Strange Little Collecting Project

If the people who know me best described me using only ten words, “hypochondriac” would appear on most of their lists. I spend entirely too much time in (obsessive) self-reflection to deny these charges. I am unable to watch shows like House, Grey’s Anatomy, Private Practice, ER on syndication, etc because within minutes from the rolling credits, I am checking for swollen glands, signs of MRSA, going through my files to check my last tetanus booster, or Googling the symptoms of flesh eating bacteria (don’t ever click the images tab if you do this, by the way). I have come to the realization that I am, in fact, a hypochondriac. In my defense, it is not entirely my fault. In college alone I had my share of ailments. My freshmen and sophomore year I was plagued with a lingering case of mono thanks to the gross intimacy of dorm-life. Despite the blisters on the back of my throat, the 102 degree fever that I had for weeks, and an immune system that still limps a little, mono wasn’t

When I was a teenager, I remember being at a friend’s house and calling home to ask my mom if I could spend the night. When I hung up the phone, the girl I was with looked really confused. “What?” I asked her. “Wasn’t that your mom?” She pointed to the phone mounted on the kitchen wall. “Yeah, why?” “You didn’t tell her that you loved her before you hung up.” “And?” I asked, mirroring her confusion. “Aren’t you, like, supposed to do that?” For both of us, it was one of those moments that you have as a kid when you realize that other families do things differently than yours. It was like the moment that I realized that some families ate asparagus, and some families even ate asparagus without blessing it first. Some families put ice in their milk, and some parents let their kids watch Married With Children. It’s not a moment of judgment; it’s simply an epiphany that the world exists differently in other homes than it does in your own and has for many years. After this experience, I s

I used to pick up hitch hikers all the time, like once or twice a month. It was when I was about 18, 19, 20 years old and I felt like the world was a place full of good people. I wasn’t a complete idiot about it; it’s not like I was picking up men walking down the Blue Ridge Parkway dragging clunky garbage bags behind them. And I always approached it with the thought that these people were taking as much of a chance on me as I was on them. (Yes, I realize that this isn’t a logical argument in any way because I know for a fact that I am not a psychopathic killer where as I am not entirely sure about the hitch hikers). Either way, some of my most memorable social encounters have been with hitch hikers. When I was a senior in high school, I picked up a man one Sunday who was stranded in my church’s parking lot with a flat tire. He was trying to put his spare on, but his spare was flat too. I stopped to see if he needed any help and he asked me if I would mind driving him down th

Thanks to science and possibly Eve (depending on your religious affiliation and your interpretation of religious texts), for about two days a month I crave the worst foods in the world. I’m a relatively healthy eater most of the time. My diet consists of raw fruits and veggies, nuts and beans for protein, cheese and whole wheat breads and pasta, fruit juices and coffee. I typically don’t like to eat foods that my great-grandmother couldn’t have found on the planet when she was around and eating. But there is a two or three day span of time when my body starts to turn on itself and this little voice, that sounds a lot like David Sedaris, starts bossing me around. “You want a frosted blue-berry Pop Tart. You know you want that Pop Tart. And you’re not going to put it in the toaster-oven, oh no. Because then it will be all dry. Put that pop-tart in the microwave so it’s moist and then show it whose boss. Do it.” A pop-tart is one of those foods that I broke up with a few years ago. One re

So my morning was kind of like the Bermuda Triangle. Only with fire…and near decapitation. I couldn’t get out of the bed until 5:45 which is ridiculously late, and if this doesn’t seem late, than I hate you and your normal-time-starting job. I would have been able to get out of the bed except my apartment is heavy on the charm, light on the insulation. (Hardwood floors + 50 year old fiberglass insulation) X the original windows ÷ insufficient weather-stripping around the doors = 58 degrees inside my apartment with the heat turned up to 75. On a 19 degree morning, my sense of self-preservation kept me under the warmth of my three down comforters. Especially since those beautiful hardwood floors feel like the 9th circle of (Dante’s) Hell. I finally got out of the bed and went through my typical morning routine. I sprinted like Flo Jo into the kitchen, turned the oven on to 350, and opened its door so my kitchen (the coldest room in my cold apartment by far) would be warm enough to eat br

So, I’ve been doing this blog thing for about a year now, and I never really thought about why, other than the obvious reasons. I love writing, I always have, and the one thing that a writer can’t get enough of is an audience. It’s the most blatant and embarrassing form of egotism in my life and I’m a little ashamed of myself every time I post a blog, but I can’t help it. Some women are proud of their breasts and they push them out there for the world to see on a daily basis. I guess this is just my version of that. My blog is like a giant push-up bra for my thoughts. All I want is for people to look at them and maybe even react a little. I realized that my blog doesn’t have a mission statement, which is fine. Push-up bras don’t have them either. But, I kind of wanted to write one anyway. So here it goes. One of my favorite things about people is that they are storytellers. In college I took two classes about the art of storytelling, both with one of the best teachers I’ve ever met, Th

I was at a craft store the other day looking for yarn so I could get a head start on all the baby blankets I get to knit next year (yay for babies that I can play with and then hand back to mommy or daddy when they poop or pee or cry or spit up or do anything else that isn’t cute). I was at one end of an aisle of yarn and I could hear people on the other end of the aisle talking about what colors would look better together, white and mint green or white and hunter green. I noticed that the woman’s companion didn’t seem to care either way because he or she (probably a he…no offense) was not participating in the conversation at all! I finally felt so bad for this woman who was just looking for someone to share in her excitement and turmoil of buying the perfect yarn that I decided to chime in. “I would go with the mint green,” I called to her as I looked down to see what kind of a jerk this woman was dealing with. I mean, even if her friend didn't knit, they could at least preten

I’ve never been one for Black Friday shopping. A mild case of agoraphobia is just another one of my many “quirks” that make me a complete joy to be around (while having absolutely no influence on my relationship status). If I wanted to participate in Black Friday deals, I would need to first drink about 30 glasses of egg-nog chased by a vat of peach schnapps. (And even that wouldn’t be effective because then I would end up getting sentimental with my fellow shoppers which would make me feel vulnerable and therefore I would eventually become belligerent when they didn’t reciprocate or emote with me. This is almost always followed by a tearful, melodramatic, and often physical apology to my victims). So, in short, if I was to go Black Friday shopping, there is a good chance I would end up on the news or in the emergency room. If I had a bucket-list (and I don’t, yet) Black Friday Shopping wouldn’t be on it, so, I simply don’t go. But today, the Saturday after Thanksgiving, as I wa

I know it seems like half of my blog-posts come from experiences I’ve had at the coffee shop, grading papers. I think it’s because when I am at the coffee shop grading papers, all of the other things that I want to think about come into my mind and try to distract me from the fact that my students are still writing “through the author’s use of diction” or are still spelling the word doesn’t as dosen’t. Either way, I realized another level of my neurosis today. I get really frustrated with how many questions the baristas are able to ask me just so I can get a drink. When I applied for a credit card, I was asked fewer questions than when I ordered a grande iced coffee with soy milk. (And suddenly our current economic situation makes so much sense). Take today for example. After 36 hours of self-contained infirmary, I was experiencing some major cabin fever. And if I had to watch Willow on TV one more time, I was highly susceptible to offing myself in some theatrical way. Since I wasn’t d

Tonight at the coffee shop, I was digging through my purse trying to find my Burt’s Bees lip-stuff because my lips aren’t very fond of this seasonally appropriate weather. My sense of nostalgia and my love of snuggling are, but my lips, not so much. I was waiting for the sweetest and oldest lady in a fifteen mile radius to count out two dollars in what appeared to be a mixture of nickels and buttons, her cataracts apparently making them look identical. I started to get a little panicky because my Burt’s Bees was no where to be found and my lips had reached that level of chapped where they felt like they were a completely separate entity from the rest of my body. It was a do or die situation and when my hands closed around the familiar shape of my chapstick, I could feel my heart-rate decrease and my body temperature restore itself to normal. I couldn’t wait to feel the tingly relief of Burt’s Bees. It was so close, I could almost taste it… Only, the lid wouldn’t come off. When I looked

When I was a kid my mom kept this chocolate in the top cabinet above where I could reach. It was up with all the medicine so I knew I wasn’t supposed to have it, but I never understood why. My six year old mind must have decided that it was my mom’s secret stash of really good chocolate, so good that it needed its own hiding place. Just putting it on top of the refrigerator like she usually did with our Halloween candy wouldn’t cut it. Intrigued, I would climb up on a chair, stand on the counter, and then pilfer pieces of what I thought was the world’s best chocolate. I’m not sure how long this went on and I don’t even remember how I got caught, but I do remember my mom explaining to me that I couldn’t eat that chocolate because it was chocolate and medicine. I had been sucking down our family’s supply of Ex Lax Chocolate. Why on earth a company would make a chocolate product to help you poop…well that’s beside the point. I mean the problems with associating chocolate and pooping are j

Maybe this is me being too picky because as an English teacher I like my figurative language just a certain way. English teacher or not, I absolutely hate that the educational reform in our country right now is called Race to the Top. As an educator, I’m actually offended by the implications of this name. (I know it’s a huge shock to find out that I am offended by something, but bear with me). All metaphors break down eventually, but I feel like this one breaks down pretty quickly if you think about it for more than a minute or two. This makes me wonder if the powers-that-be did think about it for more than a minute or two, which makes this even more offensive to me. Race to the Top is obviously comparing public education to some type of competitive race. In all races, there are winners and there are losers. Does this mean Race to the Top is admitting that there will be losers in America’s schools? And who will these losers be? And what exactly are they losing? Any time a race is discu

Tonight I was just a little bit too fast for the doors at Harris Teeter. I confidently approached the automatic doors on my way out, self-righteously carrying my baby spinach and bananas without the environmentally-uncouth convenience of a plastic bag. I was naively expecting the doors to oh, I don’t know, DO THEIR JOB. My nose was practically touching the "Automatic Doors Keep Moving" sign(hilarious joke you tired-ass doors) before they wheezed open and my momentum almost made me fall over onto the candy machines. And this wasn’t the first time this has happened…this week. Monday night I stopped by Target to browse their pen section (I think it might be a teacher thing, but the pen aisle in any store is my happy place) and I ended up buying a fresh pack of multi-colored Precise V-7s. Everybody knows that the V-5s have simply too fine of a tip and they do not allow you to express yourself boldly enough, so it has to be the V-7s…anyway, I bought some new pens and a giant box o

I have been a member of the world’s bespectacled population for about 15 years now. I still remember when I found out I was going to need glasses. I was in the 6th grade and my teachers started to notice that I was squinting at the chalk board, so my mother took me to the eye doctor. I discovered that in addition to my other shortcomings, I also had 20/90 vision, meaning what most people could see at 90 feet, I could only see at 20 feet. Glasses would be the tragic icing on my cake of social awkwardness. Since I reached my full adult height at the age of 11, I was an abnormally tall 6th grader, but even my impressive 62 inch stature couldn’t gracefully hide the 150 pounds I was carrying around at that time. I also suffered from full blown chronic acne, and my mom had to buy me the special deodorant that probably killed at least one lab rat in its earliest form. All of this angst-inducing, character-building mess was exacerbated by my stirrup pants and puffy-paint sweatshirts. G

Earlier this week, I found myself feeling more vulnerable than I have felt in a long time. I’m reading The Awakening by Kate Chopin with my juniors right now. It’s an amazing little book about a 28 year old woman that begins to realize her place in the world and her role in society. Basically, it’s about her journey to self-awareness and just in case her audience didn’t catch that, there is this one little chapter where Chopin lays it out pretty plainly. It goes like this: “In short, Mrs. Pontellier was beginning to realize her position in the universe as a human being, and to recognize her relations as an individual to the world within and about her. This may seem like a ponderous weight of wisdom to descend upon the soul of a young woman of twenty-eight-perhaps more wisdom than the Holy Ghost is usually pleased to vouchsafe to any woman.” My students couldn’t quite figure out this section, so I started to attempt an explanation. Before I knew it, there I was, in front of 24 pairs o

Relationships between people have always been interesting to me. I think that is why I enjoy reading fiction so much because avid readers are merely people watchers. Since we are all scientifically hard-wired the same way, it seems like human relationships and behavior would be standard and predictable. But there is one ingredient of Human Interaction that Science fails to take into account. The element of passion throws a wrench in everything. I don’t necessarily mean romantic passion. I’m talking about our convictions, our beliefs, our interests. The more I think about it, the more I’ve realized that many of the significant conflicts and wars in the civilized world were created not because of our basic human needs like food and water (yes I realize there are many exceptions to this). Many conflicts have been brought about because of our passion as individuals or as groups of people. It’s our passion for certain things that draw us together or push us apart, like magnets