Best foot forward

Nothing starts a semester off worse than being ill. More and more accumulates daily, forcing the student to overcompensate upon returning to class. It seems as if this fate often befalls me.

This semester, I missed over a week of classes after only being well enough to attend the first week in full. I missed all the logistical information, the last-minute assignments, the field trip information, the projects, the group work. Now I have too much to do and too little time in which to do it. The semester is drawing to a close and I could care less. I have done all the work I care to complete and that is it. I plan on being done. I'm taking Jan term off and not looking back. I don't care anymore.

And I have developed a singular attitude toward all this, one that may become hazardous to my GPA: "You can't make me!" I don't feel like studying, writing, or taking on gigantic projects single-handedly. Usually I force myself into action anyway, since I have nothing better to do. But one change has occurred since the Spring semester ended.

I began knitting, buying seasons of The X-Files and found a boy who didn't scream blue murder and claw at his eyes every time he saw me.

Of all those things, the one with the greatest impact on schoolwork-neglect ratios is the knitting. Certainly the most detrimental thing I ever could have done was pick up a knitting needle. Now instead of studiously examining texts, reading ahead, and making absolutely sure my grammar is perfect, I am turning heels, casting on, and weaving the toe closed. I am learning complicated patterns and shopping for yarn online all while pretending to write a paper.

And it doesn't just strike me at home! No, socks are PORTABLE knitting projects. That means that a person can easily find Miss Laura sitting through convo, a movie, or simply alone in the Lounge or the library while knitting faithfully at a project. Where once my friends saw me recline with a novel, now they find me with a new ball of yarn.

I shop the yarn sales, the discount bins, coming back with multi-colored strands of merino, smokey gray cashmere from Italy that exactly matches the color of my cat's fur, or a soft striping of gray, blue and green with aloe and jojobo oils in the strands, leaving your hands conditioned and soft as you knit, or your feet when you have completed the project.

I find hole-in-the-wall yarn stores born out of abandoned railway depots or in a strip of anonymous storefronts in Highland. I leave cradling bamboo kneedles, intricately carved buttons for the purse I plan to make over the winter.

Sleep becomes a thing of the past as I plan to work "just one more line" or turn the heel before curling into a wilted Laura puddle and sleeping away the cramps in my fingertips.

If the endless trips to yarn stores like Stich by Stitch in Highland, the Cass Street Depot in Fort Wayne, and, most importantly (because it is closest to me) the Shuttle Shop in Warsaw were not enough, I have discovered the glory of the knitting world ONLINE! There are a massive amount of websites dedicated to helping lonely knitters like me socialize, and before I knew it, I had found a soul mate in the person of another blogger: Stephanie Pearl-McPhee, the Yarn Harlot, who knits and writes, just like me. Bless you, Stephanie! And will you teach me to spin?

I want a sheep now. A merino sheep. I will care for it, pet it, love it, and shear it, spinning and dying the fleece as I create my own individually crafted sock yarns. Don't tell me how absurd this is. I want one. I already have a sheep dog!

I have reached the point where I have created a photo album of the socks I have made, so thrilled by them that I plan on making them available for the world to see. I may be walking holes in them, but I can honestly know that their woolen souls will live on in blogging infamy for all time. Or at least until blogsource decides that this Idiot Girl is never coming back and wipes me from the internet as a whole. We'll see.

I Suck as a Blogger

Why?

For the same reason I suck as a human being. Too many people wanting too much from me in too short of a space of time. I would love to give you a sound and fascinating description of why I have not given you, oh glorious reader, something to pour over while pretending to work or study. But I don't have one.

In short, I have been writing, working, and home-work-ing myself into a coma, one that may go on for months.

But I get January off. Let freedom ring! No classes to bog me down, no horror of extra homework, and plenty of time to knit a sweater and finish my novel. Glorious.

Now, if only the stupid server would allow me to post blogs for you from everywhere, not just this crappy computer in a crappy campus computer lab, we would be in business.

Sleepless in Roann

I think sleep has gone out of style.

At least, amoung Manchester College professors it has. I belive quite firmly that they all meet in the Winger Conference room at the start of each semester in order to give me as many oral progects as possible, all scheduled within the same week. Tuesday I taught two classes, Thursday I taught one, and Monday I will teach another. All this ought to be accomplished simultaneously with a massive feature article covering the retirement of an English professor, an independent film script I must draft, and the fact that National Novel Writing Month has arrived.

I must pen a 10,000 word novel in the short span of this month alone.

At least I have a plan for the book. The rest of those projects are being thrown together with a manic flair I only achieve when I am moments from having a panic attack. And this week, I have had several. Nothing seems to be moving as smoothly as I like it to. This leads to the traditional problem I am plagued with: perfection.

