Turkey Gizzards, flies, & Spiders

Nice writing, Julie. Always a pleasure to read.
As one of the flies who dropped back into bed again today (Geez, Anona, that's a horrid metaphor for us--and so is the headless chicken, followed by the gross image of a guy wiping his nose. Excuse her "gentle optimism," Julie. She's so proudly pregnant, she doesn't realize she's pale and walking around with half her mind gone), I want to go on record as saying Sara is completely dead wrong about cooking dressing inside the turkey. Plus calling other sick people "babies" just because we'd rather not come in contact with bloody turkey gizzards and livers throughout all eternity shows her total lack of compassion and understanding of the human condition. (Sara's turned into this fun person to tease, Julie). At least Sara can get out of bed and get dressed. Whine. Whine. By the way, Sara, that post was good writing. Strong voice, so much better than the "sitting by the guy on couch" essay that I can't believe it's the same writer. I'm looking forward to your next essays.
And, Julie, I'm trying so hard to feel sad about the mess the Ed department made out Em Po's and Bryndie's academic life. And, I honestly do feel terrible for Bryndie. She really got a raw deal; it's going to be tough to get around, and I don't understand it.
However, this means we get to keep Emily for another two months, so secretly, just between you and me, I'm guiltily happy about her trouble. (Notice how Em's writing is so true to her own voice. I'd love to see her write an essay.) I just wish we could keep the rest who are leaving. . . .

Excuse me. There is a spider crawling on my couch . . . hmmmm. Couldn't find anything to kill it with except my cat's tail (who is sitting on my chest unconcerned that I can't identify this particular spider). So I smashed it (the spider--not the cat). But, since it's still wiggling, I flipped it with my finger, and now it's stuck on my painting of Indian ponies. . . . Guess what? After lying on this couch for almost a full week of nausea, and other unmentionables (I called in. Dan answered the phone. I said, "Hmmm. . . . Can I talk to a girl?" He was highly offended, but, believe me I spared him details), plus the endless weakness that makes me sweat from just looking in my closet for clothes to wear, the idea of working in my stuffy office is sounding like a vacation in the Caribbean.
Also, I owe Kaitlin a public apology for making fun of her four line poetry. It was a cynical slam against her lack of writing for the Center, though she did send me an e-mail joke, which I didn't get because she put the punch line half a mile down the letter; however, it did relate to my insomnia. Where does she get this stuff? Do you get this? What do you get when you cross an insomniac, an agnostic, and a dyslexic?
And, so, Julie, you truly thought you'd be a "lone writer"? Chan, It'll be at least a foursome.

The Lone Blogger

Since everyone is probably stressed to the max because of finals, I realize that no one will be posting until after Christmas. As such, I decided that I will be the lone poster of the blog.

Sis. Morgan, thanks for the tips on cooking the turkey. Thankfully, I didn't have to do that this year, but I thought I was going to have to. I was talking to my mom and she was explaining how to cook it and when she got to the part about the gross stuff I had to say, "Wait, wait. I have to stick my hand where to get what out of the turkey????" But I guess there's always next year.

Thanksgiving was quiet. We went over to a neighboring couple's house and had dinner. We brought pies and salads and other traditionals, attempting to make our neighbor's house fit the mold of both my family and David's family Thanksgiving.

Now it is only 16 days until we get to come home for a few weeks. 16 days. I try and remember what it felt like to first come here. When I first arrived in Hershey. It was so foreign. Now it feels like I have two different lives. One out here and one out there, and neither of them are the same or have any connection to the other.

A couple of weeks ago my brother-in-law came to visit us. (He had a business trip in New Jersey). We met him at a restaurant that was rated with 5 stars online. When we arrived and took a look at the teetering sign that said, "Louis'" and the black streaked walls, we concluded that you can't trust internet ratings. We went in the two room building and there was my brother-in-law sitting in a dark corner with a newspaper in front of him. It seemed like some surreal dream; one where you are living your life currently and you encounter someone that you haven't seen since elementary school. And at that moment you have to stop and check yourself. Which life are you living? Are you back to the one before or the one now? And shouldn't they all be the same life? Only they feel like they aren't.

I stared at my brother in-law for a good 15 minutes until I concluded for sure that, yes, he was not a dream or figment. I had to watch him eat his chicken alfredo and slurp up a noodle from his fork. I had to speak with him about his Greek and Arabic studies. I had to observe him take off his glasses and clean the smudges on his shirt before I actually believed it was him. It really was someone from a life, not from a dream. And he wasn't just from a life, he was from my life. And then I remembered, I have not always been out here and lived this way. I had another life-- a different life. Not necessarily better or worse, just different. But how to make the two connect? How to reconcile who I was and who I am with where I was and where I am--I'm not entirely sure.

I have, quite literally, been counting down the days until we go home for Christmas. A paper chain made of construction paper hangs on the door of our bedroom marking each day that passes until Christmas break. When it was first created, it was a circular chain; now it is straight. There are not enough links to make the ends meet. But now that my chain is smaller and the days are colder, I'm not sure what to do. And I feel I need to make my chain a circle again, but I'm not sure I am big enough to make the ends come together for another beginning.


Hey, Jewels Julie

What are you doing for Thanksgiving? You cooking? The first time I cooked a turkey by myself, I had to call my mother and ask if they were really serious about sticking my hand in "there" and cleaning, wiping with salt, then filling it with dressing. I was already a good cook, thought I knew everything, but Mom always cooked the turkey. I can not, nor will I ever cook my dressing in a turkey. Since then, I have many memories--good and bad--until I realized I can make them good no matter what. For instance, once I forgot to buy the turkey, so we had pizza in the middle of creamy potatoes, cranberrie sauce, etc. Once I decided on ham out of rebellion but had a zillion kids running around and forgot to take off the outer covering. (Oooo, my sister's won't let me forget that one.) Once, my first Thanksgiving with Jim, I came running down stairs (my mother's rule was turkey in oven no later than 6 AM, which by the way is not true, but she was coming to dinner, ), and Jim had already washed, salted, and STUFFED the turkey. I was aghast, walked around in confused circles, then grabbed the keys for my office, where I sat still and quiet for an hour, trying to find my misplaced identity--oh yeah oh yeah, I remember who I am, I'm fine, didn't disappear, no problem, before I drove home to dress kids and cook yams and potatoes. How many Thanksgivings have I been through? Only 60? It seems like many many more. The basic problem for me is I don't like to cook in chaos. I especially hated cooking at 5:00 everyday when everyone's hungry, ornery, and complaining. My family got used to me cooking in the middle of the night--big bowls of home-made Chile, lasagna, manicotti--then we'd eat that all week. I like quiet when I cook 'cause it should be an art form, and I want to be completely present and in the moment without worrying about who just spilled grape juice on the carpet, who swallowed pits from the olives, who's yelling from behind the locked bathroom door (I almost left him in there until company came, and why not? What could he do besides take another bath, which never hurt anyone). OK, so if you're cooking, I have to warn you about this gross sack of gross stuff in this gross place in the turkey. Some people think it'll flavor the gravy? Naw. Not worth it. Then check the stupid neck, because there's another sack of stuff in there also wrapped in paper that you don't want cooking in salt. Salted paper isn't really on a thanksgiving menu. Good luck. Keep up a running chatter. I'll be home reading books, except it's my turn to cook--actually there's no one else now. Maybe take David to a fancy restaurant. Or don't forget candles. We miss you. EmPo will answer soon. She and Bryndie just went through major trial with graduation, as in not.


Talking Cat

She's complaining to Leanna about Lance's dirty looks.

Poor Anona. I can't think of anything worse than being away from your own warm bed when you're throwing up. We'll cook you soup when you get back. Hang in there.

Leanna, I found your cat on You-Tube. You should keep better track of her. She's really wandering around. See pictures.


Oh where oh where oh where is Emily?

Emily Poteet. Where are you? Why don't you ever post? Come and say hi and tell me how your life is.



Julie, meet Andrea. Andrea meet Julie. Andrea meet Chandler. Chandler meet Andrea. Ok, never mind. I can't find a pic of Chandler. Daaaaan, where are those conference pictures? You know? The ones where you dressed up in a hippie head band and Chan won the prize? Post, please, for those who don't know Chan.

Hey Anona

Hey Anona, how did you like doing copy staff for the Scroll?

Paper Thin

Today I am making a paper Turkey. A large one with no feathers. The point being that I don't want to study the GRE, I don't want to think about my impoverished school anymore, and my home has no Thanksgiving decorations. So, I am making a turkey. "No feathers," you say, "why?" That's the fun part. We make the feathers and write what we are thankful for on them and then you put it on the turkey. Slowly, the turkey fills up into a conglomeration of the most unnatural looking feathers you've ever seen in your life.

My roommates and I have done this for the last three years. Now I'm doing it here. It brings back really odd memories. Things like an FHE brother writing that he was thankful for "The perfect outfit" and David writing that he was thankful for "His girl." My roommate, who is married and is having a baby, writing "being single." The list of random thankfulnesses go on ranging from W.B. Yeats, to camping, to snow, to the cha-cha, to a toothbrush.

It makes me miss that time for just a slice of a second as thin as the paper that the feathers are made on. Because if I think too hard, it brings back other memories that I am thankful I am no longer in. But for that slice, I reminisce. And it is good. Happy Thanksgiving.


