Catching the Bouquet

I was standing in the front.  I was wearing four-inch heels.  I had every advantage except that I was pretty sure the bride was aiming for the girl who stood to my left and slightly behind me, and I wasn't about to let myself worry about that.

"Okay, girls, put your hands up!  This is a photo op!" boomed the young emcee into the microphone.  I obliged, but otherwise, I was pretending I didn't care.  A heart monitor would have revealed the truth.

There was a countdown, presumably by the emcee, but I've already forgotten.  I was in my head.  "Three!"  I don't care.  "Two!"  I don't care.  "One!"  I care and I'm going to catch this.

Time slowed down for me alone, to provide one final advantage.  I watched the bouquet's trajectory as it left the bride's hand and headed straight for me.

No, not straight for me.  It was headed slightly to the left.  Impressive aim, I thought, but there's no room for politeness now.  My left hand reached out and the bouquet fell neatly, top-first, into my open hand.  Out of the corner of my eye I saw several sets of outstretched fingers falling just short.  Then, time resumed its usual pace.

It was hard to keep track of what was going on in the minute or two immediately following my success.  There was a lot of noise, and a few people got photos of me with the bride.  Meanwhile, I was on the alert for one thing.  As far as I can remember, at every wedding I've attended where I've failed to catch the bouquet, my disappointment quickly turned to relief as I remembered the garter toss.  In each case, I witnessed the poor winning girl seated in a chair in the middle of the dance floor, gripping the flowers as some random guy slid a garter onto her leg.  Even when it's just put on her arm, it's an awkward and embarrassing ritual.  I braced myself for the ordeal.

Long seconds passed.  I waited.

There was no garter toss.

Hallelujah.  The time I finally catch it, I get all the joy and none of the obnoxious aftermath (except for one or two people heckling my dear boyfriend).  Success all around.

I like to think I'm not the type of person who believes in superstitions.  Part of me does want to be the next to be married, and like most girls, I think about my own wedding details and wonder when it's going to happen.  Everything is especially up in the air for me right now; I can't reasonably predict where I'll be or what I'll be doing six months from now.  No, catching the bouquet was not a sign that I'm going to be married next.  It was, instead, a sign to me that everything will work out right, and I should just stop worrying about it.  So, that's what I'm going to do.

I'm going to have a little faith.

Youth is Wasted

I have learned to appreciate music, but I have no time now to play an instrument of my own - though for years I was in a good music program at a public school, and I loathed to practice, or to listen to instrumental music. I have learned to appreciate math, history, science, and education in general, but now I have to pay for it - though I was once handed information daily, for free, and I sneered at it. I have learned to appreciate family, immediate and extended, but it is while I live at home for less than half the year, and have little hope of seeing most of the extended family members who live out of state - though once we regularly visited the family who is in California, and once my grandparents were near at hand, and I hardly cared.

Youth is truly wasted on the young. Somehow, it doesn't seem fair. I wonder, what do I have now, that I will later realize I missed?

Short Post: Intent to Graduate

I've been getting e-mails lately, begging me to fill out the various forms necessary in order to graduate my university in May. I did much of it last night, after caffeine-pill-taken-after-7-PM-induced insomnia kept me wide awake until 5 or 6 AM. It's a bit weird, to think I'll be done with college (unless I someday go to grad school) in several months. It seems like a terribly long time off, yet these forms keep asking for my GPA and my courses completed and what I got out of my time at UCF as though they'll be kicking me out tomorrow. It is strange, indeed.

So far, it has been a four years far superior to high school, yet I certainly hope these weren't the "best years of my life" as some people claim them to be. That would be ludicrous.

Future retrospection will possibly (probably) ensue when it comes time to actually walk in the mortarboard, or when I get my diploma. By the way, I hate graduations. I'll only be walking because my dear parents and boyfriend evidently care to see it happen. Which is fair, I suppose.

