It's a Wonderful Life

I have a little house.  It is kind of a box.  It has six rooms with a kitchen and bathroom attached.  The floor in the front rooms slants away from the floor in the back rooms.  When I sit with my back against the couch, my legs go downhill.  I think the house was once filled with water and faced with the problem of how to drain itself.  The walls are all unsure about which way they are supposed to tilt, so they do as they choose and try not to match the angle of their windows too closely.

Three girls live in this house with me.  And, together, we have undertaken to make this house a home.

I am Mary Bailey in my mind.  I can hear the deep celestial voice narrating my life, and see her athletically wallpapering as I brush paint onto my own walls.  It fits, since she is my inspiration for everything.

I think I may have reached a manic state of homemaking.  Every morning, I brief the cadets (ie, Hutton and Oatis, my roommates) on the day's activities.

"Did you see the grass outside?! The Round Up worked! Today we are planting the garden! And we need to finish painting and buy mulch and get curtain rods and light bulbs! and oh I almost forgot! the kitchen smells funny so we need candles! and can we get some furniture for the dining room because I hate it right now! and we need to do the dishes also and clean out our windows and do we have a hammer?!?"

Of course, only one or two items from the morning's list actually get accomplished by evening. But each day, a bright change is felt and seen.  My room painted.  A curtain up with twinkle lights.  The windows cleaned outside the kitchen.  Wall hangings going up.  Blankets appearing.  A piece of furniture rearranged.  Added.  Each change is a beacon raised for beauty, a buffer against chaos and dirt and darkness and, of course, ants.

As any good thing, it takes time and I want to jump ahead of myself.  But as the time slowly creeps along, the house not only transforms visibly, but begins to take on that unmistakable, though invisible, mark.  THIS IS THE WORK OF MY HANDS, it says.

This is my 320 Sycamore.

I did NOT take this picture crooked.
Yes, the door is THAT crooked.

Today I decided it would be a great day to get a tan. If I had made a For and Against list to "Getting a Tan," it would've looked like this:

Yes, these are the conditions
in which I decided to get a tan.

For:

-I am not tan.

Against:

-"Extreme Drought Conditions"

-"Heat Advisory"

-99 Degrees Fahrenheit
-Humidity: 50%

Foolishly, I did not make this list.

Instead, I made today's decision much like I make most of life's important decisions: I judged by my feelings on the matter.

I stepped outside the back door to "test the temperature." Though I admit I was at first unable to breathe, my ultimate conclusion was that it didn't feel as hot as yesterday. True: yesterday was 105 degrees. "It's cooler than 105 degrees" is like saying "She's prettier than Alice Cooper." No shit.

But I didn't think about that. I just took one look at my fading tan lines and thought how fun it would be to get some sun. I got my bathing suit, towel, and Communion with the Triune God.

(Yeah, that's right. Reading John Owen while tanning takes the edge off first-world guilt. Though at the time I just grabbed it because it's what I'm reading.)

Guys, it was so hot I legitimately thought my nail polish was melting. But I got a nice base.

In the meantime, I also discovered a new casualty to drought conditions: Playing in the hose. Like this. No more of that if you care at all about your greater farming community. This realization, punctuated by a moaning cow over the fence, marked the low moment of my day.

I eventually trooped back inside. I say "trooped" because I felt like a Calvin and Hobbes strip. You know, the one where he's complaining about being bored, so his mom sends him outside and he begins screaming about heat stroke or something. It took me about an hour to return to room temperature.

Lesson for all you kids out there: Being bored does not mean it's a good idea to ignore all parental and governmental warnings and think you can just go outside when the whole world is under a heat advisory.

I wish I were a writer.

I just discovered one of those old drafts of blog posts that, in writer's block or creative despair, are consigned by their authors to lie forever dormant and dusty in a draft folder in a private account in a gigantic impersonal blogging site. The kind of draft that gets tapped out in straggling enthusiasm only to be left with a huff of tears and a "I'll never be good at this, why do I try??!!"

This particular draft only had two words.

"Ugh, writing."

Writing is like dredging up from the closet the skeletal structure that you suspect could be all of yourself and holding it up to the light of day. It looks different every time - sometimes gruesome, sometimes almost pleasant, humanlike - but your fear each time you stare at the closet door, wondering if you should unearth the monster within, is not at all, "I wonder what it will look like? I hope it will be one of the good times!" (Of course, that's definitely a concern that might flit across the "Less Important" list in your mind. The one that's okay with fooling people.) But no. Your fear is to see again the hollow spaces between the ribs, between the chest cage and spine, inside the gaping mouth. My fear, as a wanna-be writer, pulling the writing out of myself, is that it will prove to be empty, a grinning specter, posing as a human being and only more grotesque in its likeness.

I mean, come on, I'm using skeletons as a metaphor for writing. How tepid is that? Gross, gross, gross. It's a good thing I don't take anything seriously.

"Being a writer" is such a fad.

Ugh, writing.

How to Be Good at Being Grown Up: Ep. 2

Yesterday an insurance salesman came to our house. Because I am a recent college grad and despite my vigorous attempts to insist that I understand finances, Mom said, "It would be a good idea for you to sit at the table with us and try to learn something."

(I also had to clean my bathroom.)

So, at about 2:15 exactly, in strides our insurance salesman, young, grinning -- sporting his class ring, well-coiffed, highlighted hair, and the boyish look of a high-school football champ. (He also turned out to be a jovial family guy who actually encouraged us to do what was best for us financially. A+, sir.) He dialogued comfortably with my parents, cracked jokes, apparently made lots of sense to them, and left us with generally happy feelings.

But the table-talk was an enormous personal disaster for Yours Truly.

Look. I've taken economics classes. I got A's in math. I graduated with a killer GPA and I understood Inception after only one viewing. But apart from a couple grade-school analogies that Mr. Insurance threw out for me in desperation, I understood about zero percent of what was said around that table that day. If you are a recent college grad, this may happen to you one day, too. And you, like me, will probably feel like this.

So, recent college grad, I've collected some ideas for what to do when the dreadful day of life insurance-purchasing comes. Fear not, here are eight failsafe ways of preventing yourself from looking like a complete dingo. You may learn nothing about life insurance, but you will look intelligent and that's all that matters in the real world.

1. Make cookies. This only works if you are a girl. But if you have cookies and lemonade prepared (and a pleasing presentation), most people won't notice much of anything.

2. Smile a lot with eye contact. It makes you seem charming which makes you seem engaged which makes you seem smart. This also may work better if you're a girl.

3. Nod regularly.

4. Ask lots of really generic questions that don't really apply but make you seem engaged, like, "So if I died tomorrow . . . . [significant trail off] . . . ?"

5. Write stuff down. A short year of journalism has taught me the invaluable lesson that if you have a notebook and are scribbling frantically in it, people think you know what you're doing. And they are intimidated. (Good.) Feel free to simply doodle whimsically across the page. Just guard and hide it carefully like it's your family's financial statement or something. (Do people hide those? Whatever.) Combine this with #4 for maximum effect, as follows: "Right, so could you explain the ROTH IRA one more time? I'm definitely interested in pursuing that and I want to write it down."

6. Use words like "pursuing," "researched," "funds," "analysis," "crunch," "numbers," etc.

7. Mention your accountant friends if you have any. Example: "Yesterday I was having wine with an accountant friend of mine and he said...." (At this point, you should be thinking about getting one.)

8. Above all never, never, never, never, never ever let on that you are as clueless as you are. God forbid they think they have something to teach you.

As I did NOT follow any of these tips very faithfully and as my parents RATTED ME OUT ("Oh, Hannah's going to just sit here because she wants to learn how all this works!"), I was forced to learn about life insurance. I also learned, through a deft word-picture by Mr. Life Insurance, the difference between stocks and mutual funds. A stock is like one broken pencil. Mutual funds are like one broken pencil in the middle of a bundle of unbroken pencils. Life-enriching stuff there.

Till next time.

Beauty Hurts

My twin sister got married last weekend. What was it like? I wish you could have seen her: all the curly-haired playfulness of the toddler I toppled out of wagons with; all the early morning brown-eyed wonder of the young girl I thought I could protect from all worldliness; all the full body of a woman grown beyond me in love and wisdom; all the pristine white glory of a bride in her Bridegroom's cathedral.

The glorious affair was so rich, exhausting, beautiful, shocking, altering, that I don't have many more words for it apart from hours upon hours of stories that will be slowly unwound at family get-togethers for the rest of our lives. And everything else about it is hidden in my heart because it has washed over me and surpassed me. I can't talk about how it feels to see your beloved sister walk down the aisle.

She's beautiful.

Providing Food for the Family, or How to Grill Burgers

So, since I'm a grown-up out of college now, a big part of my life is figuring out exactly how to BE a grown-up. What better way to document the learning process than blog it, right?? SO, here is the first installment of "How to Be Good at Being Grown Up." This episode of "Providing Food for the Family" involves: "How to Grill Hamburgers." Enjoy my wisdom gleaned from my first experience grilling. Your very own How-To Kit.

Step 1 – Cut up any vegetables you want on the burgers: onions, tomatoes, peppers, etc. Prepare all that extra stuff so that when the patties are done, you can eat them right off the grill. Otherwise your patties will be cold when you eat them and you'll hate yourself.