Presentation of Chagall Flowers

These flowers are not as beautiful as the ones Emily Martin makes, but since they're from Chagall's collection, (whom I've always loved because he's just off center enough to continually surprise me), I want to present them to the Scribbler Editors--who have kept us from humiliation and ruin by cleaning up our bad writing before it hits a professor's desk--in particular EmPo, Leanna Banana, Baby Face Anona, and may their job forever rest in peace. Also, to all those who stayed many evenings to help them, to Meghan and Rhett for the work on new template ( though don't get too comfortable with it; it's still evolving.) also to Sarah for Friday morning help, to . . . well, actually I guess they go to everyone--to those who took over nine sessions in a row of almost straight Econ papers, to those who have stayed cheerful and continually step up for sessions. Notice I have not posted an employee of the month? I've never had a time before now when I had so many assistants who go above and beyond their stewardship to help the Center that I literally could not choose one or even two.

But one complaint from you that these are poor substitutes for Viking candy bars, and I'll take them back immediately. Besides who ever heard of students who would trade Chagall's flowers for a candy bar.


A day of firsts

I have a five-page essay on the history of an ingredient due soon for my baking class, so as I am doing research on the history of chocolate, I think to myself, "Hmmm, what's new on the writing center blog? I wonder if a day will come when I will ever actually post something." Well, today is the day! This truly is a day of firsts -my first ever entry on a blog, my first report on chocolate, and well, that's about it. I know this isn't much, but maybe it will become an icebreaker that leads to more posts in the future. This is only a small glimpse into why my writing process is often a very slow one. -Andrea


I'm taking a Shakespeare class from a fella named Brugger, Eng 314 from Scott Samuelson, and Eng 326 (editing) from a Vaun L. Waddell. Does anyone know anything about these teachers/classes?




I figured I'd answer Sis. Morgan's quips and questions in my own post. Is that allowed? Can I reply in anything other than a "reply"?

Tanner's phone# is (208) 351-9241, and his e-mail is etwarnick@gmail.com. That's for you to get ahold of him, Sis. Morgan, but if any gals are headed toward Mesa, he's single and handsome and writes catchy-if-sometimes-sappy love songs on his guitar (but usually only after you break up). And I don't know where Princess Melissa is, but Tanner is done pining, he's even dating. Distance and a final spat of two-timing did it, I think.

Anona, good luck on the GRE. I'm sure you'll do well. By-the-way, what are you going to grad school for?

I will be getting a job, I become listless when I don't have one. I've never worked retail, I might try that, or there's a moving company I could work for, or maybe another lousy factory job, or maybe something genuinely good will pop up. Who knows, who cares, I slept in 'til eleven today and loved it.

To celebrate both keeping my job for two months as well as quitting, I'm buying myself a nice fountain pen. Or new spark-plugs, I haven't quite decided which. Okay, fine, I'm getting the pen, but the spark-plugs were a serious consideration, and they make me sound manly and competent by indicating that I know my way around cars, which is a lie.




Sooo, guess who's taking the GRE tomorrow (Sat). Yep. Baby face A. I'm very proud of her, though because of my sleep deprived state, I spaced that I was supposed to help her study today. In fact (plug your ears, Julie), it's Friday night 10:24, and I'm still working on Scribblers. There's-got-to-be-a-better-way.
Let's all say many prayers for Anona tomorrow. It's what we would want done for us. She'll do great, but everyone can use all the help they can get. And who better to ask than her Father of all Fathers, since He's also King of the universe. Good luck, Girl. We'll be right there with you.
Speaking of tests, Chan. Your one brother? You know, the weird one who plays a guitar and has a neurosis as bad as mine about returning phone calls? rang me sometime in the middle of the night to give me an update. Uhhhhhh, yeah, sure. No update, except he got good scores on the LSAT, which he was very happy about and wanted to know if I'd write him a recommendation. I'd love to say YES, but he left no phone number, no e-mail, and didn't say when he'd call back. What a ditz. Also, I wish he'd call Rhett, who really is so happily married he makes everyone throw up, but who is stressing mightily about the LSAT, to give him some encouragement.
Chriiiiiiisss Mooooower and AAAAAfton, where are you? Geez, don't you hate fair-weather friends who just drop in once in a while and then leave for long months? When I sent Chris rights to the site on his gmail, I thought for sure we were in for some great posts. But, what do I know?

Speaking of ditzes (joke), what are you doing, Chan? Don't sit around. Really. This one thing I know: Work of any kind (except for maybe the mud-sucking job you had) is a great blessing. Get a job at Burger King or something. And I'm happy for you that you turned Black--great honor. I'm being serious. Are your sisters and brother still here in Rexburg? and dare I ask? What ever happened to Princess Melissa? (Do I sound cynical? I don't mean to. I'm not cynical. I'm overwhelmed. Ha. This morning I was eating Cheerios, Breakfast of Champions?--wow, what false advertising that is--and I fell dead asleep--woke up to find the cat eating the rest of the milk. Good thing church is only a day away.) GO GET 'UM, ANONA!