it's good to be back home.

Thank you, Kendra, for checking my blog 73 times in the past month and a half and making me realize how much I miss blogging. (And thanks to everyone who left me wonderful comments about coming back... and to Phil who was a total jerk about it every day.) I let this page take a backseat to the new things in my life, and for a while, it somehow felt less important now that I'm no longer living alone and starving for human interaction. But since I've been away, I have a bunch of things to write about... so maybe a break was good. Absence makes the heart grow fonder.

Previously, on Becky's Blog: You may remember that I recently quit my job at my alma mater located in the middle of a cornfield town in north-central Indiana and upgraded to a fancier position at Big Time University in Chicago. Recall also that I moved out of my lovely one-bedroom apartment in said sleepy cornfield town and opted to stay with my parents for an undisclosed period of time. All my beautiful things were put into storage, and I crammed myself back into the room I grew up in, a bigger bed, nicer wardrobe, and more tangible dreams keeping me company this time.

Now I wear sneakers to work and slip them off under my desk. I bring a lunch filled with healthy and fulfilling foods. And although I've traded in my semi-private office for a very-public cubicle, having my work (not to mention browser windows) on display to the entire office has helped keep me on track and accomplish more throughout the day. Thanks to books-on-tape(CD), I look forward to my two-hour commute. With the exception of yesterday, I haven't eaten fast food in almost a month. And even though I broke my ban on the stuff, I did so with a turkey sandwich on wheat from Jimmy Johns.

Five Good Things About My New Life

• Actually enjoying getting up at 5 a.m. (sometimes 5:30 if I hit snooze overload) and getting things accomplished in the morning
  
• Being in a more professional work environment (although I sure do miss wearing flip-flops to work!)
  
• Having "roommates" again
  
• No longer having to bring work home with me (neither physically nor mentally)
  
• Having my weekends completely footloose and fancy-free
  

Five Things I Miss About My Old Life

• Not having to put seventy miles on my poor car every day, five days a week
  
• Having people around whom I consider friends rather than simply coworkers (with the exception of Steve, of course... but I only very loosely consider him a friend.)
  
• The summer smell of the popcorn factory when the breeze hits just right in Rensselaer
  
• Having friendships and personal connections to alumni
  
• Busy Bee Ice Cream being right across the street (although that could arguably fit on the other list, as well).
  

Here are some other things you might like to know.

I work on the 17^th floor of an awesome building with a beautiful view of the skyline and the sun rising on the lake. Of course, this puts me right in the heart of White Sox country, but I represent my team every chance I get. I’m proud to be one of four Cubs fans in an office of fifty employees.

I’m almost slightly worried about just how much I’m enjoying living with my parents. My mom and dad are probably the best around – they’re funny, laid back, and just downright cool – so I wasn’t expecting much of an issue there… but I’m surprised at how little we’ve gotten on each other’s nerves so far. (And I’m probably jinxing it just by mentioning the fact.) I moved in on May 12, and in that time, I can count on one hand – with a few fingers to spare – how many spats we’ve had, and even then, it’s always been over something tiny. My brother is home from school for the summer, and having the four of us back in the house is like old times. Better than old times because now we can all legally drink beer.

I’ve decided to allow myself to go out with Young Gun should the opportunity arise. (Thanks to Brandy, my colloquial nickname guru extraordinaire for dubbing my wee little friend.) I really appreciate everyone’s thoughtful comments, and I took them all to heart when considering this matter. And even though dating sucks even under the best circumstances – with someone your own age, comparable height, similar viewpoints, great musical tastes – the fact is, even though I’m hesitant to complicate an already painful situation… it’s summertime, and I want to have a fling, dammit! That being said, I don’t have high hopes for anything coming of all this talk, but it’s good to know that I have permission to move forward just in case.

For the first time in a long time, I’m excited about summer. I’ve done some awesome things so far (Local H concert, art and photography exhibits, Jersey Boys), and I have some even more awesome plans coming up, including visiting the most beautiful baby girl in the world (Hi, Isabelle!), an all-inclusive weekend extravaganza of fun and travel with Brandy (hereby referred to as “Becky in the John Weekend” for reasons I won’t explain except to say that it has NOTHING to do with a bathroom, get your minds out of the gutter), my first and probably only Cubs game of the season (when the team gets good, the tickets get expensive), Counting Crows/Maroon 5/Sara Bareilles concert, JIM GAFFIGAN show, and many more.

I didn’t post a single blog in the entire month of June (my bad…), but I did manage to change my masthead. The one I made for June just happened to be my favorite, and because I didn’t visit my blog at all, I never got to look at it. So I’m going to post it here again, to live on in the archives forever:


(And just because National Dairy Month is over doesn’t mean you should slack on your milk, kids. Or your cheese, for that matter.)

what is wrong with me??

Have you guys ever seen the show "Verminators" on the Discovery Channel? I came across it during a channel surfing marathon after church today. I haven't even been watching for an hour yet, and I've already thrown up in my mouth like seven times. This show gives me the creeps - it makes me feel dirty. And not the good kind of dirty that I sometimes (okay, always) feel while watching Jack Bauer save the world without the blink of an eye in "24." The anxious kind of dirty that makes you itchy and afraid to sit on any of the furniture or eat any food from the kitchen.

I'm a clean person. I get a lot of satisfaction from a clean apartment, nicely folded clothes, and a shiny kitchen. But this show is seriously creeping me out. Some of the people they show seem a lot like me: mostly normal and clean, but not obsessively so. But these people's houses managed to somehow become infested with roaches, rodents, and the horror of all horrors: bedbugs. The idea that bedbugs exist in the world makes me want to crawl in a hole and rock back and forth in the fetal position until I die. And then the rats that are evidently EVERYWHERE ACCORDING TO THIS SHOW can have a feast. On me.

