A girl I went to middle and high school with recently got married. (Don't even talk to me about how weird it is that people my age are getting married. I don't feel old enough for that to be true.) Now, a month or so post-wedding, it seems like her goal in life is to Instagram her entire married life. Normally, posts like these on Facebook would slip by me completely unnoticed. I cannot, however, willingly look past her pictures of food. On the whole, I've been impressed. The things she's been making look pretty tasty. One thing about this habit gives me pause though: every time she posts one of these pictures, she tags the photo with "#wifelife."
What does this imply? A lot of things and I don't like any of them. On the one hand, I don't think that cooking is or should be the primary factor of wifedom. I think that is a weird and lopsided requirement to put on someone in what is supposed to be a deep and loving partnership, not just a chore-sharing agreement. I don't know her husband, but I don't think he posts pictures of his desk at work tagged "#husbandlife." The ways for this kind of rigidly drawn division to cause hard feelings and disappointment are legion.
On the other hand and selfishly of concern to me is that this sort of expression contributes to the idea that cooking is an outright feminine activity, one that is somehow beneath a man to participate in. I find this completely offensive. How did we as a society decide that cooking is not a proper thing for a man to do? Traditional idioms encourage men to be "breadwinners," to "bring home the bacon," and expect men to "put food on the table." Yet making the sandwiches, cooking the bacon, or preparing the food are not approved activities for men? I just don't see the logic here. Is it because cooking is seen as a service? I'm disheartened that anyone could see serving one another as improper for a man to engage in. I would argue that such service is a human pursuit, not a masculine or feminine one, and one mandated by Christian faith on top of that.
I'm not going to argue why cooking is more masculine than it is feminine. I don't think it is either. It doesn't fit into either of those boxes. Cooking is an activity born of creativity, of passion, of self-sufficiency, and of service. To classify it as masculine or feminine misses the point. Cooking (and subsequent eating) fulfill the universal human needs of nourishment and fellowship. Thus, cooking should be a unifying activity, not a divisive one which sends women to the kitchen and men to the couch.
I love to cook. I find it fulfilling in so many ways. First of all, I love to eat. Beyond that, every time I cook, I have a chance to learn and grow, to hone a skill that I will develop for my entire life. I cook when I'm bored. I cook to relax. It is an activity that can be conducted alone but which is not itself isolating. When my work is done and I leave the kitchen behind, I can share what I've made with the people I care about. Cooking bridges my dual existence of isolation and community.
I don't feel ashamed to cook. It isn't beneath me. I'm proud of what I do and what I make. My friends seem to enjoy it too.
Sunday, January 27, 2013
Thursday, January 24, 2013
Day 11: Community and Isolation
Well, it is almost the end of my second week back at school. I'm not certain if it has gone by quickly or slowly. Individual days seem long, but overall it doesn't feel like I've been here for two weeks. My schoolwork is beginning in earnest now. Relaxed hang out time is over. It is time for the real work to begin.
On Tuesday afternoon I attended my first counseling appointment. I was nervous going in, but it honestly wasn't as bad as I had expected. I was uncomfortable, certainly, but I felt less so as the hour went on. The session was largely devoted to a general questionnaire about my life and the issues that brought me in for counseling in the first place. Most of these were boring and simplistic. However, I found that I had difficulty talking about myself, particularly in describing the way that I feel when my anxiety over schoolwork kicks in. I repeatedly felt like my explanations were under- or over-estimating the way I actually feel and didn't accurately portray my struggles. In the end, I think I expressed what I needed to in a reasonable way. Things will definitely smooth out over subsequent sessions. I did leave with homework though. In order to start reducing my anxiety, I am supposed to go on 20 minute walks twice a week and spend time relaxing with my friends at least three nights a week.
At first these goals sound simple. The first one is. The distance from my apartment to anything else on campus allows for a good bit of walking on a daily basis. The second one appears simple, but even in these few days since my appointment I am discovering how my anxiety can get in the way. Since I live so far away, I like to have all of my stuff with me so I can stay in one place for most of the evening.