On Suspense and Solid Stories

"Of course, I'm being rude. I'm spoiling the ending, not only of the entire book, but of this particular piece of it. I have given you two events in advance, because I don't have much interest in building mystery. Mystery bores me. It chores me. I know what happens and so do you. It's the machinations that wheel us there that aggravate, perplex, interest, and astound me." --the narrator, Death, in The Book Thief

The book I am currently reading, The Book Thief by Markus Zusak, has a particular quality that I adore. Not only does it not rely on suspense, it deliberately flouts it. It tells you that something will happen, and then it deals with the details of it later. My first taste of a book that did this was Slaughterhouse Five, which completely throws suspense and linear story out the window. Among other things, the narrator keeps pointing out that someone named Edgar Derby eventually gets shot to pieces. The first time it is mentioned I found it almost appalling, but it soon became meaningless, almost humorous. Vonnegut regularly refers to him as "poor old Edgar Derby" as if the only thing that matters about his character is the fact that he eventually gets shot to death, and yet, as if the death hardly matters at all.

People generally like to avoid spoilers. I understand this to a degree. I have seen Fight Club, after all. The first time you see it, if you don't already know the twist, you see the story one way and receive a tremendous surprise. The second time you see it, you see the exact same story in a completely different way. It is a story well-crafted. However, there are plenty of cases where the so-called "spoilers" are essentially worthless, in that they don't change the preceding story at all. Consider my experience reading Harry Potter.

I wasn't allowed to read Harry Potter when I was younger. By the time I was in high school and the sixth book was out, my parents didn't care anymore and I was finally curious enough to try the series. I was still in the first chapter of the first book when my dear friend Casey said, "Oh, you're reading Harry Potter? In the sixth book, Snape kills Dumbledore." I didn't know who either of these people were, and by the time I did, it still didn't affect the story preceding the event. Poor old Dumbledore. But it didn't make a difference that I knew it was coming.

One of my main troubles with stories that rely on suspense, or that rely on the audience not knowing something, is that I like to re-read books and re-watch movies. If I like a story, I want to experience it again. Yet, if the foundation of the story is the element not known, then I can't possibly enjoy it a second time, unless I am a profoundly forgetful person.

Therefore, what I seek is the story well-crafted. I seek a story with good characters and with jokes that still make me giggle when I hear them for the thirtieth time. I seek a story with layers and small details, things I might not catch the first, second, or fourteenth time. I seek a story that takes place somewhere I'd like to go and can't, like Narnia or Middle Earth. I seek a story that tells the truth through fiction. I seek a film that is beautiful or a book that evokes beautiful images. I seek the stories that still come to mind even when I haven't read or watched them in ages. I seek solid stories with a solid foundation.

Of course, there are many things besides suspense that can destroy a story, for me. If it is told poorly, if most of the characters are awful, or if I can't relate to the premise, I likely won't be interested. But the issue of suspense, of the story that focuses on the end instead of "the machinations that wheel us there," is an issue that can bring any otherwise-decent story to its knees.

Stage Fright

Allegedly, when I was a kid, I used to do things like get on other people's stages and dance around, or sing really loudly at my parents' company picnics. Paradoxically, I also remember being described as shy by some people, so I suppose it depended on my mood or the context or some weird tenant of child psychology.

I never seemed to quite get over my bizarre balance of shyness and desire for attention, but I eventually grew some real self-consciousness, and the balance shifted. I developed some serious stage fright.

I signed up to perform at the Youth Camp talent show one year, and I was so terrified in the minutes before I got in the spotlight that I almost ran off, so I could find someplace to faint or throw up. When I was a junior in high school, I signed up for a talent show that was supposed to raise money for a club, and I had exactly the same problem. Both times, I had friends with me who would have forcibly kept me from disappearing if I'd tried. During my senior year of high school, I tried out for giving a graduation speech, and I was shaking so badly that I had to sit down during my tryout and couldn't look at my audience as I read my speech - which, as I heard later on, may be what cost me the chance to speak at graduation and relegated me instead to Baccalaureate.

The question you should be asking is, "None of those things were required of you. If your stage fright was so bad, why did you do them?"