Step 2 – Empty the grill. Take the rack off and dump the old coals and ashes out. Feel free to scatter them joyously across the back of the yard and imagine volcanoes as the ash engulfs your face.

Step 3 – Fill the grill with new coals. In my case, you may discover that you don’t even have enough coals left in the bag to fill the bottom of the grill. In which case you should call your dad and ask him where the new bag of coals is. When he tells you there isn’t one, you will then proceed to collect all of the used coals that are now scattered across the back of your lawn and pile them back into the grill. This may take some time.

Step 4 - Pile coals into a mountain. Make sure there’s one layer across the whole bottom and then the rest form a pyramid. If you are a perfectionist, this may also take some time.

Step 5 – Soak the bujeezus out of the coals with lighter fluid.

Step 6 – Set them on fire. The coals will ignite quickly and you will want to make sure your face is well out of the way.

 Step 7 – While the coals are getting nicely hot and whitened on the edges, go inside to prepare the meat. Break the ground beef up in a platter and pour the marinade all over it. Work the marinade in with your hands. You want the meat to be a nice brownish color when you’re done. I use Dale’s seasoning and it’s magical, I swear. Also good and easily available: onions, garlic, salt and pepper.

(Note: If you happen to have forgotten to remove the meat from the fridge in advance of Step 1, it may be cold enough to numb your entire arm while you rub the seasoning in. In this case, my best advice is to suck it up and be the man or woman that you are. You’re grilling here, not watering daisies.)

Step 8 - Roll the meat into tennis-ball-sized balls and flatten them into patties. Layer them on a second platter.

(Note: Your mom may tell you to roll the meat into golf-ball-sized balls. What she means is tennis ball. That golf-ball-sized patty will – trust me – shrink into an oblivion of grease and ashes.)

Step 9 – Go back outside with your platter of patties. Spread the coals out with your grill tongs, flat enough to fit the rack back on top. At this point, it’s probably a good idea to scrape and brush the rack so all the nasty goop on it gets incinerated into relative sanitation. (All the goop, that is, that ISN'T on your hands and arms and possibly your face.)

Step 10 – Place patties on rack. Give them about five minutes to a side. (IE – Five minutes on one side, then flip. Five minutes on the other side, then done).

Step 11 – Serve on buns with whatever toppings you please.

Insider tips for maximum effect:

-Play “Pet Sounds” while grilling.

-If you are a girl, which I am, wear a pretty apron. It will make you feel 1950s - but not subordinated, because you’re grilling.

-If the beef cows in your backyard come up to the fence during grilling, DO NOT LOOK INTO THEIR EYES. 

Overheard in the Classroom, Episode 2

"Come on, electrons, come on!" -A reporter encourages his computer charger

"I'm teaching young character assassins." -Dr. Roy Atwood reflects on training journalists

"Oh I'm assuming I'm gonna get a very breezy draft." -Dr. Atwood announces his expectations for our first draft which is deadlining in an hour

"I mean, this is like trying to kill a mouse and taking a sledgehammer to everything!" -Dr. Atwood weighs in on the education debate

"The short version is I don't know what I want to do and the long version is that my parents have a vineyard, and I know that in ten years I will have to take care of the vineyard with my husband who will be toiling in the vineyard." -Rosella, my roommate

I am REPORTER.

I made a conglomeration of bloopers for you! (I feel like that should be followed with "Happy Birthday!")  Take it, cherish it.



(The actual finished product is here. It's not nearly as good as this one, though. I mean, OBVIOUSLY. Work of genius, this.)

My Apartment

We moved into the apartments of The King's College on Wednesday (at least I think it was Wednesday but all the days are running together into years).  Now, I know "the Wolcott Hotel" probably sounded ritzy and great and, judging from the lobby, I thought it would be, too.  And it was pretty great except that I think it was built for humans when they were the size of the Borrowers. Or Stuart Little. All I'm saying is I probably could've brushed my teeth over the sink while sitting on the toilet. Not that I would but I could, you understand.

Needless to say, spacious apartments are nice.  This is my favorite part about it, though:

My spot in the window.

My view from the window.

Making a Video

Today we're putting together the video component of our stories.  I forgot everything I knew about wide shot, mid shot, close up, pan.

WHAT AM I GONNA DO.

Overheard in the [class]room

(It's like "Overheard in the Newsroom" only it's not exactly a newsroom.)

"Does this recording sound like rain or a machine gun?"

"This dude's name is Chase Lawless."

Reporter: "Do you mind if I clip the mic to your lapel?" Source: "You can do anything to me, baby."

"I am an expert sound splicer, thank you very much."

"God is a provider of donuts!"

"Instead of getting the interview, I just spazzed out!"

Using the Subway

Yesterday I got lost in the Subway. Actually, to my credit, I didn't get lost. I just I had no idea where I was going.  However, due to my excellent direction-following skills and ability to theorize about maps without the help of one, I made it safely to my destination and back without taking one extraneous subway trip.

Now that I've gotten all my self-congratulation out of the way, let me explain the real problem: Figuring out which stop you want and where the nearest subway station is to any given point. However people do it - and I assume they do - remains a heavily veiled mystery to me. WHO KNOWS? Nobody.

I got on the A-C-E blue line and realized I had no idea which of the zillion available stops and connections would land me closest to my target: Great Jones Street.  Instead of consulting a map (because - surprise! - there ARE no maps once you cross the entrance meters and descend into the bowels of the city), I tried to remember what Manhattan had looked like on google maps when I looked it up three hours before. I remembered 4th Street and it being somewhere around Broadway Ave.  Lucky for me (/sarcasm), the stop was only called "4th Street," giving zero clues as to how far east or west from Broadway it settled.

So I got off the subway on W 4th St. and ended up having to walk ten blocks in the direction of what I thought might be my target (after pleading with an amused shop-owner, "Can you PLEASE tell me where Broadway Avenue is?").  With only the vaguest suspicion that I might be in the right neighborhood, I literally stumbled upon my destination twenty minutes later. Luck? An instance of brilliant personal resource? Obviously both.

The place is Great Jones Cafe and my story will be posted on my OTHER blog soon. It's your basic run-of-the-mill restaurant feature, but it's been really fun to shoot and the people are priceless.

I'm planning on having dinner there tonight.  Lesson taken to heart: I will plan EXACTLY how to get there BEFORE departure this time.

Second Night in Manhattan

I’m sitting on a hotel bed in the Wolcott Hotel smack in the center of midtown Manhattan.  I’m wearing leggings and a giant sweater and eating veggie chips and vanilla oreos. (I am healthy college student.) Got out of the basement classroom of the Empire State Building about fifteen minutes ago. It’s 10:10 pm.  These things all add up to only one conclusion: I just had a 14-hour day: I am exhausted.  (So exhausted, in fact, that I’m acting like a five-year-old, according to Lindsay Burkholder. But really I was just sucking orange juice off my fingers when she said that.)

Here are some things I learned today:

-Journalism requires endless energy and incredibly thick skin. But will reward you with travel perks, interesting people, fairly unremitting adventure, and only slight commitment issues. If you make it. Mantra: No guts, no glory. 

-How to do video reporting. WATCH OUT, HOLLYWOOD. (Just kidding. I’m super rubbish at it right now.)  This morning at 9:00, after an 8:30 brief, we heard from Russ Pulliam of the Indianapolis Star.  He's a big-hitter in news-writing but he also spends time teaching homeschool kids how to write.  He's one of the gentlest souls I've ever met.  Then Paul Glader, recently with the Washington Post, whizbanged through here like a bolt of unbelievably-successful-young-journalist enthusiasm and told us how to do the whole "being good at this and getting jobs" thing.  Clayton Sizemore, from CNN, spent the afternoon teaching us how to make a video story. He sent us out to the surrounding neighborhood (midtown Manhattan) to "find and shoot a story," with some guiding principles such as: wide shot, mid shot, close-up, pan. We got back at 5:30, started writing the narration, recorded the narration, and then put the whole thing together to create a video story of no more than two minutes length by 8:00. Then we watched them all until 10:00. WHEW!!

-The NY Public Library is serving ice-cream at 1:00 pm tomorrow.

-The NY Public Library is full of friendly staff.

-The NY Public Library is also full of obnoxious tourists. Of which I am one. Here’s my theory about tourism. You have to embrace the fact that you’re a tourist for the first week – take pictures, ask millions of questions, look a little lost when you meet a nice person so that they want to help you “get to know the city” – and then, after a week of this binge-touristing, see if you can’t act like a native.

Well, it's about time for me to start thinking about crashing into my puffy white bed.

The city is full of sounds.

NEW BLOG!!

That's right, I've got a new blog: Pocketbook.

I have a sneaky suspicion that I mostly made it because I burn out on old stuff and I like making new stuff that I'll be interested in as long as it's new and then burn out and make something else new to be interested in.

But it's also practical, as I explain in my inaugural post. I'm going to be learning and practicing online journalism this summer and one of the most basic aspects of such journalism is having a blog. I got a new address and site for the same reason you changed your email address from sparklyshinygirl16 to something that might not get you unconditionally jeered at till the end of time.

Check it out.