What Would You Do for a Klondike Bar?

"Be good and you can have a cookie."

"If you can be quiet for half an hour, I'll give you a candy bar."

"If you come to the bank with me, you will get a lollipop."

Gummy bear studying incentives.

Food incentives are everywhere from the day we are born onward. Once we've become adults, it becomes an easy way to reward ourselves for completing tasks we did not want to do. I've seen study tips online that include leaving a gummy bear on each paragraph on the page. Once you've read that
paragraph, you can eat the gummy bear.

This has been a huge issue for me. I'm sure its contributed to my weight problems (though it's certainly not the only factor). Our evolutionary mapping encourages it, too. We crave McDonald's even though we know it's not good for us because our hunter-gatherer instincts tell us we may not have access to food later, so its best to stock up on calorie rich foods now our bodies can burn later. But this is no longer the reality in modern society. Unfortunately, it takes more than a lifetime to de-program thousands of years of evolutionary advancement.

So how do we control this urge to reward with food?

As you might've guessed, we replace the reward. This isn't easy. Our bodies will -- and thus our hormones and reacting chemicals, which will in turn change our moods -- prefer a food-based reward. So we have to find things we want more. Or, convince ourselves there are things we want more and commit to those things.

What might these things be?

A vacation. A new piece of clothing. A shopping spree. A CD (or mp3 download). A piece of art.
Maybe the thing you need to accomplish isn't a big thing, though. And you can't justify a vacation just because you read a paragraph in your textbook. So instead, you put a dollar in a jar for every page you read. The money adds up and pays for or supplements your vacation costs. You may be tempted to put money in the jar because you can. What's stopping you from just throwing a few bucks in at the end of the day when you empty out your pockets before putting your pants in the laundry basket? Well, nothing. Just you. You can rely on your guilt to keep you in line for that one.
If you're someone (like myself) who can't necessarily monetary rewards to yourself, promise yourself something else. A trip to the library (for every ten minutes you spend reading your textbook, you get five minutes at the library -- write these down on slips of paper and put them in the jar, take out as many five minute slips as you want when you go to the library and only stay for that long). A trip to the park (same principles). A trip to the magical land of the internet. You can trade time for time in pretty much anything. If you like to draw, then promise yourself ten minutes of drawing time for every ten minutes you spend  doing the task that needs to be completed.

Maybe the cute dress reward
works for you.

This is especially important for people who want to reward themselves for working out or losing weight. It's counterproductive to reward yourself with cake. A lot of people like to promise themselves new running shoes or that dress they've always wanted but could never find their size in. These are okay for some people, but personally, I like to separate my rewards from what I'm doing.
That is, I don't like them to be related in anyway. I find it doesn't motivate me as much. If you're like me, brainstorm for other things. Half an hour of biking may equal twenty minutes of  time in the library.

And there's no reason you can't match your time rather than doing fractions of it. Whatever suits your schedule and works for your motivation mindset is what works. There's no right way to do it.
Whether you're trying to finish a chapter for your psychology class, lose fifty pounds, finish writing your NaNoWriMo novel, or clean the kitchen, find a reward that is meaningful to you. Find a reward that isn't food, because food only lasts for so long. The gratification is instant but it doesn't linger. So the next time you're trying to do something that you don't want to do, don't ask yourself "What would you do for a Klondike Bar?" Ask yourself, "What would you do to get a dollar closer to your dream vacation in Italy?"

Gummy bear image courtesy of APSU.
Dress image courtesy of ModCloth.

How Musicals Can Save the Economy (from a Non-Economist)

I don't know a lot of people who really like musicals. The people I  know who do like musicals tend to really like them. Meanwhile, the people I know who don't like them really don't like them. There are some who are neutral, but the people I know tend to fall on one extreme side or the other. I love musicals.