I like attention. I also resent my irrational fears, and I believed that if I just experienced the stage one more time, I'd get over my problem - as if a single, sufficiently epic stage experience would erase all future nervousness.

It doesn't actually work that way.

I had no problems in certain contexts. When I played trombone with the rest of the band, I hardly thought about the audience. But, when I played for Solo and Ensemble, alone in front of a judge, my parents, and a few other students, I shook badly enough that it was harder to breathe into my instrument. I was in charge of the Japanese Club my senior year and could lead each meeting easily, but when I took speech my freshman year of college, a thousand butterflies spontaneously appeared in my stomach before my every oration. And the shaking. I couldn't stop the shaking. It didn't sound much, if at all, in my voice, but I know I trembled every time.

The last "epic stage experience" that I remember attempting was an open karaoke night at a restaurant. I still freaked out, but I still got up there, did the song, and received applause. It was a decently satisfying experience, and it still didn't get me over my stage fright.

I suppose I may be doomed to suffer the physical symptoms of stage fright for the rest of my life. That doesn't mean I have to avoid the stage. When I was taking speech class, I realized I enjoy public speaking, despite my body's rebellion against it. Nowadays, it even seems my only rebellion against it is physical. Immediately preceding my most recent in-school presentation, I could tell my body was having its usual reaction, but my brain was experiencing no nervous thoughts, no mental freaking out. This time, my stage fright was nothing more than a nuisance.

And so, the idea of "facing my fear" didn't ever work quite as planned, but it seems that repeated exposure is successfully desensitizing me. Whatever works, I guess.

The Dragonfly Couch

It is amazing how meaning attaches itself to objects, or places, covering them like a shroud and making these otherwise-unimportant things impossible to let go. The wardrobe that led to Narnia had a magical quality that was based on actual magic, but in our non-fiction world, I find that regular things can also have that magical air.

Consider the Dragonfly Couch.

The Dragonfly Couch is a particular two-seat couch, comfortable and upholstered with fabric that features green, blue, and purple squares beneath a pattern of gold-brown dragonflies. It is located in the Honors building at my university. I rarely have reason to go in there when my classes are elsewhere, but I found myself chatting with someone after class, and to get somewhere quiet and air-conditioned, that is where we went. I sat on this couch, and my friend on the couch opposite.

I had been staring at the leaf-like pattern on the other couch for some time before I looked at my own couch and realized I was seated on a far lovelier piece of furniture. I like imagining that I was surrounded by friendly dragonflies. After my friend left, we'd been talking long enough that I'd grown fond of the couch. I decided to stay a little longer to read my book.

It is quiet in that area most of the time, and easy to listen to conversations. I overheard some Honors College people discussing maroon chairs and gesturing towards where I was sitting, and immediately I thought, "Don't take away the dragonflies!" It is a beautiful pattern, and it is a comfortable couch, but I'd actually developed an attachment to the thing - awfully quickly, too. I suppose I'm fond of any place that allows for easy conversation or reading of books. I ran into two other people that I knew in the time that passed before I left, and had short conversations with both of them. That couch, in its loveliness, turned an unfamiliar place into the sort of place I'd like to go hang out in the middle of the day when I want a little quiet between classes. That is what I mean by a magical quality.

Efficiency Failure

I have come to the conclusion that it probably takes me an unnecessarily long amount of time to complete all of my homework assignments. Just when I was starting to think I was efficient, the semester hit me full force and then I realized I was so wrong. Assuming that I don't actually have more homework than the average student, and after examining my behavior when I work on things, I can conclude that I have an efficiency problem.

The main source of the problem is attempts at multi-tasking. I don't mean that I physically try to completely two homework assignments at the same time; that would be madness. These are much more subtle attempts, and I don't know how they worm their way into my work-time.

I start out by working on the assignment, either starting at the beginning or picking up where I left off. A few minutes in, I check my e-mail for anything relevant from the professor or any partners in group projects, which generally leads to me checking irrelevant e-mails just because they're there. If this doesn't lead to something completely tangential, I sometimes check Facebook "real quick" before returning to my task.

