always been the Big-Foot of the family women. I wear 9's, they all (including my mother) wore 7's. That's a huge difference, but then again, we're separated by 2-3 inches in height, so I'm glad I don't have size 7 feet. But I've never had cute shoes, making the borrowing of their trendy clothes in recent years difficult. Whereas I think my chunky brown flipflops are "dressy," Leslie finds them unfit for anything but messing around the house. I wear them to work, to church, and everywhere else almost every day. What does this say about me?
All this is to say, sharing clothes with siblings and mothers is a weird concept for me, one I'm trying to come to grips with (quickly, as it were, due to the cute factors of their wardrobes).
We have always given my mom hand-me-downs whenever we outgrew or grew to dislike an item of clothing. She gladly took the over-sized sweatshirts, colorful vests, and other things that we discarded, and wore them into the ground, as it were.
After our shopping spree last week, I wouldn't mind going through her closet every once in a while when I'm home to spice up my own wardrobe. A frightening new reality.
Last night, Leslie, Mom and myself spent the night trying on each other's clothes, trying to pick out the right outfit for church. This morning, it turned out, we were all going to wear black print skirts and Leslie decided that we shouldn't promote the mother-daughters twin ensemble. She opted for my new brown skirt at the last minute.
I wanted to wear my white pink-flowered skirt from last year, but I'd left my white heels at school. I was searching my closet for them but could find nothing but last November's 4-inch fuschia heels. They didn't exactly go with the skirt. I tried Leslie's white dress sandals, only to find that my oversized feet and bunions couldn't even slide into the strap. I looked like Cinderella's ugly step-sister trying to pry her long foot into that delicate glass slipper.
It's a fact that I've never been able to wear my sisters' shoes. I've always been the Big-Foot of the family women. I wear 9's, they all (including my mother) wore 7's. That's a huge difference, but then again, we're separated by 2-3 inches in height, so I'm glad I don't have size 7 feet. But I've never had cute shoes, making the borrowing of their trendy clothes in recent years difficult. Whereas I think my chunky brown flipflops are "dressy," Leslie finds them unfit for anything but messing around the house. I wear them to work, to church, and everywhere else almost every day. What does this say about me?
All this is to say, sharing clothes with siblings and mothers is a weird concept for me, one I'm trying to come to grips with (quickly, as it were, due to the cute factors of their wardrobes).
Cauliflower Ear
Do you ever talk on the phone so long, with the receiver pressed to your ear so hard, that you come away from a conversation aching in the ear?
I don't know if it's because I am hard of hearing, or if it has something to do with my OCD and wish to hear and capture every piece of a conversation, but I almost always press the phone to my head so forcefully during a conversation, that my ear is sweaty and bruised when I'm done.
You'd think I'd learn, but I don't. It's no wonder I have CPS (carpal tunnel syndrome). Everything I do with my hands is overkill - writing in tiny, very precise letters all the while clutching the pen or pencil as if someone is actively trying to pry it away from my fingers; controlling every motion of my fingers with concentrated precision when playing the piano; gripping the steering wheel as if lightening my touch would instantly induce a fatal crash.
I should lighten up, friends. I know. I've been told this every year of my life, even though I have made great efforts to do so in the past three years.
Next time you're on the phone, hold the receiver a few centimeters from your poor ear to give it some breathing room and to spare it from a death by cauliflower ear.
I don't know if it's because I am hard of hearing, or if it has something to do with my OCD and wish to hear and capture every piece of a conversation, but I almost always press the phone to my head so forcefully during a conversation, that my ear is sweaty and bruised when I'm done.
You'd think I'd learn, but I don't. It's no wonder I have CPS (carpal tunnel syndrome). Everything I do with my hands is overkill - writing in tiny, very precise letters all the while clutching the pen or pencil as if someone is actively trying to pry it away from my fingers; controlling every motion of my fingers with concentrated precision when playing the piano; gripping the steering wheel as if lightening my touch would instantly induce a fatal crash.
I should lighten up, friends. I know. I've been told this every year of my life, even though I have made great efforts to do so in the past three years.
Next time you're on the phone, hold the receiver a few centimeters from your poor ear to give it some breathing room and to spare it from a death by cauliflower ear.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)