(OH MY GOD THE GUY JUST PICKED UP A COCKROACH WITH HIS HAND. AND HE HELD IT. IN HIS HAND.)

I had a mouse once. It freaked me out beyond all belief and spurned a cleaning frenzy the likes of which I never knew I was capable. It took a lot of convincing and investigation (mixed with a little bit of my more country-oriented friends talking me down from the proverbial ledge) to realize that the little guy wasn't there because I was dirty - BECAUSE I'M NOT - but had in all likelihood come across my warm little abode when my next door neighbors dug up their backyard and built a huge-ass shed. They probably tilled through his home, and he had nowhere to go except under my sink.

Nonetheless. Thinking about now - two and a half years after the fact - nearly makes me suicidal all over again.

(OH MY GOD THERE ARE ROACHES IN THE BABY'S CRIB. THEY'RE ALL OVER HIS BLANKETS. AND THE GUY JUST SAID THAT ROACHES CRAWL IN PEOPLE'S EARS.)

Why not just change the channel, you ask? Well, it's sort of like a "Gaper's Delay" on the highway. Morbid curiosity, I guess. I'm disgusted, and I feel like I need to take one hundred showers... but I'm not scrambling for the remote.

In conclusion, if you are at all squeamish, you should probably not put on the Discovery Channel for the rest of the day. Between this and the Dirty Jobs marathon that's coming on next, my day (and gag reflex) is in trouble.

d-day

I have one week left at Saint Joe.

I've been holding off to tell you guys the story about my new job - mostly because I can't seem to come up with an appropriate post about it (other than that one angry one which wasn't at all appropriate). I guess I'll just jump in.

I've been actively looking for a new job since last November-ish. I was focusing on South Bend, Indiana, because I wanted to be closer to my best friend and her beautiful baby girl (more on that later), but I was having no luck. Apparently South Bend has no need for writers. So I switched to the Chicago market and instantly had a lot of success. I had a bunch of phone interviews (none of which I made it through very well, as I am a complete mess on the phone) and several in-person interviews at a lot of really cool places. Then my former coworker, officemate extrodinaire, and friend Steve mentioned an opening at his current employer - Big Time University - and the rest is history.

On May 13, I'll be the new Project Manager of Development and Alumni Communications. Fancy, huh? It's similar to the work that I'm doing for Saint Joe, but the differences are in all the right places. I'm really excited to begin working for a new institution, and, although I'm really scared to leave my comfort zone, I really think the change will do me a lot of good. (I'm now maxed out on my daily quota for the use of the word "really.")

Almost more so than starting a new job in a new place with new people, I'm so excited about the biggest perk of all: Big Time University is paying for me to go to graduate school for free. Free! Ever since leaving DePaul a few years ago (I was going to link to the post about leaving, but I discovered I never wrote one...), I've been really anxious to get back into a program I actually liked - one that would be beneficial for what I wanted to do with the rest of my life. I made the mistake of enrolling in a program that felt safe to me: I had already earned one writing degree, why not get another? This time, I'm going to be taking classes that challenge me and expose me to new ideas and concepts - not classes that comfort me and pat me on the back for doing something well that I already knew I did well. Come August, I'll be enrolled in my first class toward my Master of Science in Technical Communication and Information Design at Illinois Institute of Technology. I'm already starting to have dreams about buying books, new folders, and fancy pens. (Nerd alert! Nerd alert!)

There's just one thing. It's the part I mentioned not having my rap down for: living quarters. I'm just going to come out and say it. I'll be moving back in with my parents in the Region (northwest Indiana). I'm hoping it won't be that bad: they're only about 40 minutes from Big Time University, I'll save a bunch of money, and - truth be told - my parents are awesome. Honestly, I'm actually looking forward to the company and seeing my mom and dad more often.

The thing I'm worried about is the judgment I'm sure to receive from others. You know who I mean - the person (usually someone from high school who you didn't actually like but now feel compelled to make small talk with when you bump into her in Walgreens) whose eyes cloud over and mouth longs to shout "LOSER!!!" when you mention where you're living these days. I know, I know - it doesn't matter what they say as long as I'm happy with my choice - you don't have to tell me that. I know that. But still... I'd be lying if I said the thought wasn't weighing heavily on my mind. I guess a part of me feels a little bit like that LOSER I know they're going to brand me as - like even the fact that I love and respect my parents enough to want to move back home is enough to make me a freak.

But in every aspect, the positive is definitely winning. It's a wonderful feeling to have something new and exciting to look forward to... especially since I sort of feel like I haven't done anything new for seven years since I came to Saint Joe as a freshman.

It's been killing me all these months not to blog about it, but as I mentioned, I wasn't planning on telling my boss. I figured putting the information on my little Web site (which some of my coworkers currently read) was not the best possible way to keep a secret. I wrote a thousand posts in my head, though, about my discouragement, my doubt, and, finally, my elation, and I imagined sharing the news with the few very good friends I've made through the blogosphere. So I was definitely thinking of you guys.

Thanks for all the well wishes in my previous post!

there's more than corn in indiana - edited to include EARTHQUAKES

I've decided to break my intended temporary hiatus because holy smokes, there was an earthquake here last night. I grew up with an incessant fear of tornadoes, hail the size of softballs, and tempermental river banks, but never once in my entire 25 years of life have I ever thought I'd experience an earthquake in the mostly-quiet midwest region of Indiana.

I believe it's a direct correlation to Johnny Depp's recent visit - first come the stars from the west, then come the weather phenomenon from the west. Next we'll have a mudslide off the one hill in the entire city.

I have a weird internal clock or brain misfunction that wakes me up at 3:30 every morning - even if I'm passed out cold. Every morning I wake up, roll over, and look at the alarm clock. When I see a time in the hour of 3 a.m., I instantly think of the part in "The Exorcism of Emily Rose" when they're talking about 3 a.m. being "the witching hour" or whatever. Scares the hell out of me even just thinking about it now.