Eventually, something about my task will frustrate me. This happens most frequently with programming assignments, because there are so many possible errors and so many ways to fail. It also happens with long, odious tasks, or assignments that I'm fairly certain have to learning value. When my homework frustrates me, I make an effort to focus hard and knuckle down, blocking out all distractions until my problem is solved.

That is a lie.

When my homework frustrates me, my automatic response is to go to Facebook and make a status about it. Then I check my messages and notifications, look for amusing things in the News Feed that "need" my response, and check my notifications again to see if anyone has commented on my status yet. It is so pathetic. Moreover, it probably wastes an unbelievable amount of time.

I then, eventually, think about returning to my task. If I am remotely hungry or desiring of a snack, I deal with that first. You must understand that if, when I'm working, I've entered that magical state of "flow," I have to be close to passing out from hunger before eating anything, but we're assuming that I've just finished a lengthy stroll on Facebook. Before I get to my task, I find a meal or some popcorn or something and waste a little time with that. If it's an especially unproductive day, or my deadline is a little less pressing, I'll watch an episode of Leverage before continuing my work.

"Continuing" isn't especially accurate, I suppose. "Starting" is more like it.

Mercifully, once I've been at a project for a decent amount of time, I do enter that state known as "flow" and can obsessively focus on my task. Comparing me to an object that is the subject of a physics study, I suppose I must overcome my high coefficient of static friction before I get moving, and after that I'll keep moving until an outside force makes me stop.

I suppose, then, I must make an effort to lower my coefficient of static friction. The most sensible way to do that is to ban myself from Facebook and all other non-essential activities for the duration of a pre-set homeworking timeslot. This is presumably easier said than done, but I ought to try.

And I imagine I'm not the only person out there with this problem!

On Not Needing to Fix It

Last year, during the school year, my MacBook Pro experienced something that is colloquially called "the plaid screen of death." That is, I turned on my beloved laptop and the screen that greeted me was plaid. Plaid. Tartan. Striped with gel-pen colors and looking very, very wrong. It also gave me a cryptic and frightening error message. It was one of the most disturbing things that my young eyes have seen. After rebooting it once or twice and getting the same problem, I'm fairly certain I started to freak out.

Fortunately, I had a netbook and an iTouch which both allowed me to have Internet outside my dorm (though not inside, for various reasons), and this happened during a lull in the semester in terms of homework that required my Mac. But, I didn't know how long fixing it would take, I didn't know if the hard drive was in tact, and I knew I would have to make the long, terrible, deadly drive to the closest Apple Store. I was not pleased.

The following day, on the morning of my pilgrimage, I had a very early class. I don't remember why I didn't skip it. I was exhausted, I was stressed, I was angry, I was frightened for my computer and my data, and within hours I would be driving unfamiliar roads in highly populated areas of Orlando. For some reason that I cannot now recall, I still decided to wake up on time to go to my 8:30 AM class.

I'd never before understood what to do when someone was having a bad day, especially if I couldn't fix the problem. I understand listening to people "vent," but I never had any clue if I was supposed to say anything or do anything specific if I couldn't fix it for them, or tell them what to do.

The 8:30 AM class was, fortunately, taught by one of my all-time favorite professors, a nice guy who teaches the material in a sensible, linear fashion. By the end of the class, I was actually in a good mood, partially distracted from my troubles and partially feeling like they didn't amount to such a big deal after all. I was feeling hopeful. It was the sort of take-on-the-world feeling that I usually get from a good cup of coffee. And I got this kind of mood-improvement from someone who didn't even know that I had a problem, who probably didn't even speak directly to me that day.

That was about when I learned that I don't have to fix other people's problems to help them through it. Generally, all I have to do is give them some hope and positivity to help them fix it on their own. I will always contend that God gives more hope than ever I can, but besides pointing people in That Direction, I can also, you know, be nice. And stuff.

Incidentally, Apple replaced the motherboard, after which my Mac - and its hard drive - were totally fine.

A 50-Year-Old Man

In about three days, my father will be exactly half a century old.

Good gravy, old man, I didn't think of fifty as old until I phrased it that way. Now I'll be making fun of you for at least the next two weeks.

Anyway, in celebration of this milestone in my father's life, I will give here a brief, biased, and partially extrapolated biography.

My father was born in nineteen-sixty. A good, round year, right at the start of a new decade. Granted, nothing else exciting happened on that particular day (except that a world-record low temperature was measured in Vostok, Antarctica), but that means if he ever gets famous for something, his birthday will be celebrated in a Google Doodle without competition from other events. That is a good thing, indeed.

After he was born, he lived somewhere in Connecticut with his parents and his three sisters, I'm pretty sure. Nothing exciting happened until after high school, when he had roommates. Roommates, cats, and motorcycles. There was one roommate, possibly the one named Joe, who participated in some insanity that involved keeping motorcycles in the apartment and motorcycle parts in the kitchen cabinet. For some reason this made sense to them. Probably because they were awesome.

At some point, my dad found Christ. Additionally, Jimmy Carter got out of office, Ronald Reagan got in, and people could get real jobs again, so my dad went to college. Also, at some point, my dad married my mom. It was in these days that he turned into a real person. He ended up getting a job as an engineer and has been more or less stuck in Dilbertland ever since.

In 1989, something very important happened. My dad became a dad. Therefore, I exist. In 1991, my brother came into existence. In 1999, we moved to Florida for some Dad's-job-related reason, and since then, he's been enjoying a snow-free version of Dilbertland and seems to be fairly happy. He has also taken on the stock market as his hobby. He sometimes mimics Jim Cramer, and it's a little scary.

So, as far as I can tell, he's a good father and a good husband and a decent cat-owner. I also think he's harmlessly insane at times, but as my mother tells me that I'm exactly like him, I won't emphasize that point too much. It's mostly related to pun-making and math-liking and making lists of stuff, anyway.

Happy birthday, Dad! We love you! And you're old now.

Exhausted.

I am exausted. Blog today is cancelled; see you Wednesday!

On Focus of Occupation

I strongly dislike the idea that I have to choose a path for my life, particularly in regards to my career, and stick with it, never straying. It has long been frustrating to me that we live one life and may have one career, may never see all things or learn all things or do all things while we exist on the Earth. I have rejected the idea of a single career, and preferred the idea of two or three or four careers in a lifetime, some simultaneous.

But how does one manage such a thing? It would likely entail receiving multiple degrees, and would certainly make it much harder to become expert at anything, or to cultivate real passion at anything, or even to have much free time. We are not, perhaps, meant to be so scattered.

So, perhaps I should be a writer only, or at least make that my plan. But what shall I write? Articles, poetry, fantasy, science fiction, biography, science, adventure? Fiction or non-fiction? Literature or the popular style? How much does one need to focus?

Last year, I had a conversation with someone about Focus in this respect. He, too, seemed to reject the idea that such focus of occupation is necessary. As an undergrad, he had gotten a Math major, with minors in Economics, Physics, and Statistics, and he has written myriad papers on myriad areas of math and science. He spoke with disdain of a professor he knew who overestimated the value of focus, a man whose concentration on a particular area of number theory was nearly very detrimental to his career. I thought, well good, someone agrees with me, someone intelligent and in a very effective life position.

Since then, I have given it more thought.

The main basis of Economics, Physics, and Statistics is Mathematics. Every paper this guy has written is about Mathematics. The problems he solves are based in Mathematics. His skill, his Focus, is in problem-solving with Mathematics. He is not unfocused. He has a concentration, and an effective one.

I can't be a tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor, AND a writer (unfortunately), but I can be a writer of fiction, non-fiction, articles, poetry, and more sections of the Dewey Decimal System than Isaac Asimov should God be willing for that to happen. I'm good with that.

Ten Modern Things

I know I can be a bit old-fashioned. I tend sometimes towards the fifties, sometimes towards the 19th century, and sometimes towards Narnian living, but I seldom express delight with present times. Yet, I must be thankful for living when I do. