Hey Paolo!

(And yes, the title is a play on Paula Abdul's failarious reality show "Hey Paula!")

The first time I heard Paolo Nutini, I was driving home on a sweaty evening in the summer of 2007. When his song "Last Request" came through my speakers, I had to turn the AC up to full blast. Lost in his raspy croon, I thought to myself, "Woo-whee. Now that sounds like a NYOILF*."

*NYOILF = A ninety year-old I'd like to...friend on facebook. 
(Hi, Mom.)

Imagine my surprise when I found out the lad is only half a year older than I am.

While Paolo's faster, upbeat tunes are fun ("Pencil Full of Lead" has a Louis Prima vibe that gets me all nostalgic) I'm partial to the songs of his that heed the instructional opening lyrics that originally got me hooked on the soulful scot.

Slow Down,

Lie Down,
Remember it's just you and me

Yes, Yes, Yes, sir.

This song, "No Other Way," from his most recent album, Sunny Side Up, is a new favorite of mine. 

That young old sound just gets me swaying. 

(Some swooning might also occur.)

What I do know

This song could kill me.
But really. I figuratively die. Figuratively.

On Angela: It started out Crumby and then turned to mush

So that last post touched on some of my feeeeelings about my peers, as it’s a topic that’s been on my mind lately. I’m almost a year out of college, no longer surrounded by hundreds of people my own age. (Dad, you’re still the coolest, of course.) This shift in company makes me think about the people I miss, and then (for the sake of acting eighty) I begin to reminisce, which reminds me just why I miss them so much.

One of my little goals for this (and maybe next) month is to write about people who are close/important to me. Since I’ve already written about my dog, my sister, and my dad, it’s time for me to do a little branching out.

I’ve been thinking about my friend Angela a lot this week. I started to call her on the afternoon of my stomach-bug incident because I knew that hearing her voice while I waited at the bus-stop would give me something to laugh about as I trundled off to my first class. Unfortunately, mid-dial I saw my phone’s battery flashing a suicide warning and I had to forgo my pre-school (ha?) pick-me-up.

But in case anyone is reading this (ha? Hi, Grover) and doesn’t know Angela, I’ll try my best to describe her.

How do I go about this? I guess I’ll aim for chronologically.

Because she was a grade behind me, our friendship in high school was somewhat distanced. We were in some of the same classes and I’d hang out with her before play/track practice, but we each had our own group of friends from our respective grades.

However, one thing I’ve always been able to appreciate about Angie is her uncanny ability to escort me from crying to laughing, no matter what the situation.

When my dog died sophomore year of high school, unlike the back pats and sympathetic hugs my other friends gave me, Angela’s condolences (and I use that term loosely) took the form of disbelief:

“No it did not. You don’t even have a dog. You’re such a liar.”

…before transitioning to full-on mockery:

“Woof…Woof!” (Yes. She barked at me.)

…after which point I got in trouble for “distracting Angela during class.” (To be fair, I don’t think she believed me when we started the conversation, and it was the first time I had laughed all day.)

Although we rarely talked on the phone during high school, whenever I felt homesick or sad during my freshman year of college I found myself calling Angie.

Everything Angela sees and every person she knows becomes fifty times funnier when she tells you about it/him/her. I really don’t know how she does it, and her humor is impossible to replicate exactly. It’s not a matter of embellishment or mockery. She just has this knack of picking out random quirks that everyone half-notices and finding the words/facial expression/voice to make them all the more hilarious. It’s like she’s full of inside jokes that anyone can join in on.
(Wow. I ended that sentence with not one, but TWO prepositions. Squirm, nerds, squirm.)

But Angela, as passionate and diligent as she is funny, is yet another friend of mine headed off in the direction of medical school.Unfortunately, following her there is not an option.

If nothing else, taking Chemistry 101 my freshman year of college meant that my fingers, soiled with wiped-away tears and "stress crumbs," pounded out weekly “YOU STILL HAVE TO LOVE ME IF WHEN I FAIL” emails to my parents. So I don't think those same hands really belong in an operating room. 

I guess my plea to Angela is not “take me with you” so much as it is “don’t go.” I’m selfish. Don’t feign surprise. I’ve told my friend, the Social Hermit, countless times that I am so jealous he got to spend three of his four years at college with Angela. But I had--what, seven?--years with her before that. I’m greedy. (Again, no fake gasps are in order.)

I know if Angela were in these grad school classes with me, she’d bring out sides of my classmates I would have never known to appreciate otherwise.

“This is why it’s funny."
"This is why it’s fun."
"This is why he’s a good person.” 

She notices and enhances the positive without being cheesy or preachy. Something I feel like I’m failing to do right now.

I guess I’m just trying to “Angelyze” (oh hey, you like my new word?) Angela. With Angie there will always be more to say, in more ways than one: more humor for her to illuminate, and more things to say about her. But for now, this is the best I can do.

Angie, this is why you’re funny.
This is why I call you.
This is why you’re so adored.  

(Yes, I shamelessly photoshopped myself into this picture.)

Eggzamining: Thoughts from the Nest

(Cheesy title, I know. Please don't PUNch me.)

I recently started graduate school towards getting a degree in early childhood education. Out of all my "when I grow up" aspirations and interests, this stands out as the one with the most concrete career path (at least as far as the near-future is concerned.)

Like many other members of my age bracket, this (laughable degree of) commitment has created some inner anxiety and doubt for me.

Am I signing my life away? Sure, it's only four classes now, but that will spiral into a degree, which will spiral into a job, which could spiral into a life of wondering "what-if?"

To sum up that last sentence, I am already pessimistically viewing fortunes (that I have yet to earn) as misfortunes.

Degree, job, lifetime: One, two, three.

I'm counting (on shaking, nail-bitten fingers) three chicks that have years--some, even decades--to hatch.

Why am I worried? Well, specific to the egg-hatching-chick metaphor, it might have to do with the fact that the only experience I've had with hatching eggs is a gruesome and morbid one.

Our second grade class had an egg-shaped incubator (unlike the normal, rectangular incubators of other classrooms) and as a result, only one of our ten eggs hatched, and the winged creature that cracked its beak through the lone shell of hope emerged with its intestines on the outside of its body.

After hobbling around a sawdust-lined cardboard box for a couple of days, "Pinky" (no, we didn't really name it that -- we were too horrified/young for dark humor) died as peacefully as a chick of its circumstance could die.

But enough about chicks. Well, except for this one. (Yeah, I called myself a chick. A little confidence never hurt anyone.)

In terms of my metaphor-free fears, I guess I'm just worried that I'll settle into a less-than-perfect fit. This is the part when my mom chimes in with something like don't let the perfect be the enemy of the good (a motto that I've abused for most of my life) or you won't know until you try, or something else that I'm not wise enough to predict. And imaginary mom is right. (UPDATE: My dad felt left out of this part. So to satisfy him, I think his words of wisdom would probably be something along the lines of well, you've got to do something--and loitering on facebook doesn't count. )

I guess some of my anxiety comes from the fact that I don't know how much I have in common with my peers right now. Kids, I can totally relate to. They're messy, they've yet to understand certain social conventions, and they half-wish they could still wear diapers. Hello, peers.

However, a fair portion of future early childhood teachers, I believe, are of a gentler breed than my own. This is not an insult, just an observation. All of my of my classmates are women, about 30% of whom wear pink or matching patterns and love cats. Again, no problem with that, just pointing out some similarities and differences (female-ness and cat-personhood, respectively.) Note to cat lovers: I'm not a hater, I just wheeze a lot. (Seriously allergic.)

However, this Tuesday in the middle of my last class I -- the self-declared Toughy McTougherson of the room -- found myself doubled-over with stomach pain as I listened to my teacher talk about the importance of morning meetings. By the time she brought out the "touch and feel" box, I was in my full "bend and weep" position.

By the grace of craft projects, teacher lady announced we'd have a brief break so that she could hand out teddy bear cut-outs for us to decorate. During this time everyone at my table asked me in some way or another whether I was going to pass out. I got a lot of you look really pale and one is it a blood sugar problem?

A woman from another table actually came over to tell me that I did not look good and I should go home. I've had vaintasies of an opposite encounter involving a modeling agent, but that dream died by puberty anyway, so I wasn't discouraged and took what she gave me as enough reason to bolt. And bolt I did, my every footstep echoing "whimp, whimp, whimp" as I shuffled out of the classroom.

The stomach pains and whimpering lasted all night, although the former was more continuous than the latter. From time to time I'd stop my crying, embarrassed by the sound of my own self-pity, and imagine the multitudes of people in far worse pain than myself.

I thought about the people Hayley sees on a day-to-day basis in Malawi, and my embarrassment turned to shame. But then another wave of nausea crashed, and I justified my tears. As the undulating pain began to soften again, I went back to reminding myself of my comparatively cushy situation.

I thought of how much more painful it would be to give birth than to face my situation. My stomach bug was nothing compared to appendicitis, or dysentery, or something really awful, like living with my intestines on the outside of my body. This last thought, of course, invited back the nausea, and so I stopped guilt-tripping myself because the ride was making me woozy.

Once more I was plaguing myself with "what if?" and, yet again, it wasn't helping anyone. So I abandoned my negative thoughts and drifted off into a light sleep.

Safe and warm under my parents' roof, I dreamt of a day when I have the strength to break the eggshell above my head, count the chicks that I've made for myself, and feel genuinely proud of them, external intestines and all.