Who told me I needed to be perfect? I wish I could find out so that I could make them pay. Only at the height of stress do I feel the need hovering at the edge of consciousness. Usually, the feeling is more subtle. An extra five minutes before the mirror, an hour more of research, a chance to clean the kitchen, the living room, to wash the car, to do laundry, anything to make life easier for those around me at the expense of myself. But anxiety from other activities makes this troubling. Instead of feeling remorse that I cannot be more of a help, I feel guilt at being a burden.

I grew up thinking that as a child, one is worthless. You have to earn your place in the world by working hard at everything you do and impressing people by appearing to be more mature than you are. As a result, I was more an adult at the age of ten than most of my peers are today. I prefered studying and reading to sleepovers or parties, I never went out for any reason unless my parents escorted me. This trend continued until the age of eighteen, when I started going places out of the need to make my mother feel as if I was normal, though I feel quite strongly I am not.

I have never met an agorophobic, but I identify with them. I feel myself to be a functional agorophobic, horrified to leave my home and family but forcing myself to comply with societal constraints that depress and aggravate me. Then I feel guilty for not feeling desire to go out. Medicine made me want activity, but the attempt I made to live without the medicine has placed me in the same category as previously. I never want to be exposed. I don't feel safe. I shut myself in empty rooms on campus and focus on silence. I feel utterly apart from the boistrous classmates surrounding me. In times like these, I feel that I am a wonderful student who is also a below-average human being.

Eight cats, a flattened fox, and the back half of a snake

I think that just about sums up the last week.

Nothing just happens at my house. If there is an occurance of some kind, it is nearly always followed by multiple other calamities of varied size and shape.

I suppose in order to explain all of this, I must first relate the fact that my family has a new puppy. She is a Shetland Sheepdog, lovely, and a darling little baby of a pup. She was added to our menagerie, which up to now only included an incredibly spoiled cat, Myst. Myst believes that Darcy, our puppy, is a retarded kitten with bad personal hygeine and no sense of personal space. Often Myst will smack Darcy with her paws, hissing. Unfortunately, this has only taught Darcy to walk up to Myst, stand up on three legs, and bat at her kitty friend, since Myst never uses her claws and Darcy has come to believe the situation to be a giant game.

The two generally get along, despite the fact that there is some concern over whose food is better, resulting in the two eating each other's food, sometimes waiting in line for the other to finish before setting in on the more favorable of the two dishes.

I had just finished the daily session of teaching dear little Darcy to have an "indoor" bark (or sneeze bark, as I call it), when she began to demonstrate her newfound skill, pacing worriedly about the door to the garage. This continued for some time, until Dad ventured outdoors to find out what the problem was.

Deep in the dark space under his car, two little eyes stared back at him. And then there was a meow.

We had a little kitten visitor.

There was adoration from my family, we love animals. But when we all came out to see the sweet little baby, there were three kittens instead of one.

"Oh, no!" Mom cried. "What if they've been dumped?" her eyes filled with tears.

"No!" I interjected. "I'm sure I saw the mother. Yep, there she is! She's teaching her babies to hunt!" because of course our garage would be the best place to do so, seeing how it is currently home to several mice and a particuarly angry chipmunk, all the while acting as a weekend getaway for some kind of finch. In addition, the garage is the store-all for the garbage on its way to the curb, meaning that dozens of half-eaten meals make their way daily into the Mecca for wild things, our garage.

But I was wrong.

The "Momma Cat" I saw was just another kitten.

Now our count is up to four.

The next day, I thought the kittens had gone. I walked into the garage, looked around, and noticed some kittens asleep on a carpet remnant. Three were there. The fourth was atop a box.

Then I saw number five, hiding in the woodpile. Number six was under my car.

And they all looked so tiny, so lonely. There was only one thing I could do.

I fed them. One, Two, Three, Four, and Five scurried out of their hiding places to munch on kibble. Soon joined by Six, Seven, and Eight.

Eight kittens were living in my garage.

And they didn't want to go anywhere.

We gave them a trip to the humane society the next business day, meaning we had eight kittens for a whole weekend.

I may have said goodbye, but one thing is certain. The memory of those little babies, so cruelly abandoned by the world, remains in the cardboard boxes we store in the garage. We can all walk into the family catch-all, take a deep breath, and realize that our urine-soaked posessions will always remind us.

At least until Dad forks over the money for the garbage guy to come pick them all up.

Alas, poor Laura II

I never stop complaining, don't think I haven't noticed. And what better outlet for my various whines and moans is there than a blog? But here is a complaint to which few others can relate, here is a circumstance without precedent in my short life, a moment in time at which all joy has been sucked out, replaced by the wheezing of a soul stripped of all purpose.

Dad has gone back to college.

And he chose MY college.

This is, although akward, really neat. Dad knows that his old man brain is withering, atrophing, wasting away, draining down and out the ear canal in a form of thick yellow wax which obstructs hearing and, regretably, intelligence.

So he's taking Spanish, tired of hearing my last-minute crash course in the language before he hops a plane to Guatemala, moderately equipped to request a bathroom, food, and a tourniquet for seeping wounds which he could obtain in a kidnapping ordeal. He knows I don't have the spare cash for a ransom.

Dad came up to me on campus, seeking, or so I thought, to say hello. Little did I know that I now have a new job. I am my dad's guidence counselor, helping him to decide what class would suit him; his advisor, helping him pick the right time and the right place, signing him up for the class, walking him to the class; campus store worker, finding him the books he needed and the "neck-thing" he wanted to put his keys on; business office helper, since he needed an ID and to look good in his picture with the right lift to his hair, sitting up straight, and all that jazz; and technical support since he can't work a computer which is less than five years old. In one hour period I escorted him in a quest to get an ID, burned him a CD of Spanish excersizes, taught him to use SpartanPrint, introduced him to the librarians, showed him how to use Word, and witnessed a moment of senior inspired forgetfullness.

You see, Dad had gone up to a fellow student's dorm room. They had there attempted to burn CDs, and had become frustrated. Dad had led her to the library for help, leaving his book in her dorm.

"Laura," he told me. "Can you believe this? I bet they're all gone! I need to do my Spanish homework!"

There is nothing like mothering your own father, especially when you aren't equipped with mothering capabilities.

'So just go!" I told him. "It won't hurt you! She's probably waiting right there with your text to give it to you. She probably thought you were coming right back!"

The furrow appeared."Oh," he said.

The down side to having your Dad think you are his caretaker as well as his daughter is that you can't say any of the mean things you think of, like "Suck it up--get your book!" or "I don't care if you have to walk back to Oakwood--I'm still too lazy to go with you!" That would be hurtfull. So instead I have to spend the rest of the semester trying to walk the fine line in between kicking him in the shin and telling him to sink or swim and coddleing him.

My poor dad is about to witness the decay and dessication of what little patience I had at the beginning of the year. It's gone. Oops. Too bad.

Daddy, it isn't your fault! Every old man reaches the point when his daughter has to take care of him. It just means we're a step closer to that nursing home we saw on 60 Minutes. You remember which one...

The Second City

I told all my friends, my family, everyone that when I go to Chicago something insane always happens.

One year I was interviewed by a Chicago television station. They asked me where I would go to get away from the 100 degree tempertures. I answered Cairo. The reporter stared at me and asked, "Hey, isn't that hotter than here?"

"Dry heat," I replied. "Also, I was a July baby, I'm used to hot. I'd rather just enjoy myself seeing King Tut at the museum."

I got a blank stare. I turned with my cousin Krissy to go, Paul trailing behind us as he drew ever closer to heatstroke. Then on the way home, the Southshore train line broke down due to a power failure. We only just made it home before the horror struck all the poor commuters. Then we went back to Grandma's house.

Another year, I went home just as a massive blackout rolled across the east cost, causing all the poor commuters much trial. Gran called us on the cell phone, saying ominously, "The lights have gone out and the people are walking." It took us ages to find out what she meant, when we got back to her house with White Castle hamburgers. We also found out that if we had taken the next train, it would have died when the power went out and the horror struck all the poor commuters.

The next year, we went again, I was caught in a revolving door, and Paul wasyelled at by a security guard for touching a piece of artwork, and he said, "Come on, it's a piece of freakin' string!" the minute we walked around the corner.

But this trip...

Nothing happened.

I waited.

And waited.

And overanalyzed.

But NOTHING.

I mean, sure, that sniper and that copycat sniper has been following me around the state and shooting random people who were in the same place at almost the same time as me more times than I care to talk about. But nothing happened IN Chicago. And what's up with that? I mean, every time I've been something freaky has happened, I mean, my friend got mugged! But this time?

Okay, well, turns out it didn't happen to ME but it happened to someone.

I am going to be a pseudo-aunt. My cousin is having a baby (which makes me a second cousin but darned if I am giving up on an opportunity to be called an aunt).

I met up with her and all the rest of the family at Olive Garden, and Mom said: "Hey Krissy, you should have the baby while were up here so we can come and see the two of you!"

The next morning, we got a phone call.

"Auntie Julie jinxed me!" Krissy wailed. "I'm induced!"

Krissy, a diabetic, had hit the time at which she could have the baby and the doctor wanted her to go ahead and do it. Oops.

But then they did the ultrasound again and they found out that the level of amniotic fluid was actually okay and NOT to low, so they sent her home. After being admitted to the hospital, having a massive amount of tests, and being IV-ed. Which, according to Krissy, was superbly painful. And on the way to and fro, she and her immediate family passed where the sniper or sniper copycat was lurking and shooting at people.

So there we go.

So...

I'm writing this blog with a dead flower on my desk. I think that bodes ill...

Plus I just found a dead fly underneath my keyboard.

Maybe this means doom.