I don't know when, exactly, I discovered my love for musicals. For a long time, my favorite movie
was White Christmas. I forgot about it (somehow) and rediscovered it in middle school where I once again declared it as my favorite. For my birthday/Christmas one year, my family went to Boston to see the show live in the Wang Theater. After going through the ordeal of parking in Boston (no easy feat) and finding the theater, I stood in the lobby surrounded by gold-painted embellishments and a chaotic flow of people.



Part of the original cast of White Christmas (from left; Bing
Crosby, Danny Kaye, and Rosemary Clooney)

And I began to cry.

My parents, confused and maybe even a bit annoyed because this was, largely, for me, asked me what was happening.

I was overwhelmed with happiness.

And this is why musicals are so important.

I know a lot of people who complain about musicals because they aren't realistic (because wizards running around riding half-horse-half-eagle things are so true-to-life). "No one just bursts into song like that!" they argue. "Oh, come on! How did they ALL know the lyrics and the choreography?"
Does it matter? I ask.

Like fantasy novels (and even realistic fiction, in many cases), the purpose of the musical is not to make us examine our lives and reconsider our paths as an individual or as a society, but to draw us away from such intense and often depressing thoughts. Musicals are designed to help us escape.
I've been thinking a lot about musicals lately because some people complained about the hoopla surrounding the birth of Prince George (Prince William and Kate Middleton's baby, if you somehow managed to successfully avoid news of the royal birth the last week), saying that there were more important things the world should be concerned about like the abortion bills in Texas, the NSA-Edward Snowden situation, the Trayvon Martin case, and a number of other big things going on. There was an excellent post (I believe on Tumblr -- if I can find it, I'll link to it later) that explained that people were excited about the royal baby because of all of these bad things going on -- not despite them.

The same is true of musicals. We -- I -- love them because they're not some docu-pic about the recession or September 11 or the War on Drugs. It's just pure escapism. And slowly, musicals are making a comeback.

I wish Hollywood would take on the characteristics of Hollywood of the past. The musicals of today tend to have music at the center of the plot, rather than of an element of the film. Admittedly, some of the older and greatest musicals had music as part of the plot -- Singin' in the Rain, White Christmas -- but other just included music for the sake of including music and engaging the audience -- Guys and Dolls (music played a very small part in the actual plot with Adelaide's performances), On the Town. Now, with movies like Pitch Perfect (which I have yet to see) and shows like Glee and Hannah Montana (moment of silence for the loss of the Best of Both Worlds), music is inherent in the plot. It's a good way of easing people who are less musical friendly into the narratives. A commercial move, and not one that I hope remains a trend because some of the best musicals had plots that were devoid of music, but one that is helping to bring musicals back to the mainstream.

Part of what makes these pieces escapism is that they literally allow the audience to join them. Once you've seen the movie once or twice, you can join in on the song with at least a hum if not a hearty belting out of lyrics along with the cast. You become, for two hours, part of the cast, part of a fiction separate from this sometimes-horrible world.



Escapism is what helps us endure the bad times.

Its this kind of escape that helps us cope with real world issues. If we are constantly beaten down by reality, we won't be able to cope with it.

I'm not sure why musicals fell out of fashion on screen. Broadway remained (and remains) a popular source of entertainment, with the huge successes of shows such as Phantom of the Opera, Rent, and the Book of Mormon. Yet we've forgotten to make these musicals more accessible by putting them on film.

Chicago crept its way back into the mainstream in the early 2000s with its cinematic adaptation starring Catherine Zeta-Jones and Renee Zellweger, but other adaptations have -- as of yet -- been scarce. We've, too, seen new twists on the musical, such as with Moulin Rouge, which used mashed up pop songs to populate the musical score. Slowly, but surely, the musical is coming back.

Sad times  have a way of making the seemingly irrelevant relevant again. When the economy boomed in the 90s, musicals were irrelevant. As we approached this recession -- and even now -- many wonder why we need superfluous films -- we should be spending money on creating more jobs, they say. Cut the arts programs in schools. Give more money to the sciences. English classes don't need new text books.

But they do. We do.