For example, tonight I took my things to dinner and then spent time at the guys' apartment. I was having a good time there until I tried to start doing my work. I have a difficult time focusing and particularly writing when there is background noise, chatter, and music. I sat and completed my reading without too much trouble, but when it came time to write I was stymied. I looked from my blank Word document to the journal article I was reading to the clock on my computer and back. Suddenly, I was struck by the lateness of the hour and the condition of my assignment. The hour wasn't actually particularly late and the assignment wasn't overly long or difficult to complete, but in that moment I was aware of the amount of time I had "wasted." Had I spent the same amount of time working on the assignment elsewhere, I would have been more productive, possibly even finished. Invigorated by this realization, I returned to my work, determined to get my assignment done. I looked at the article. I looked at my Word document. I racked my brain for ideas. With the newfound stress I acquired by looking at the clock, every word, every note seemed louder, more disruptive. As soon as I drafted an idea in my head, it slipped through my fingers. It was as if all of the noise around me became radio static in the part of my brain that puts words together into sentences.
I had to leave. I didn't have any other choice. As much as I like being with my friends, I couldn't do work at their apartment. Not tonight at least. I wanted to be social. I wanted to be involved. Unfortunately, it is impolite to request complete silence when you are a guest in someone else's space. If I had stayed, I would have banged my head against my assignment for who knows how long, making mediocre progress and feeling more stressed by the moment. And this assignment isn't even due until Friday night.
When I went home, I relaxed. The quiet and solitude of my own space calmed my mind and I went back to work. Half an hour later, I was done. I found a solution, but it isn't one I like. I don't want to be alone all the time. I want to find a way to combine my work with my friendships and to do both due diligence. Maybe in time, as I work on my anxieties, I can find a more agreeable solution.
On Tuesday afternoon I attended my first counseling appointment. I was nervous going in, but it honestly wasn't as bad as I had expected. I was uncomfortable, certainly, but I felt less so as the hour went on. The session was largely devoted to a general questionnaire about my life and the issues that brought me in for counseling in the first place. Most of these were boring and simplistic. However, I found that I had difficulty talking about myself, particularly in describing the way that I feel when my anxiety over schoolwork kicks in. I repeatedly felt like my explanations were under- or over-estimating the way I actually feel and didn't accurately portray my struggles. In the end, I think I expressed what I needed to in a reasonable way. Things will definitely smooth out over subsequent sessions. I did leave with homework though. In order to start reducing my anxiety, I am supposed to go on 20 minute walks twice a week and spend time relaxing with my friends at least three nights a week.
At first these goals sound simple. The first one is. The distance from my apartment to anything else on campus allows for a good bit of walking on a daily basis. The second one appears simple, but even in these few days since my appointment I am discovering how my anxiety can get in the way. Since I live so far away, I like to have all of my stuff with me so I can stay in one place for most of the evening.
For example, tonight I took my things to dinner and then spent time at the guys' apartment. I was having a good time there until I tried to start doing my work. I have a difficult time focusing and particularly writing when there is background noise, chatter, and music. I sat and completed my reading without too much trouble, but when it came time to write I was stymied. I looked from my blank Word document to the journal article I was reading to the clock on my computer and back. Suddenly, I was struck by the lateness of the hour and the condition of my assignment. The hour wasn't actually particularly late and the assignment wasn't overly long or difficult to complete, but in that moment I was aware of the amount of time I had "wasted." Had I spent the same amount of time working on the assignment elsewhere, I would have been more productive, possibly even finished. Invigorated by this realization, I returned to my work, determined to get my assignment done. I looked at the article. I looked at my Word document. I racked my brain for ideas. With the newfound stress I acquired by looking at the clock, every word, every note seemed louder, more disruptive. As soon as I drafted an idea in my head, it slipped through my fingers. It was as if all of the noise around me became radio static in the part of my brain that puts words together into sentences.
I had to leave. I didn't have any other choice. As much as I like being with my friends, I couldn't do work at their apartment. Not tonight at least. I wanted to be social. I wanted to be involved. Unfortunately, it is impolite to request complete silence when you are a guest in someone else's space. If I had stayed, I would have banged my head against my assignment for who knows how long, making mediocre progress and feeling more stressed by the moment. And this assignment isn't even due until Friday night.
When I went home, I relaxed. The quiet and solitude of my own space calmed my mind and I went back to work. Half an hour later, I was done. I found a solution, but it isn't one I like. I don't want to be alone all the time. I want to find a way to combine my work with my friendships and to do both due diligence. Maybe in time, as I work on my anxieties, I can find a more agreeable solution.
Monday, January 21, 2013
Day 8: Church
These last few days have been a strange mixture of busy and not-busy. Few things of substance have happened, but the days have seemed full. I'm not sure if that is a good thing. My hope that this will be a lighter semester than my previous one is holding up so far. I'm enjoying my alternating schedule with no classes on Tuesday or Thursday. It gives me a nice amount of downtime during the week when I can relax, do homework, or schedule Skype calls.
Yesterday morning I went to church for the first time this semester. I was tempted to sleep in instead of going, but Megan and Devon encouraged me to accompany them. I can't remember the last time I felt totally comfortable in church. Certainly it was before I came to college. I've visited a handful of churches here in Newberg and I've yet to find one that "clicks" with me. Whenever I go to church, I feel like a trespasser. I feel as if the people there can tell that I'm a stranger and that I don't belong. This is harder for me when well-meaning churchgoers zero in on me and "welcome" me. In these situations, I don't feel welcome; I feel singled out.
I'd like to find a church to regularly attend, but I'm not sure where to turn or even what I want. I don't want a church like my family's home church. I've grown away from it and the things that it values. I don't belong to a denomination so I can't just find a church based on its label and jump in. Right now, I'm lost. Church is important to me, but I've had enough bad experiences with it that I am discouraged from searching out a new one to attend. I know it takes time to acclimate to see if a church is a good fit, but it isn't easy for me to make that investment, particularly when I feel uncomfortable. I'm not sure what I'm going to do just yet.
My first counseling appointment is set for tomorrow (1/22) at 1 PM. So far I've been succeeding at not thinking about it, but now I'm getting a little nervous. It seems silly to say that I'm nervous about going to get help, but it is true. Getting help isn't easy. Fortunately, I get to Skype with Jessie afterward. That makes me feel better.
Yesterday morning I went to church for the first time this semester. I was tempted to sleep in instead of going, but Megan and Devon encouraged me to accompany them. I can't remember the last time I felt totally comfortable in church. Certainly it was before I came to college. I've visited a handful of churches here in Newberg and I've yet to find one that "clicks" with me. Whenever I go to church, I feel like a trespasser. I feel as if the people there can tell that I'm a stranger and that I don't belong. This is harder for me when well-meaning churchgoers zero in on me and "welcome" me. In these situations, I don't feel welcome; I feel singled out.
I'd like to find a church to regularly attend, but I'm not sure where to turn or even what I want. I don't want a church like my family's home church. I've grown away from it and the things that it values. I don't belong to a denomination so I can't just find a church based on its label and jump in. Right now, I'm lost. Church is important to me, but I've had enough bad experiences with it that I am discouraged from searching out a new one to attend. I know it takes time to acclimate to see if a church is a good fit, but it isn't easy for me to make that investment, particularly when I feel uncomfortable. I'm not sure what I'm going to do just yet.
My first counseling appointment is set for tomorrow (1/22) at 1 PM. So far I've been succeeding at not thinking about it, but now I'm getting a little nervous. It seems silly to say that I'm nervous about going to get help, but it is true. Getting help isn't easy. Fortunately, I get to Skype with Jessie afterward. That makes me feel better.
Wednesday, January 16, 2013
Day 3: Getting Help
Today I attended my classes for the second time. So far they are shaping up to be pretty good. If today is any indication, they will be thoughtful and worthwhile but not a terribly lot of work. Now that I say that, however, I will prove to be horribly wrong. Oh well.
The one thing of note I did today happened out of class. Lately, I've been encouraged by Jessie and other close friends to seek some kind of help with my anxiety issues. Until I started talking to Jessie about it, I had never considered seeing a counselor or anything like that. Today though, I went to the Health and Counseling Center to make an appointment to talk to someone. I hesitated at the door to the building. I peered in the window and didn't see anyone. I considered leaving and thus avoiding the issue altogether. I wouldn't have to face my problems and I wouldn't have to talk to anyone I don't know or trust. But I thought of my friends. I trust them. I don't want them to suffer because of my fear, anger and grumpiness anymore. I went in.
I've lived with my anxiety about school work for years. I have a really distinct memory of the first time a piece of schoolwork truly upset me. It was in the fourth grade and I was working on one of the first assignments of the year, drawing a picture of something I did over the summer vacation. I knew exactly what I wanted to draw; I had a clear image in my head. That summer, my family had visited Wallowa Lake in eastern Oregon and my picture was going to be of the lake and the animals that I saw there. I sat at my desk drawing, but midway through I could tell it wasn't turning out right. The moose I was drawing just looked small, not far away. I erased part of it and started again. Still not right. I erased it again, tried again, still wasn't happy. By this point, I was upset. I could not get the picture in my head to appear on the page. I was running out of time. I couldn't turn it in the way it was. It wasn't perfect. I kept trying. My repeated attempts transformed a section of my paper into a gray blob. My picture wasn't getting better, it was getting worse. "This is impossible," I thought. "I can't do it right." I started to cry. Right in the middle of class I was crying over my picture. My teacher came over, worried that something was wrong. Something was. My picture wasn't good enough. I showed her my art. She said it was good. I showed it to her again, convinced she just didn't see what I saw. Still crying, I pointed to the portion in question. She said it looked nice. I didn't believe her. I couldn't. She said it was time to turn it in and go on to another activity. I couldn't do that either. How could I turn in what I had? It wasn't any good, I thought. I argued with her. I just needed more time. I couldn't turn it in the way it was. You need to, she said. I resisted, still unhappy. Still crying. I never got my picture to look the way I wanted it. Defeated, I had to turn it in the way it was. I was embarrassed and ashamed.
All through school your teachers tell you to always do your best work. At nine years old, I had decided my best work was perfect. It had to be. Anything else was failure. Nobody told me this; no one taught me that only perfection was acceptable. But I knew it. I knew it with the utmost certainty. Somehow, as an elementary school kid I had fashioned my cross. I've carried it ever since.
I could tell very similar stories from every stage of my schooling. Middle school marked a transition in my school life. Letter grades gave me a rubric for perfection. A's were fine. F's were failing. But so were B's. From then until now, I've lived in fear of not measuring up to my own standards. Anxiety over what I have to do how my work is turning out paralyzes me. When I need to write a paper, I procrastinate. I waste time. My worries clog my brain and hold me back, even when I know I could complete the task before me. In this state I lack faith in myself and my abilities. I can't determine the quality of my work. Nothing is ever as good as I want it to be.
The worst part is so far I haven't stumbled. Nine and a half years of 4.0 GPAs weigh on me. I feel as if one A- will invalidate everything I've done and will do. I know it is irrational, but I can't make myself not worry.
At least, I can't do it on my own. I want to be better. I need to be better. Better for me, for Jessie, for my friends. Starting this morning, I'm in the process of getting help.
The one thing of note I did today happened out of class. Lately, I've been encouraged by Jessie and other close friends to seek some kind of help with my anxiety issues. Until I started talking to Jessie about it, I had never considered seeing a counselor or anything like that. Today though, I went to the Health and Counseling Center to make an appointment to talk to someone. I hesitated at the door to the building. I peered in the window and didn't see anyone. I considered leaving and thus avoiding the issue altogether. I wouldn't have to face my problems and I wouldn't have to talk to anyone I don't know or trust. But I thought of my friends. I trust them. I don't want them to suffer because of my fear, anger and grumpiness anymore. I went in.
I've lived with my anxiety about school work for years. I have a really distinct memory of the first time a piece of schoolwork truly upset me. It was in the fourth grade and I was working on one of the first assignments of the year, drawing a picture of something I did over the summer vacation. I knew exactly what I wanted to draw; I had a clear image in my head. That summer, my family had visited Wallowa Lake in eastern Oregon and my picture was going to be of the lake and the animals that I saw there. I sat at my desk drawing, but midway through I could tell it wasn't turning out right. The moose I was drawing just looked small, not far away. I erased part of it and started again. Still not right. I erased it again, tried again, still wasn't happy. By this point, I was upset. I could not get the picture in my head to appear on the page. I was running out of time. I couldn't turn it in the way it was. It wasn't perfect. I kept trying. My repeated attempts transformed a section of my paper into a gray blob. My picture wasn't getting better, it was getting worse. "This is impossible," I thought. "I can't do it right." I started to cry. Right in the middle of class I was crying over my picture. My teacher came over, worried that something was wrong. Something was. My picture wasn't good enough. I showed her my art. She said it was good. I showed it to her again, convinced she just didn't see what I saw. Still crying, I pointed to the portion in question. She said it looked nice. I didn't believe her. I couldn't. She said it was time to turn it in and go on to another activity. I couldn't do that either. How could I turn in what I had? It wasn't any good, I thought. I argued with her. I just needed more time. I couldn't turn it in the way it was. You need to, she said. I resisted, still unhappy. Still crying. I never got my picture to look the way I wanted it. Defeated, I had to turn it in the way it was. I was embarrassed and ashamed.
All through school your teachers tell you to always do your best work. At nine years old, I had decided my best work was perfect. It had to be. Anything else was failure. Nobody told me this; no one taught me that only perfection was acceptable. But I knew it. I knew it with the utmost certainty. Somehow, as an elementary school kid I had fashioned my cross. I've carried it ever since.
I could tell very similar stories from every stage of my schooling. Middle school marked a transition in my school life. Letter grades gave me a rubric for perfection. A's were fine. F's were failing. But so were B's. From then until now, I've lived in fear of not measuring up to my own standards. Anxiety over what I have to do how my work is turning out paralyzes me. When I need to write a paper, I procrastinate. I waste time. My worries clog my brain and hold me back, even when I know I could complete the task before me. In this state I lack faith in myself and my abilities. I can't determine the quality of my work. Nothing is ever as good as I want it to be.
The worst part is so far I haven't stumbled. Nine and a half years of 4.0 GPAs weigh on me. I feel as if one A- will invalidate everything I've done and will do. I know it is irrational, but I can't make myself not worry.
At least, I can't do it on my own. I want to be better. I need to be better. Better for me, for Jessie, for my friends. Starting this morning, I'm in the process of getting help.
Tuesday, January 15, 2013
Day 2: Back to Work
Since I don't have class on Tuesday or Thursday, not a whole lot happened today. This morning I went to my first research assistant session of 2013. I'm currently scheduled to work from 9 AM to noon on Tues/Thurs. I wasn't incredibly happy to find out that I couldn't sleep in on my "days off" but on the bright side, the morning work slot ensures that I get up and get my brain working so I can utilize the rest of my day.
Work was the same as always: hunt through books for the ever-elusive wampum. However, my efforts were complicated by a class using the room I usually work in from 9 AM to 10:30. Apparently they'll be here every day I'm in so this could become a problem. With the conference room occupied, I just had to sit awkwardly in a chair in the middle of the history office. I think I encountered every member of the department while I sat there.
This afternoon I got to Skype with Jessie for the first time since I've been back at school. Skyping was happy even though it was not working super well some of the time. I started to grumble about it being wonky, but then I realized how much of a First World it is to complain that your method for free, face-to-face conversations across continents is slightly less instantaneous and clear than you'd like it to be.
Skype is a weird thing. On one hand it makes you feel closer to someone far away because you can see and hear her, but on the other it feels as if you are cut off from her in a way that you weren't before the conversation started. Being half-way to the real thing is sometimes harder than having nothing at all. Not being with her is difficult, but it got worse when I got here and saw everyone else. It just feel like something is missing. Some unconscious part of me is still waiting for her to walk in, back from the library and needing a hug.
Work was the same as always: hunt through books for the ever-elusive wampum. However, my efforts were complicated by a class using the room I usually work in from 9 AM to 10:30. Apparently they'll be here every day I'm in so this could become a problem. With the conference room occupied, I just had to sit awkwardly in a chair in the middle of the history office. I think I encountered every member of the department while I sat there.
This afternoon I got to Skype with Jessie for the first time since I've been back at school. Skyping was happy even though it was not working super well some of the time. I started to grumble about it being wonky, but then I realized how much of a First World it is to complain that your method for free, face-to-face conversations across continents is slightly less instantaneous and clear than you'd like it to be.
Skype is a weird thing. On one hand it makes you feel closer to someone far away because you can see and hear her, but on the other it feels as if you are cut off from her in a way that you weren't before the conversation started. Being half-way to the real thing is sometimes harder than having nothing at all. Not being with her is difficult, but it got worse when I got here and saw everyone else. It just feel like something is missing. Some unconscious part of me is still waiting for her to walk in, back from the library and needing a hug.
Monday, January 14, 2013
Day 1: New Semester
This semester began on a slightly odd note. Shortly after 9 AM, I opened the door of my apartment to leave for class. To my surprise, I looked outside and saw a delicate, powdered sugar snowfall. I turned around to grab the Hat of Shame before I left. Hat hair is a small price to pay for warm ears all day long.
The semester is shaping up to be strange in other ways as well. Despite history being my primary major, for the first time ever at Fox I'm not taking any history classes. I'm finished with general education classes as well, so I'm spending all my time in Bible classes. This isn't necessarily a bad thing; I'm excited about my classes. It will be a weird transition though. If that weren't weird enough, I only have classes on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Tuesdays and Thursdays will be devoted to homework and working for Paul.
Quick Class Rundown:
The semester is shaping up to be strange in other ways as well. Despite history being my primary major, for the first time ever at Fox I'm not taking any history classes. I'm finished with general education classes as well, so I'm spending all my time in Bible classes. This isn't necessarily a bad thing; I'm excited about my classes. It will be a weird transition though. If that weren't weird enough, I only have classes on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Tuesdays and Thursdays will be devoted to homework and working for Paul.
Quick Class Rundown:
- Biblical Theology: This is the capstone class to the Biblical Studies major. I don't consider myself any kind of a theologian. If I can ever divert a Bible conversation from theology to history, I do. The professor isn't super well organized so I have no idea what kind of a commitment this will be right now.
- The Prophets: I've had Brian for about a million other classes so I know his deal. This one will be a little different though because it is an upper division course as well as a hybrid course with online activities. Each student has been assigned a particular prophet on which to write their research paper and other projects. The prof said he was embracing the idea of prophetic destinies so he made little slips of paper with names of prophets on them and gave them out. He did this randomly. At least, he did this randomly until he got to me. Standing at my desk, he looked through the slips and hand-picked one for me. He gave Jonah, which I read in its entirety in Hebrew with this professor last year. I'm also reading it 10 times in a row for Relational Bible Teaching this semester. God wants me to learn something from Jonah I guess.
- Hellenistic Greek: I enjoyed the first semester of Greek and it wasn't very difficult so I'm not worried about this one. My compatriots Alex and Devon bailed on me though. That's sad.
- Relational Bible Teaching: When I had Steve for Bible Survey he encouraged me to become a Bible major. I haven't had him since, so I'm excited to have him again. I'm not 100% sure what to make of this class either, but it shouldn't be overly stressful.
I also have my Juniors Abroad class, but that doesn't meet until Wednesday night so I'll have to report on that later. Overall, this doesn't look like a super stressful semester. That makes me happy. :)
In chapel this morning, university president Robin Baker gushed at us about Les Miserables. No really, he did. We couldn't convince him to sing, but he read lyrics at us. His point was that Les Mis aptly demonstrates the Christian idea of being redeemed for a purpose. To this end, he quoted the Bishop's song near the beginning of the story. Jean Valjean betrayed the kindness of this bishop by stealing silver from him. When Valjean is hauled back to the church by the constables, the Bishop, recognizing his plight, sympathizes with him and plays along with his lie that the silver was a gift, even handing him more valuables to take with him. The key, said President Baker, is the last few lines of the Bishop's song, when he says,
"And remember this, my brother,
See in this some high plan.
You must use this precious silver
To become an honest man.
By the witness of the martyrs,
By the passion and the blood,
God has raised you out of darkness:
I have bought your soul for God."