Anyway, I woke up last night at 3:30 on the dot, as usual, went back to sleep, and woke up again at 4:30 when my bedroom windows were rattling so hard I thought they would shatter. I groggily thought, "Man, it must really be storming out there!" Then I closed my eyes, intending to go back to sleep, when I realized my bed was shaking back and forth, almost like someone was sitting on it and bouncing up and down. I shot up in bed, saw nothing, and assumed it was a ghost. I fell back asleep a minute later, apparently not too concerned with the ghost in my room.
I woke up for work two hours later, took a shower, turned on the news, and heard the reports of people saying their beds were shaking and I thought "HEY THAT HAPPENED TO ME!" and then I realized I wasn't crazy.

But what *is* crazy is that while typing this post, at exactly 10:16, we felt an aftershock. My officemate and I had been joking about it all morning, and then our desks were moving and our lights were swaying. We have a rock quarry about a mile away, and they blast once a week or so - the dynamite is loud and the tremors shake our buildings. We're used to that. This wasn't anything like that. This aftershock - I think that's what it was, anyway - lasted maybe 7 or 8 seconds and literally rocked us. It didn't just shake like the blasting at the quarry, it actually rocked us back and forth. It was a very strange feeling... actually pretty creepy when you think about it.

At least it's fun to have an interesting story to tell that doesn't involve corn. That's rare when you're living in the boondocks.

my tryst with mr. stench

I know I've been completely slacking on my blog for the last few weeks, but I have a bunch of posts in my head, just waiting to be typed. But first I need to get this one teeny little thing out into the blogosphere:

I SAW JOHNNY DEPP LAST NIGHT.

Yes, that's right my friends. And furthermore?

I TOUCHED JOHNNY DEPP'S JACKET LAST NIGHT.

They're filming scenes from his new movie Public Enemies at my old stomping ground, Crown Point, Indiana. The movie is about the FBI and John Dillinger, who - in case you were born under a rock or don't share my macabre affinity for mob history - killed a police officer in a bank robbery and escaped from the "escape-proof" Lake County Jail supposedly by using a carved wooden or soap gun. He hopped in the sheriff's brand new car and drove away, causing J. Edgar Hoover to proclaim him Public Enemy #1.

Anyway, I've been up there every night since Saturday, and my dedication finally paid off last night when I got close enough to take some pictures and almost shake his hand. He turned at the last minute, which resulted in me just touching his coat. In my five hours standing at the crowd barriers on the set, I had become friends with the girl next to me, and when she saw I had just missed shaking his hand, she let me touch hers after she was done shaking his. Thanks, Amanda, where ever you are - you're probably going to heaven for that.

The set is so cool. Well, I've only seen the outdoor set, but it's still cool! They laid fake cobblestone, and there were some old-timey cars lining the streets. It was cool to see all the actors in their period costumes, too. This afternoon, they sprayed everything down with fake snow to film the outdoor stuff - but my stupid job got in the way of seeing that. It's just so incredible to see the way that stretch of town has been transformed. Even standing in the middle of a throng of screaming teenagers, it was still so easy to imagine I was in the 1930s.

I can't decide if I should go back tonight or not. It's gotten progressively more crowded every night, and since I already got my pictures and copped a feel, I don't see much sense in standing outside in the cold again. Although, it's 50 degrees outside right now, when I was wearing two shirts, a winter coat, and two pairs of gloves last night. Bitchin', Mother Nature.

I really can't wait for this movie to come out. I've always had a strange fascination with all things gangster/mob/mafia related, and growing up so close to Chicago, there was always some cool artifact or historical building to visit on the weekends. I spent a lot of time at the old Lake County Jail, actually, poking around things, dreaming about John Dillinger and desperately searching for some evidence of his existence in my small town. Eventually, I grew out of it, also known as When Becky Finally Made Some Friends And Stopped Being a Freak.

If I had the chance of running into Johnny Depp back then, I think I would have been much more reluctant to trade a hobby for a social life, though.

And, sidenote/rant: Roughly 90% of the crowd at the set on any given day is approximately 16 years old or younger, coming out for the chance to get a good look at Captain Jack Sparrow, Sweeney Todd, Willy Wonka, or Edward Scissorhands. I couldn't help but wonder if the titles Blow, Sleepy Hollow, or The Ninth Gate meant anything to them. Had they ever even heard of Fear and Loathing or Gilbert Grape? Benny & Joon? Platoon? Even the first Nightmare on Elm Street?!

More importantly, do the words "twenty-one jump street" mean absolutely nothing to today's youth?! Am I wrong to still consider 21 Jump Street one of the best police crime dramas ever created? Does it mean I'm old that when I hear people say "too cool for school" I automatically think of that show? Please tell me I wasn't the only girl who considered getting involved in something bad in school so that the dreamy Officer Hanson would come frisk me.

we're not gonna take it - no! we ain't gonna take it.

Two interesting things happened to me yesterday.

Interesting thing #1

Setting: The campus mailroom
Characters: Six female coworkers and one male coworker (who was, admitedly, rather removed from the conversation
Context: Various stylists at the handful of hair salons we have in town

I mentioned that I don't like the woman who usually cuts my hair, and I asked for suggestions. Everyone (except the one dude) piped up and each recommended a different girl. After a minute, someone said "Whatever you do, just don't go to Karen," and the rest of the girls agreed and shared horror stories. After describing her borderline-mullet haircut and six-inch dagger fingernails, one girl said, "She looks just like that one guy... the lead singer of Twisted Sister - remember that band? Oh, what was his name........"

Without a moment's hesitation, I shouted "DEE SNYDER!!"