Musicals allow escape. Musicals bring refreshment. Musicals revitalize people, give them hope.
Which is why we can't let them go just yet. Musicals are important. Art is important. And not only are these things important, but they're more important when we lack the resources for them than when we do not, precisely because they will bring back the resources lost.

White Christmas image courtesy of Movie Moron.
Escapism image courtesy of nenny89.

Summer in Summary

I regretfully and shamefully come back to you after a long and unintended hiatus. That is, the coming back isn't regretful, but the fact that I have to come back because of this accidental hiatus is. I did not intend to leave you all for so long, but as they say, life happens. I had hoped, at the beginning of the summer, that I would faithfully record this summer because I expected it to be something great. And it was -- so great and busy, in fact, that I did not feel I had the energy to write  about it most days. I have a smattering of pictures sitting on Facebook as a sort of record, but beyond that, my personal journal's proof of the summer rests on exactly one entry, and everything else remains in my unreliable memory.

That said, I will attempt to recount all of the things that have happened of note in this entry.
Ghost, who I mentioned in a post some time ago, was presumably adopted. We went back to PetSmart several times, but his name and picture had been removed from the adoption binder next to the wall of cats. I sincerely hope he joined a good, loving family who can care for him better than I can.

I took last Friday off and met my boyfriend in the city. We went to the zoo and ate Lebanese food

At the Molon Lave winery.

after. I ate calamari for the first time. If you can get past the fact that the thing you're eating used to be waving, squirmy tentacles, it's not so bad. I also ate falafel. The following day we went to Molon Lave winery for a tour, wine tasting, and olive oil tasting. It was some of the best wine I've ever had -- very smooth, quite fruity -- and the olive oil included unique and surprisingly delicious flavors such as lemon and blood orange. It rained that day. Prior to the tour, we spent time in downtown Warrenton, where we ate in a basement restaurant called Brick. It was delicious. We got rained on during the walk back to the car but we survived. The town was lovely and I'd like to go back sometime.

One evening we drove to Walmart to pick up the futon my boyfriend ordered online. After lugging it out in the scorching heat to the back of the parking lot where the car was, we decided, after forty-five minutes of trying, that the futon was not going to fit. We returned it (which took another extended period of time, because Walmart was just not cooperating with us) and went back sweaty, exhausted, and annoyed. We ordered another piece of furniture from another place and got it sometime last week. It's been great having a couch to sit on.

Earlier in the summer we spent time in a part of DC before going to a Doctor Who happy hour at the Black Cat. Prior to the showing of "The Doctor's Daughter" we ate at Ben's Chili bowl (where only the President, his family, and Bill Cosby eat for free). We waited outside the bar after that. Inside, I had some kind of hard lemonade. In hindsight, I should've known it would be hard indeed when I watched three quarters of the glass fill with vodka.

We did the whole Fourth of July thing. That evening we walked from a metro to Roosevelt Island. We walked around Roosevelt Island, hoping to have a better view from the other side. No dice. As the sun was setting we did our best to find our way out to avoid getting stuck in the swampy mess that was the island and get back to the bridge. We got back in time, ate some granola bars, and

The marshy path on Roosevelt Island.

watched the half-tree-hidden fireworks with a dozen or so other people on the footbridge. We walked back from the metro and ended up walking about eight miles that evening.

My internship has been a mixed bag. I typically write a to-do list each day on my legal pad and highlight an item in orange when I've completed it. Some things are on-going and other things I finish in half-an-hour. I'm lucky that it's not like McDonalds in that I don't have to interact with people all day long. Mostly, I'm left to my own devices and trusted to be self-motivated, which I appreciate. Jameson and I talk when we feel like it and feed off each other's energy fairly well. We both contribute to the other's successes and depend on each other for answers and advice -- or moral support when we have to seek these things elsewhere. It's nice to know someone else is in the same place I am here.

I've made some big decisions about life after graduation. Those came in the last few days and I'm sure details will develop over time. I won't specify my decisions here and now in case things change. Just know I've been busy and thinking about these things.