Befitting his status as a man of God, the Bishop
plays the role of Christ here. Not only does he forgive the guilty Valjean, but
in place of deserved punishment, he gives him an even greater gift. Instead of
silver, we as Christians receive the precious gift of forgiveness and eternal
life. Like Valjean, though, there is a catch. Redemption comes with
responsibility. For us, the responsibility to serve God in our lives, for
Valjean, the responsibility to "become an honest man." Sometimes I
feel as if I'm not fully living into the gifts and opportunities the Lord has
given me. This is something I'm going to think about this semester.
Sunday, January 13, 2013
Day -1: All the Driving
Even though I moved back to Fox yesterday, today was quite a bit busier. I realized last night that, despite my best efforts, I had forgotten my caddy full of toiletries. Knowing that I had to go to the airport today, I considered waiting until Tuesday to go home to fetch it. After a bit more thinking though, I decided that shaving and brushing my teeth would be good things to do before my first day of school. Thus, I was stuck going today.
At 10 AM this morning I left Fox to head back to Salem. The pavement was dry, but on either side of the interstate the fields and trees were frosted white. It was a pretty drive with not much traffic, so I wasn't too irritated. When I got home, I gathered my forgotten items and scoured the rest of the house for anything else I might need, second-guessing myself as I went. While there, I got a text from my dad asking me to check on the dog and make sure his water wasn't iced over. I went outside to look and his water bucket was totally frozen over with a solid lid of ice. I needed something to break through the ice. I scanned the backyard and spotted a cast-metal garden gnome. I picked up the gnome and CHUK! CHUK! CHUK! used his pointy hat to bust up the ice. Poor gnome. He took one for the team.
Driving So Far: 2 hours, 80.4 miles
By noon, I was back at Fox and the Bon wasn't open yet so I borrowed some bacon off of Alex's plate at our apartment. Shortly after 1, Savannah, Alex, and I headed out to PDX. This took a long time but didn't make me as crazy as driving alone. Yay friends! :) At the airport, I pulled into the "Wait for a Call" parking lot and pulled out my phone. Megan was there early and waiting for us! Alex sighed in relief because he was already bored and didn't want to sit around. We spun around and successfully picked up Megan. Another hour later, we were back at Fox. The gang is assembling! :D
Total Driving: 4 hours, 172.4 miles
On the way back to school, Megan joked that we would have ham for our first dinner back because that was the last thing we had before break. We did.
Things I Learned Today:
At 10 AM this morning I left Fox to head back to Salem. The pavement was dry, but on either side of the interstate the fields and trees were frosted white. It was a pretty drive with not much traffic, so I wasn't too irritated. When I got home, I gathered my forgotten items and scoured the rest of the house for anything else I might need, second-guessing myself as I went. While there, I got a text from my dad asking me to check on the dog and make sure his water wasn't iced over. I went outside to look and his water bucket was totally frozen over with a solid lid of ice. I needed something to break through the ice. I scanned the backyard and spotted a cast-metal garden gnome. I picked up the gnome and CHUK! CHUK! CHUK! used his pointy hat to bust up the ice. Poor gnome. He took one for the team.
Driving So Far: 2 hours, 80.4 miles
By noon, I was back at Fox and the Bon wasn't open yet so I borrowed some bacon off of Alex's plate at our apartment. Shortly after 1, Savannah, Alex, and I headed out to PDX. This took a long time but didn't make me as crazy as driving alone. Yay friends! :) At the airport, I pulled into the "Wait for a Call" parking lot and pulled out my phone. Megan was there early and waiting for us! Alex sighed in relief because he was already bored and didn't want to sit around. We spun around and successfully picked up Megan. Another hour later, we were back at Fox. The gang is assembling! :D
Total Driving: 4 hours, 172.4 miles
On the way back to school, Megan joked that we would have ham for our first dinner back because that was the last thing we had before break. We did.
Things I Learned Today:
- Driving is better with friends. The radio and Mika help too.
- Birding while driving is dangerous and passengers don't appreciate it.
Tomorrow I begin my penultimate semester at George Fox University... Ack!
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