Perhaps I was just a wee bit enthusiastic about it... but come on! How often does Twisted Sister and Dee Snyder come up in regular conversation? Someone had to establish themselves as the resident hair-band expert. And if that someone is me, then so be it.

Is it really so awful that I happened to know that bit of trivia? After my outburst, I was greeted by looks of disbelief from my coworkers - even the one male present looked up from his computer screen with a puzzled look on his face. After about thirty seconds of nothing but crickets chirpping and my face and ears catching fire from embarrassment, the conversation moved on while I quietly died in the corner.

Interesting thing #2

Setting: A sports bar in town
Characters: Myself and three male friends sitting at the bar, a large and very loud table of men directly behind us, and one smaller table of men towards the back
Context: The local barbershop choir that was singing in the restaurant side of the establishment

We were watching the group of six men warm up through the window partition that divided the smoking bar and the non-smoking restaurant, pondering why they chose this place of all places in town to sing at on a Wednesday evening. J joked, "I bet if I tell them it's Becky's birthday, they'll come sing to her." I excitedly said, "Yes!! If they'll come over and sing to me, it can be my birthday."

J: "Really?"
Me: "Yes!!"....... "No. Not really. That would be too embarrassing."

I should have known not to use the word "embarrassing" - J lives to discover new and creative ways to embarrass me. He's his happiest when he's making me miserable. A minute later, he got up to use the bathroom... which I would have seen for the awful lie it was had I not already been engrossed in a conversation with one of the other guys. A few minutes later, the waitress said J was coming back with the singers, and it was too late for me to do anything about it.

They crowded into the bar, pitch pipe in hand, and I told the one who appeared to be the leader that it wasn't my birthday. "Oh, that's okay, honey - you're a beautiful girl. We'd love to sing to you." It's always nice when someone says you're beautiful... but the effect is lessened somehow when the someone is wearing a red and white vertical striped vest with a matching hat and bowtie.

They tuned up and jumped right into a rousing rendition of "Sweet Adalaide." It was actually really beautiful, but I couldn't stop laughing the entire time, and I've never blushed so hard in my life. They stared at me through the whole thing with bleeding hearts in their eyes, and they had the attention of every person in the bar. It was more than just someone singing to me - more than just a group of someones singing to me - it was an actual serenade. All we needed was a balcony and a tragic hero, and we could have had our own little romance novel brewing.

When they finished, everyone clapped, and the lead guy kissed my hand. I punched J in the face (thought about it, anyway) and left shortly afterwards, my Guinness buzz making the whole evening a complete success.

It surprises me every time I'm struck with a thought of how much I'll miss this town someday. I'm sure things like this don't happen just anywhere.

left to wonder about the meaning of safe and sound

I discovered this saved as a draft from February 26. I don't know why I didn't publish it... but I like it, so I'm going to now.
---

For the first time in the three years I've been on my own, last night I secured the chain on my front door before I even took my coat off.

I haven't really been sleeping well since the tragedy at NIU earlier this month. Most of the rest of the country is in the same boat, I'm sure. Other school shootings haven't affected me this way, so I was surprised to find myself with heartburn and an upset stomach (my common side affects to nerves) every night since February 15. For a while, I thought it was because NIU is a lot closer to me than any of the other shootings. I've been to DeKalb many times; I've driven through campus; I've known people whose lives have been changed from the education they received there. I reasoned that I should probably expect a different personal reaction since I had personalized NIU at one time or another.

I followed the interviews on the news; I signed the condolences guest book; I watched the memorial services; I cried with the families, friends, and employees. It wasn't until the week following the shootings that I discovered what was really going on: I was afraid. I went to one of our lecture halls to take some pictures for an article I was working on, and when I got to the bottom of the steps - center stage - I realized that there's really only one way in, one way out. Three doors, situated at the very back of the room, would be my only hope if someone came in at that very moment with a gun. I had spent four years sitting in that hall, bored to tears on some days, lifted to intellectual heights unforseen on others, and now I was suddenly finding myself panicked and afraid. I ran back up those steps faster than I've ever run before in my life. I'm not comfortable being defensive... especially here, where well-being and preservation come so easily, naturally.

Sometimes I have a hard time dealing with fear - sadness, compassion, and empathy are the emotions I'm most comfortable with. When something like NIU happens, I convert every emotion to sadness. Sadness I can deal with. Compassion for the victims? Piece of cake. Empathy for those left to pick up the pieces? No problemo. But fear... fear is a little trickier. I don't know where to put it, so I often cover it up, hide it with feelings I can handle, drown it in chocolate cake or something. But now, after I've dealt with my sadness, worked through my compassion, and imagined every empathetic scenario possible, fear is the only thing that's left.

I've been debating whether or not I should blog about this. Several nights ago, a violent incident occured on the campus of the school I work at. I was working from home and received a panicked call from a colleague. All I heard was the word "guns" and my palms instantly became so sweaty that I almost dropped the phone. My stomach quickly contorted itself into one huge knot, my esophagus began burning, and my heart nearly pounded itself out of my chest. As media relations personnel, I was kept abreast of the situation, and it turned out not to be as serious as initially thought. I breathed a huge sigh of relief, then sucked it right back in. Why was I relieved? Just because it wasn't serious this time? Because it wasn't anyone I knew? Because I wasn't directly affected? Because it wasn't anything like what happened at NIU, Virginia Tech, Louisiana Tech, countless others?

I think what's really bothering me is that I've never been afraid to just be before. I've never been relaxing on the couch and suddenly gone rigid with the fear of what if someone started shooting through my windows right now? I've never gone to sleep at night with thoughts of what if someone breaks in and kills me tonight? floating through my head. I've never finished a shower in the morning and been afraid to pull the curtain back because what if someone is standing there with a gun just waiting for me to step out? Movies about haunted houses, ghosts, Ouija Boards, and exorcisms have always scared me far more than those about serial killers, murderers, rapists, and stalkers. I'm finding myself in the opposite now - tangible versus intangible - and I'm flailing. No longer can I find sanctuary in the small, safe town I live in; now instead of feeling safe and secure behind my closed-but-not-locked front door, I'm finding myself pricing deadbolts and buying baseball bats. Because what if?