I'm preparing to enter my final year at Hollins. It's sad, and I frequently think about people who were seniors when I came to Hollins. I remember specifically the SGA (student government association) president and my SSL (student success leader) at the time, Kyra Orr. I remember thinking how sophisticated and prepared for the world she seemed. How adult. Mature. Capable. Now I find myself in the same position she was three years ago, although my leadership positions and involvement differ from hers, I've no doubt we share an equal amount of responsibility. Still, I don't feel like I expected to feel. Hollins has, I know, prepared me for great things. But I thought I'd feel older. I thought I'd feel professional.

Really, I just feel like a kid.

I keep seeing quotes on the internet about how adults are really just kids pretending to be adults. Each day I find this to be more true. I still make a wish twice a day at 11:11. I still stay in my pajamas as

Still doing dumb kid things at the zoo.

long as possible. I still crave cake over vegetables. The difference now is I can choose to eat cake instead of vegetables because I'm an adult. And I'll pair it with a glass of sparkling wine, thank you very much.

My resume continues to grow with new experiences. Between my time at the National Science Foundation and a recent addition to my list of publications, I certainly look like I'm a professional adult. Yet, I look at my resume and wonder why I didn't write it in crayon, instead.

Hi, My Name Is Abby and I'm an Elitist

I am lucky in that I am good at a lot of things. I recognized this to some extent growing up, but have come to appreciate it more as I've aged. And like a good wine, I've only gotten better.

Conceitedness aside, I'm both blessed and, in some ways, cursed to have such ease with so many things. While I appreciate that I have an excellent grasp on (English) grammar, an easy time picking up academic pursuits (such as German, math [when it's explained/taught well], and chemistry), and artistic endeavors, I find it makes having good relationships with people more difficult. And if there's one thing I'm definitely not good at to begin with, it's being social.

The existential skeleton.

Typically when I visit my boyfriend, I draw a picture on his giant whiteboard for him to enjoy once I've left again for school.  Yesterday I realized it had been the same for a while, so I decided to put up something new.  I erased the old drawing and started on a skeleton who, with one hand on his un-fleshy hip and the
other scratching his head, looked up at all of the comments and plans on data analysis my boyfriend had written on the board and said, "What does it all mean?"

I thought this was hilarious. In my mind, the skeleton wasn't only asking about what the items on the board meant (can drawings read? can skeletons?) but was asking about what everything -- that is, life, the universe, and everything if you've read Hitchhiker's Guide -- means. And it was funny that a skeleton -- a being that is dead, that no longer exists -- was having an existential crisis.

Maybe I'm just good at amusing myself.

Once I finished the drawing, I looked over it and was pretty pleased. Given that I had only worked with one dry erase marker and a whiteboard, it was pretty good. Maybe I could make a career of it, if I cared enough.

I drew a lot when I was in middle school. During one math class, I sketched away at a little elf-ish boy in my notebook. The math teacher addressed me from his desk (from which he often taught, which I now realize was kind of odd and lazy) in front of the class.

"Abby, what are you doing?"

I didn't think it was such an issue that I was drawing. I was getting an A, regardless of how much I paid attention. Math was boring to me and I paid attention most of the time anyway.

"Drawin'," I answered shyly. As much as I disagreed with being called out, I was a goody-two-shoes and incredibly uncomfortable with getting in trouble. I still am, which explains why I'm so judgmental of people who don't follow the rules. I always worry how their lack of respect to the law, policy, or whatever it may be, will affect me.

The teacher asked me to put it away and I did, resentfully.

So I drew a lot. It never really amounted to anything. I have several full sketch books with lots of emo drawings -- some of made up people, many of favorite band members in favorite bands, some guitars I "designed."  Now I doodle sometimes, or draw pictures for cards that I send to family members, but that's the extent of my visual art career.

I won several coloring contests when I was young, too. One of them got me a pumpkin or something at a local farm where we always got our pumpkin for Halloween.  Another got me a gift certificate to Toys - R - Us, which I used to purchase a bicycle.

In tenth grade, I received honorable mention for a state-wide Constitution Day essay contest. The following year I won the school-wide contest. They said they were going to submit it to the state-wide consideration from there so I didn't bother submitting it. I don't think they ever did.

I've been recognized for various academic achievements, I've been published in a legitimate magazine, I've been published on the NPR website.  My work is continuously validated by "people who would know."  Yet

I remain not confident of my abilities.

In school, I worry that I am not at the same intellectual level as many of my classmates. I sometimes feel myself falling behind in discussions, wondering what they mean by post-modernism and transcendentalism. I sometimes then decide they don't know what they're talking about, either. But maybe they do.

I can spit out the quadratic formula in no time, and I can even use it -- but ask me when, in a real-life situation, it would be appropriate to use it, and I'd freeze like a popsicle.

Despite these feelings of inadequacy (or maybe because of) I frequently catch myself correcting and judging people for doing things incorrectly on the things I can do well. Grammar has always been an issue with me. While my grammar is certainly not perfect, I recognize that my abilities with the English language are often greater than that of the people who surround me. I mean, of course, no offense with either correcting people or pointing this out here. Other people are far more adept at plenty of things that I'm not. I am sometimes painfully aware of this.

I admit I'm an elitist. I admit that I am good at many things. But I also admit that I am imperfect.

A Little Less Heaven

The baseball park, Sox practicing.

After work yesterday, my boyfriend and I headed to Baltimore, Maryland because the Red Sox were playing the Orioles. With my team in first place for the AL East and a pretty good away record, I figured we had a pretty good chance of winning.

Furthermore, knowing secondhand that Camden Yards was a nice park and the fans were even better, I expected quite a different night than what I got.

On the ride there, we were predictably stuck in traffic for quite some time. We got there in good time, though, arriving around 5:30. When we walked to the park from the parking lot, we bought our tickets at the box office -- something you could never do at Fenway Park. Even more impressive was the price. As it was a student night, I was able to present my student ID and get (up to six) tickets for $6 each. Amazing deal, given that the cheapest tickets I could have gotten at Fenway would have been at least ten times that and I would have had to buy them ahead of time, no question.

We entered the stadium from there. At the gates, people handed out white t-shirts with a military-inspired Oriole logo on it. I accepted it and the guy who handed it to me, who saw I was wearing my Red Sox gear (shirt, hat, earrings) said, "I better see you wearing that!" He laughed, I laughed, all was good and merry.

My boyfriend and I went on to find our seats. Getting to them was kind of interesting -- we took an elevator to the third "floor." It was a pretty big elevator and crowded, but soon we were at the top and we located our section. Once there, a really nice guy led us to our seats and wiped them down with an orange felt cloth. We sat down and settled in, the sun in our eyes. But the Red Sox were practicing down below!

I snapped a few pictures before we decided we wanted something to drink, so I headed back down to get a bottle of water, which cost $4.50. That seemed like a lot (though not for a baseball park) but there was a water fountain, so we could refill it if we so desired. I headed back to our seats (and got a little turned around on the way) and we went back to enjoying the view and the weather. People began to fill in around us in the meantime.

You could definitely tell we were in the student seats. The college students behind us (who admitted, in their conversation with each other, to being underage) talked about getting wasted and how everyone they knew was a "prostitute" (not literally, it sounded more like they were using it as an insult). My RA-self was bursting at the seams to do something, but there was nothing I could do but sit there, annoyed. I'm a stickler for rules -- sue me. What was worse, though, was when one of the girls was explaining Red Sox history to the guy next to her.

"So here's what happened -- the Red Sox sold Babe Ruth for like, a lot of money. And then for like, eighty years after that, they never won a World Series. They didn't win until 2009."

Um. What? No, actually, it was 2004. Also, that's eighty-six years.

I am annoyed to no end when people talk about things they know nothing about (though I'm guilty of it too, I'm sure).

So excited to be at a baseball game!

Two young women then sat diagonally in front of us. They appeared to have no connection with the older man to their left, but one of the girls was all over him. She kissed his cheek, batted his arm, rested her head on his shoulder. That was incredibly uncomfortable. Things got worse with these two girls though -- one of them got up so many times, we figured she saw maybe half an inning. Eventually, she would sit down and we started making bets as to how quickly she would get up and leave again. Both times we overestimated. The
first time, we guessed five minutes and it took three. The second time we guessed ten and it took seven. The problem was, though, she wouldn't just get up and leave. She would stand there talking to her friend and the guy for a few minutes, blocking our view of the already ant-sized baseball players, and then leave. We missed several crucial plays because of that.

I was in a sea of orange, though I wasn't the only Red Sox fan in the park. Around the seventh inning, I could hear chanting coming from the left: Let's go, Red Sox! Clap, clap, clap clap clap! People started booing them so I joined in, even though I was at least a whole section away from the instigators. Then I got booed. I kept going, chanting all by myself louder and louder until my voice was tired and the boos less enthusiastic.

Most of the Red Sox players were booed, too. This was especially true with David Ortiz. I chalked it up to jealousy.

We got food just before the game started -- hot dogs and a bag of peanuts. Later we got a crab cake sandwich that made up the best $15 five minutes of my life. (Okay, may be an exaggeration, but it was really good!)  We shared a refreshing root beer with the sandwich because they were out of Coke.

Speaking of which, when I went to get the hot dogs, I originally asked for popcorn because it was on the menu and I didn't feel like having peanuts yet. The girl looked at me and said, "We don't have popcorn."

"Uhhh," I said, glancing up at the menu board.

"Oh, it just says that we do. But we don't. Sorry."

So at this point, I didn't trust the menu board. I decided to ask what they did have. She started to list everything that was in the display rack in front of me, as if I couldn't already see it. I wanted to face-palm right there.

The game was not as exciting as the Nationals game I attended last year. I can't blame that on the stadium, though. I can't really blame it on anyone, though I was disappointed at how the Sox were swinging at pretty much everything the pitchers threw, rather than "waiting for their pitch" as I was taught in my years of t-ball and softball.  (Yeah, yeah, t-ball and professional sports aren't the same -- hush. This rule stands.)

If you haven't already read the headlines, the Sox lost, 2-0. It was pretty abysmal. We still had the fireworks to look forward too, however, and I wanted to have my picture taken with the sign I made outside the park.

The fireworks were awesome. I love fireworks -- it's why Independence Day is my favorite holiday -- and these were just really good fireworks.  The American-themed music was kind of cheesy, but most of the songs they selected were at least good songs.

After the fireworks, we headed down the long cases of stairs, surrounded by people. I saw more Red Sox fans but they didn't acknowledge me and I didn't really acknowledge theme. It was getting late and I was tired with a long-ish walk ahead to the parking lot.

Still, we stopped by the gate for a picture with my sign. I held it up while my boyfriend took some steps back

If you know these people, I suggest you un-know them.

to get more of the background in. Just as he was pushing the button to take the picture, some Orioles fans jumped in front of and behind me to flip off the camera. My boyfriend flipped them off back and I just stood there, angry. Not only was that really rude, but there were kids around and my sign was essentially complimenting their stadium. One of the guys who had been behind me came around and looked at me.

"Grow up!" I said.

"I was just doing a peace sign!" he defended himself, holding up two fingers as if to prove it.

I shook my head and he walked away. My boyfriend later told me that the guy hadn't done a peace sign, but exactly what I suspected he had done.

Walking away from the park I was disappointed and angry. But then I remembered I had been breathing the same air as Jacoby Ellsbury, Dustin Pedroia, and David Ortiz, if only for a little while. And that was pretty cool.

And the fireworks were great.

And the crab cake was delicious.