Call it an existential crisis, call it growing up - call it whatever you want. I'm not okay with being scared to just live my life, mediocre as it may be. For the first time ever, I'm finding myself wishing for fears of monsters under the bed, ghosts in the corner, and skeletons in the closet.

fridge friday: 2.22

I'm going to hop on board the Fridge Friday train. I feel like I need to give a disclaimer about the awkwardness of my refrigerator and kitchen as a whole... but I'm going to save that for another Friday. Instead, here's a picture of the top shelf in my fridge:

Aside from those bread products below (a loaf of bread, tortillas, four hamburger buns - all of which are probably expired by now), that's just about all that's in my fridge at this moment. We've had our annual "Phonathon" at work - a month straight of calling people and begging for cash so we can keep our doors open - and I've worked pretty much every day/night since the beginning of the month. Not a lot of time for filling the fridge.

This year for Lent, I gave up Ranch dressing and diet root beer - two of my most favorite things in the entire world - and I left them sitting on the shelf to remind me that Lent sucks. For the last two-and-a-half-weeks, my life has been Aspartame- and Hidden Valley- free. Everytime I open the fridge, I'm confronted with two of my vices (both probably spoiled by now since they've been there since the beginning of the season, but they're staying right there till the end of it), and it's been a great practice in self control. Also a great practice in how to make Becky very grumpy.

ice mushrooms

(click for larger view)

my world is a flood.

...was a flood.

Last week, I took some pictures of the incredible flooding around here, but I had trouble getting them off my camera. When it finally worked, only about half of my photos transferred. Of course, the half that didn't transfer was the better half - obliterated bridges, nonexistant roads, and boats floating in front yards.

Here's one of Rensselaer's main roads (of which there are only two - hah!). It was closed for almost a week due to spillage from the Iroquois River.


This yellow line is the road behind/beside my house, which leads onto the main road above. (The flooding from the above picture was on the other side of the circled house.) They closed this one down on a Tuesday night, also due to river spillage... I left town at 5:00, and when I came home at 11:30, both roads were blocked off, as well as several others I could have taken to get home. I had to pull over and think for a minute before I finally devised a way around all the closings.


This mess used to be my backyard.

Here's a little further east from my house. The yellow line waaay on the right is about where the river usually curves. The flood here stretched from the chiropractor's office next door (I was standing in his parking lot here, for anyone who's familiar with Rensselaer), through about ten yards and houses, across the main road, into three more low-ground houses on the other side of the road, and finally pooled in a nearby park.

These are the scary steps of my back "porch," which I never, ever use but braved for the sake of pictures. I really wanted to know how deep the water was, but I wasn't about to go wading through the river poo water. Luckily, one of my neighbors wasn't as concerned about E. coli nastiness as me - she let her kids splash around in it. They were playing in the circled area, and it was about waist high on the tallest kid, who looked to be about 10 or so.

While I was on the "porch," I looked around, never having seen where I live from this standpoint, and I noticed this on the roof of the bedroom in the first floor apartment:
It looks like poo, right? Is there really poo on my roof?



This is the other side of the river, while standing on the bridge. It banks where the lines are. The flood water to the left of the bank line is the same from the picture of my backyard above - further down the street.
Everything's pretty much back to normal around here - people are back in their houses and the waters have receeded for the most part. Up until a few days ago, all the low areas of town were still flooded, of course, but the subzero temperatures over the weekend fixed that. Now we have pools of ice where there used to be sidewalks and grass, and there were some kids actually ice skating in a front yard near my house. Where's the camera when you really need it!

The Great Mouse Trap, Pt. 3 - FINALLY

Everything happens for a reason. After making several attempts a month ago to finish my mouse story as promised, I realized that the third installment in no way measured up to the first two. The first two were funny and silly. I had a hard time making the third one even remotely amusing since I could sum it up in one sentence:

I caught the mouse, and I threw it out.

Lots of people brought up the story to me in person or through email, which really surprised me, because this blog of mine? I wouldn't recommend it to anyone, really. But after explaining the situation to the people kind enough to inquire, I was handed several different nuggets of advice, my favorite being:

Steve: "Just put on your blog: 'Mouse Story Part 3. I told the mouse I was going to write about him in my blog, and he eventually died of boredom waiting for me to finish, and then I threw him away. THE END.'"
---

I left off with my naive hope that the live traps would work, and I'd soon be humming "Born Free" as I released him back into the wild, and he scampered into the sunset, persumably having learned his lesson about inhabiting homes and thankful the one he did inhabit was occupied by such a kind and sympathetic animal lover. When I went home for lunch that day, the traps were closed again, the peanut butter eaten, and the mouse long gone. It took me a mere moment to drop the hippie mindset - the mouse had really pissed me off now, if for the only reason that I love peanut butter, and I had wasted four undeserving globs of it on him.

Still on my lunchbreak, I returned to the hardware store I had visited just two days before, and - of course - the same salespeople were working. They all recognized me and asked how my hunt was going... I said I was done screwing around. It was time to get serious. They laughed, and I expertly made my way to the back of the store, heading straight for the pest control aisle. This time, I didn't cringe when I saw the glue traps and the box of poison. I went straight for the spring-loaded kind, picked up two double packs, and headed for the register. The same man once again wished me "happy hunting" as I left, and I returned home to lay my traps. I parted with four more globs of peanut butter. I returned to my office to finish the last three-and-a-half hours of my Friday, fuming and praying that when I caught the sucker, it wouldn't be too disgusting.

A friend was coming to stay with me that weekend, and she was set to arrive between 4:30 and 5:00. I had called her the night before to warn her of my mouse - it was the polite thing to do, I thought. I certainly wouldn't want to arrive at a friend's house anticipating a weekend of drunken debauchery and stumble upon strategically-placed and loaded mouse traps as I walked through the door. She laughed and said she'd come anyway. I only hoped I could beat her to my place to remove the evidence I hoped I'd have before she got there.

Beat her I did, and evidence there was. The first trap I had laid - in the cabinet under the sink which houses two buckets, an extra container of dish soap, and three cans of half-empty paint - had killed the mouse. I was officially a murderer. I saw it laying dead in the trap, and I screamed, of course, then slammed the cabinet shut. The two guys who live in my building also work at Saint Joe, and I figured they'd be arriving home shortly... I could wait up to ten minutes with a dead mouse under my sink if it meant they'd have to touch it instead of me. I practiced my best pouty face and eyelash bat, certain that they wouldnt' be able to resist my charms when I begged one of them to dispose of the rotting rodent carcass. Who could?

Fifteen minutes later, neither of them had arrived home. Then there was a quick knock at the door, and Brandy came in, and for the moment I forgot about the task at hand. We chatted, got caught up, and decided what we'd have for dinner. As an afterthought, she asked me where the traps were placed so that she wouldn't run into one. That's when I remembered it. I told her I had caught the mouse, and she was excited. "Who got rid of it for you?" she asked. She laughed when I told her it was still there, and she convinced me that I didn't need a man - I could do it myself, and she'd be there for moral support.

I tenatively walked over to the sink with an inside-out garbage bag in my hand. I got down on my knees, took a deep breath and held it, and opened the cabinet. With my cat-like reflexes, I scooped the whole thing up quickly... and let out my breath with a wail. "IT'S COLD AND HARD! OH MY GOD!" I shouted loud enough that my neighbors probably heard... and that's just the sentence you want your neighbors to hear permeating your walls on a Friday afternoon after a young woman just entered your building.

I was screaming, Brady was screaming, and we were both laughing at our ultra-girlish displays of disgust and fear. Somehow through all of that, I managed to get the garbage bag tied, slipped that bag into a brown paper lunch bag, and threw the final product into another garbage bag. I screamed the entire time, and once my hands were free, I started shaking them in the air like an excited child on Christmas morning or a complete idiot freaking out in her kitchen about a dead mouse. After putting the bag outside, we both washed our hands for about ten minutes and went about the rest of our evening with pruned fingers.

Which brings me back to my opening statement: Everything happens for a reason. For my month-long blogging hiatus, I've been dying to write anything but the mouse story, but I didn't feel like I could post something different until I finished it. I reluctantly accepted the unfinished fate of my blog, and decided that I'd probably never write again. Until yesterday afternoon when I went to the doctor.

I know it doesn't seem like a trip to the doctor could have anything to do with a mouse murder almost a month and a half stale... but I promise it does. And you'll have to come back tomorrow to find out why.

(Muhahahaha!)

The Great Mouse Trap, Pt. 2

When I woke up the next morning, evidence of the previous night's hunt was everywhere: the flashlight still turned on (batteries now dead, of course) and resting on its side on the counter, the frying pan looking out of place in the bathroom where I apparently set it down and forgot to put it away, and the tea kettle with a long scratch in its cornflower blue paint. I got ready for work in record time that morning - I didn't want to be in that apartment for longer than was absolutely necessary.

I spent part of my lunch hour in the hardware store searching for mouse traps. I thought it'd be like choosing a soft drink: Pepsi or Coke. Springy-trap-with-cheese or something-else-I-hadn't-determined-yet. Little did I know that when it comes to rodent extermination, the choices are almost endless.

I walked in the store and was immediately met by two salespeople asking if I needed help. Both were men, and both had a hint of a smile on their faces to see a young woman in the store.

I've never been offended by a man's natural tendancy to automatically conclude that a woman has no idea what she's doing in a hardware store. This is mostly because I always seem to have no idea what I'm doing in a hardware store. Even if I go in with an end point in sight, like I need an extension cord... I get distracted and intimidated by the smell of the wood, the various wattage of the light bulbs in the ceiling fans, and the realization that I'm wearing pink sandals and carrying a pink Coach purse.

I decided to be strong, though - I politely refused any help and made my way towards the back of the store. I glanced down each aisle and found the pest control products relatively quickly. My eyes opened wide like a kid in a candy store... except opposite of that. All around me were boxes of poison, huge pointy stick-like things, and various other torture devices too horrifying to explain here.

I started at the opposite end where there was a familiar object: the typical spring-loaded trap. There was regular size and disgustingly-oversized-if-I-had-a-rodent-that-large-I'd-kill-myself industrial versions. I picked up a regular one and turned it over in my hands. I had a vivid picture in my mind of my home becoming quite like a cartoon for the duration of the trap usage. I pictured myself forgetting the traps were on the floor, snapping my big toe in one, and having those red lightning bolts of pain shoot out from my foot. After that, there'd be a full brass section or maybe just one lonely trombone playing an anticipated "wah, wah, wahhhhhh." I put it back on the shelf and moved down the aisle.

Next were boxes of poison. They were green and yellow and had pictures of cockroaches, silverfish, ants, spiders, mice, and birds all in black silhouettes with a yellow circle around their forms. There was a harsh red line drawn through each circle. I decided then that I didn't want to kill my mouse. He was just looking for warmth and shelter, and, contrary to popular opinion, I'm not a coldhearted monster. I've just recently discovered my inner bitch; I have yet to completely unleash her. Further down the aisle I went.

Next were the glue traps. I've always had horrible feelings about glue traps. When I worked at the hospital, we used to lay glue traps around the perimeter and near the ovens. Whoever got there first in the morning was always charged with the wonderful task of checking the traps. That person was usually me, being the breakfast cook and all. In the winter, not a morning went by that I wasn't greeted by a poor little ball of fluff struggling to free its leg from the sticky mess. I used to sweep all the traps to the area of the room away from the appliances and food; the next person to come in was Ray, a big, angry guy who did our ordering and stocking. He used to throw the traps into the trash compacter one by one.

I shook the uncomfortable memory off and moved down a little more... I couldn't help but wonder where the cardboard-box-propped-up-on-a-stick-tied-with-a-string-that-you-pull-when-the-mouse-went-under-for-the-food traps were located. Then I saw the modern-day, non-cartoon version of such a product: the live trap. I picked two up, paid for my purchases, obliged laughter when the salesman wished me happy hunting, and went straight home to set them. There was no doubt in my mind that one of them would be successful, and my visitor would be safely trapped by the time my workday ended.

I spread peanut butter on the very back wall of the trap and placed one behind the microwave (where I had seen it the night before) and the empty cabinet under the sink (where I had found some "evidence" during my hunt). I returned to work confident that I'd come home that evening to a mouse-free home. I hadn't yet decided how I would get rid of the mouse once it was in the trap... I didn't want to let it go in the yard just so it could find its way in again, but I didn't want to get in my car and drive to the park with a mouse in a box on the seat next to me.

The doors to both traps were shut tightly when I got home. I decided there must have been two mice, and I'd caught them both in the span of a few hours. I set the traps together in the empty sink (I have no idea why) and wondered at their weight: they seemed to weigh just as much as they did when I bought them. I needed to open them up to see if the mice were actually in there. I put both the traps in a brown paper bag and walked them outside to the parkway in front of my house. I stood on the steps of the General Milroy statue that greets the southbound traffic of highway 231 and held one trap out as far as I could, stretching my arm until it hurt. I opened it, turned it upside down, and braced myself for what would surely result in the mouse falling out, biting me, and giving me the plague or some other disease carried by rodents.

Nothing. Nada. In either trap. I walked back home cursing and wondering how the damn thing managed to eat the peanut butter off both traps and still get away. I put them back confident that I'd get him this time. By the time I woke up the next morning, I knew I'd have my mouse. I decided I would have to ask one of my two neighbors or my officemate - all men - to dispose of the creature for me. It never once dawned on me that I could do it myself; call me old fashioned.

One more installment to the story - I promise! Look for the real conclusion on Friday.

The Great Mouse Trap, Pt. 1

In the grand tradition of shitty things happening on November 14, this year was no exception. Summarily, I lost my favorite ring down the sink in my bathroom at work, it still stung that The Fray had sold out Elliot Hall two days before (leaving me without tickets), and I discovered that I have a mouse cohabitating alongside me in my apartment.

Thanks a lot, Twenty-four... so far you've been a huge bitch.

It wasn't an expensive ring or anything, but I did like it a lot. And the thing is - I never even use the bathroom in my office. I check my hair sometimes in the mirror (a lot of good it does, too), but that's about it. I was eating lunch at my desk that day, and when I finished, I washed my hands. As I was drying them, my ring slipped off and fell square down the drain pipe - nothing but net. And since it's an old bathroom, the pipe runs directly straight into the floor... no curvy part to take apart and fish it out. I called the Physical Plant, and they said it was lost - to just forget about it. It really isn't a big deal, since it was inexpensive and had little sentimental value... but still. I've been wearing it for years, and my right hand feels strangely empty now.

I was reading a book on Tuesday evening trying to ignore my naked finger as I turned the pages, when I heard a strange scraping sound. I listened for a minute but quickly disregarded it - my building is very old and makes freaky, old-house noises. I heard it again a few minutes later and realized it wasn't a settling-house noise... it sounded like something running back and forth across a piece of tin or metal. My first thought was that it was a mouse, then I decided otherwise, reminding myself that I'm convinced every time I walk through the front door there's someone waiting in the shadows to kill me. I'm a little paranoid.

So I halfheartedly investigated... opened up some cabinets, moved some boxes around, checked the pots and pans. Nothing. I sat down at my dining room table and checked my e-mail. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the laptop cord move from the wall... I figured I bumped it with my feet. A second later, I saw something shimmying its way - head first - down the backside of my kitchen cabinets, and I realized the thing I thought was my laptop cord was the stinky tail of a nasty mouse climbing around my home. I did what all girls do when rodents are involved - I screamed a pitiful, high-pitched shriek and grabbed the largest item next to me at the moment: my GRE study guide book. In my head, I smiled at the irony... I thought of how many times I've wanted to throw that book against the wall, and how satisfying it might be to smack a mouse with it on its way. By this time it had disappeared, presumably into a crack in the wall where it convened with its tiny mouse friends and made fun of the big dumb girl who screamed like a big dumb baby.

Next, I did the only logical thing I could think to do: I retreated to my bedroom, closed the door, and sat Indian-style on the bed for 30 minutes. It was nearly midnight at this time. If I was living in a normal town, I would have immediately run out to the nearest 24-hour convenience store and picked up a few traps and maybe a man who knew how the hell to use them. But I live in Rensselaer. The entire town had been empty for about two hours; I was on my own.

Soon I realized that if I ever wanted to fall asleep that night, I was going to have to trap this thing and get it out of my home. I grabbed a flashlight and made my way to the kitchen, picking up a frying pan from the dish drainer. I opened up all the cabinets and shined the light in there, part of me hoping it would reflect off a beady, black eye, and another part of me nearly gagging with the thought of that actually happening. I went through all the cabinets that way: throw open the door, shine the light, poise the frying pan. Nothing. I stood in the center of the room, defeated, when I heard a noise by the stove. I tossed the flashlight and snatched up the tea kettle from one of the burners, and behind it was a gray mass of fur, four tiny feet, and a long, flesh-colored tail. I dropped the kettle and the mouse ran behind the microwave. The kettle fell on my foot, and I wanted to curl up right there and die... but if I did, I figured the mouse and his friends would probably feast on my decaying body - in my own home - and I couldn't have that.