And my boyfriend was great company.

And I had a good night.

Cats!

Every time my boyfriend and I go to Target, we also go to PetSmart because it's right next door and I like cats. On the weekends, PetSmart hosts adoption fairs. They bring the dogs and puppies outside and have cats in just-big-enough cages on the left side of the store. We had visited PetSmart last week but, because it wasn't an adoption day, did not get to pet the cats. Instead, we watched them from behind plexiglass, trying our best to interact with them even though we could not hear or touch them. There were a few cats I remember, including a calico named Candy and a fluffy gray cat named Ghost.

Candy and Ghost were both at PetSmart today, still waiting to be adopted. Candy was still behind the plexiglass, but Ghost was out in a row of four or five cages. No one seemed to be paying much attention to Ghost so I went over and opened up the cage so I could reach in and pet him. He was one of the silkiest and nicely-groomed cats I've ever pet. Ghost took to me immediately, sniffing at my hand and rubbing his face all over it when he was satisfied with the smell.

This is Tigger.

I have two cats at home, in New Hampshire: Tigger and Sergeant Pepper.  I got (and named) Tigger when I was six. (We got Pepper at the same time, but he's not "technically" my cat.) As Tigger has aged, he has become more social with others and less social with me. This may be because I leave for lengths of time for school and he doesn't trust me when I return. When my boyfriend and I visited home a few weeks ago,
Tigger was fairly aloof to me but was all over my boyfriend. Of course, once my boyfriend left a bag of open prosciutto on the dining table, Tigger hopped up the minute we were gone and ate about a third of it. Now, Tigger's a big eater (despite his small frame), but I've never seen him eat anything as excitedly as he ate that prosciutto.  We joke that, next time I go home, I should stuff my pockets with prosciutto so Tigger will come to me more easily.

Anyway, Ghost was very friendly and I fell in love with him immediately.  For a while now, my boyfriend and I have discussed getting a cat.  There are, however, a few problems with that.  Neither of us really make enough money to guarantee that we can take care of a cat consistently well and once I go back to school, he'll be the only one taking care of the cat for a year.  While there isn't a whole lot involved with caring for a cat, I sometimes have to nag my boyfriend to even feed himself -- this makes me concerned for any animals that might join our little "family."  (The names we've picked out for cats, if they haven't yet been named, are Oopsilon and Mr. Giggles.)

I tore myself away from Ghost to pet a calico named Katrina who clearly did not want the company.  After one last look at Ghost and a puppy-eyed look at my boyfriend, we left the store.  I spent the entire shopping trip in Target moping and talking about how wonderful Ghost (or, Ghostie, as I was now calling him), was.  He was soft and sweet and I'll never have another connection with a cat like that again!

My boyfriend could see how badly I wanted this cat. Slowly, his resolve began wearing away and we began to consider the logistics of everything. However, the hope which had started to flicker in me was soon smothered. After the adoption fee (which would be anywhere from $60 - 150) and the initial deposit for owning a pet in the apartments we live in ($200) and the litter box ($10), we'd already be spending a huge chunk of money.  And this is not including food dishes, toys, and a collar (which I typically wouldn't get for a cat given my past experience with my cats and collars, but given the urban-ish environment, would feel safer with).  Oh, and cat litter and food, both of which would be recurring costs.

I consoled myself by deciding that Tigger, my cat back home (who is approaching fifteen years old!), would be jealous if I got another cat. (Trust me, I know Tigger. He totally would.)  So until we're both actually working and we've moved to perhaps a more convenient space (because I'm not sure there's a good place for a litter box in this apartment and it's not necessarily big enough for a cat, either), we probably shouldn't get a cat. As much as I would love one. And boy would I.

I hope Ghost goes to a good family who deserves him and has as much of a connection as I do with him. In addition to having an awesome name, Ghost has an awesome personality. The moral of the story, folks, is this: Don't go into pet shops if you can't feasibly get a pet. It will break your heart.

Just kidding -- moral of the story: Adopt cats (and other pets) responsibly. Consider their well-being before your own loneliness.


Moral of the story image courtesy of Dinah Lord.

Wednesday Blues and Walking Shoes

Days two and three have come and gone now. I woke up this morning and thought, "OH! It's Thursday!" and then I quickly realized it was in fact only Wednesday. After a lengthy two days of mostly filling out paperwork and familiarizing myself with my new environment, I was tired. Still, I got up and got dressed, ate my oatmeal and headed out the door at 7:40.

My black flats -- cute, yet comfortable. An unusual match
in the world of shoes.

Once I arrived I got started on a list of on-going tasks. This is one thing I prefer about work to school -- I don't have to wait on anyone else to get started on something and I can work as quickly as I like.  I dropped off some paperwork -- the final ones, I hope -- and worked until 10:00, at which time I had a meeting.

The other intern (hi, Jameson) came to the meeting, too, because we were both invited. Lots of acronyms were thrown around, but we introduced ourselves with a little more detail earlier in the meeting before moving into other stuff. I find it's sometimes difficult not to space out a little during these meetings since I don't yet have the context to understand what, exactly, is going on. It doesn't make sense to ask questions at this point, either -- I'll learn everything better just by absorbing pieces as we go along. There's too little time in the day to ask all of the necessary questions and I know it will come with time.

I got through the rest of the day okay. Lunch was nice because I was able to be by myself for a little while. That, I think, is something that has made these last few days so draining for me -- as an introvert, it's incredibly exhausting to be interacting with people for eight hours straight. Of course, now that I've settled in some, I'll be able to work more independently and I'll get used to interacting with people more.  As of right now, however, I'm used to either spending the day at home alone or spending a few hours in class with people, maybe a couple of hours in the office, but the rest of the time in my dorm by myself.

I like walking home, though. The weather hasn't been too cruel yet so it's pretty enjoyable, even in business casual clothing -- including my little black flats, which, as it turns out, are comfortable enough to walk to and from work in. While sitting in an office all day gives me a bit of an itch to be outside (why is that, by the way? When I'm able to go outside, I don't care to; but when I can't go outside, I want to.), it's better than standing in a drive-thru window for eight hours straight.

This work makes me more mentally tired whereas McDonald's made me physically (and occasionally emotionally) tired. I don't know if that's a better or worse thing. I have, at least, enough energy in the evenings to take a walk with my boyfriend after dinner. I think we're trying to make it a regular thing, even though we both already walk a little over a mile every day. It's good for us to go out and see things, anyway. Otherwise we'd both just sit inside and stare at our computer screens (me, scrolling through Tumblr and him on Hulu or an online class), which is basically what we both do at work all day.

He said he'll be home late tonight. This is fine with me. I like having the apartment to myself for a little while. I like hearing the traffic outside, watching the light shift throughout the room, listening to my computer keys click and glancing over at Stuart, my toy hamster in his pink ball to the right of my laptop. (Margo, the rubber duck librarian, sits nearby, too.)

Stuart, a hot dog eraser on heart-shaped sticky notes,
 Wonder Woman usb, stapler, pens, and Margo the
 rubber duck librarian.

I'm hoping to finish up rereading Feed for my honors thesis this weekend. Then I can head over to the library and get a library card so I can check out some other stuff for my thesis. I also need to be checking in with my plans as head resident assistant for the first series of programs.

Speaking of libraries, when I introduced myself to the group today I mentioned that I intend to become a YA librarian. One of the women I work with said that they might have some assignments they can give me that will allow me to work with the library and librarians at the National Science Foundation library (which has materials for the people who work at NSF -- both work-related and pleasure reading). I'm really excited to get some more library experience. If I've learned anything today specifically, it's that I don't want to be a copy-editor. I've been going through some training manuals and polishing up the language and, while it's good to have some kind of writing involved in this internship, I'm fairly certain I could not edit anything on a permanent and constant basis.