I limped over to the microwave and shook it... I heard the mouse's little toes clicking across the counter, but I couldn't see it. I stepped back and scanned the area. Finally, I bent down to right the kettle. As I bent, I heard a scuffling noise and looked straight ahead... no more than two feet from my face, that creepy rodent was glaring at me, hunkering in a corner below one of the cabinets. I, of course, jumped back and screamed again, and it escaped. And I dropped the kettle on my foot again. The same foot, as my typical birthday luck would have it.

What did I think I was going to do? Somehow corner the thing and beat it mercilessly with the frying pan? I'm not a violent person... I didn't want to kill it, just wanted it not to be there any longer. And it was my favorite frying pan... no way was I going to let it touch that nasty thing.

I had to go to bed that night knowing there was a mouse - probably an army of them - making themselves comfortable in the walls of my home, perhaps scampering across my dishes and helping themselves to my food. I was certain I would wake up and one of them would be crawling across my face, getting tangled in my hair... I didn't sleep more than two hours collectively that night.

Tomorrow I'll post the conclusion... I'm getting a little jumpy all over again just remembering the little thing.

You can find parts 2 and 3 here and here, respectively.

Involved For Life... even back then.

This morning at work I had to go through some old SJC yearbooks to find a picture for a story I'm working on. I love when I have the opportunity to peruse our "back room" - it's filled with all kinds of neat memoribillia. It's so easy to imagine what Saint Joe was like during its infant years when you're standing amongst a wall full of yearbooks, student senate documents, framed photos of old presidents, and an ancient typewriter covered in yellowing plastic.

The books from 1960-1975 are my favorites. Influences of Woodstock, Vietnam, peace rallies, and JFK resonate throughout their pages in the students' attire, hairstyles, actions, club involvement, passion, and chosen quotations. Especially chosen quotations.

I came across one that made tears well up in my eyes (big surprise, huh?). It made all my work-related stress seem obsolete and gave me a chance to remember what Saint Joe was to me before it simply was my place of employment.

The majority of my vast audience (read: three people) are SJC alumni or have close enough ties to the College to be considered alumni on some level, so I thought I'd copy the quote on here for everyone to enjoy.

"Wonder if we'll be back in ten years. Maybe Saint Joe will remain untouched, only repainted with new blues and greens. Maybe we'll come back, a few of us, on different days, making each one special, even though we may be alone out in a field near Schwietermann. We know we don't have to be invited and maybe each one of us will try to find a little time, a little more time to come back... if only to revisit what we once knew to be ours."

My Triumphant Return

I really hadn't intended to take a two-week blogging hiatus. I've really been trying to make a conscious effort to blog more lately, but I just got caught up in work stuff. Forgive me!

Today is the first day of classes here at SJC, which means that students returned to campus over the weekend. Hooray. When I was a student, I used to get offended when my employee friends expressed displeasure at the idea of the students moving back in the fall... but now that I'm an employee myself, I understand. It's just a different mindset: the summertime is so quiet and calm. We can even dress down during the summer. Today marks the first day in several months that I haven't worn sandals to work.

On a happier note, I'm a Freshman Advisor this year! For my one non-SJC reader, that essentially means that I "teach" a group of twelve freshmen every week for ten weeks. I use the word "teach" loosely because there's no curriculum or books or anything like that - it's a seminar course intended to get first-year students familiar with Saint Joe, the campus, the people, and the available services.

In blogging news, while walking across campus the other day, I heard some students complaining that there's nothing to do around here, that Rensselaer is the most boring city in the world. I shook my head and chuckled as I walked past them, remembering that only a year ago, I had the same sentiment. Once I moved off campus, though, and officially became a "townie," I had to stop complaining and wallowing in the fact that Rensselaer is just a tad podunk: if I ever wanted to be happy living here, I would have to find a way to make the best of it.

And I have. I've been here a little over a year, and I've found many places that make me happy. They're simple and unobtrusive, but so am I. I guess it's just one of those times where the saying "happiness is where you find it" totally proves itself.

I thought that I might start writing a post every so often featuring one of my favorite places in town. I don't think I'll rank them, simply because I don't think I could, but I do know that one stands out above all the others, and so I'll call that one My Favorite. And I'll post about it tomorrow.

Home Alone

This is exactly what I felt like last night.

It's been so easy to busy myself in the task of moving... but at the close of the long weekend, after everything had been moved in, there was nothing else to do but sit on my brand-new, wine-colored, absolutely gorgeous couch and let it all sink in.

My very own apartment... with my very own rent, utilities, and cable bills. My favorite part of it all, you ask? The garbage disposal. Definitely. I've always thought it would be cool to have one of those. My least favorite part? Well, there are a few of those... no central air conditioning, small bathroom with no light in the shower area, no counter space, and a staircase that constantly smells like stale food. None of the negatives outweigh the positives, though... and I already love my little space.

Another plus that doesn't really have anything to do with my new home? I just figured out how to post pictures! I know, I know... I'm behind on the times... I'm just glad that I hadn't yet learned how to do it way back in May when I had the horrible Mullet haircut.

I have a lot of work to catch up on since I was "out of the office" on Thursday and Friday (I'm not even going to get into the use of the quotation marks... that's another story), but I wanted to drop a note about the new place (mostly to appease Frema, who stopped by my office for a visit this afternoon, only to find that I had forgotten about our meeting and decided to take a late lunch, instead... sorry again, Frema!).

Smell ya later!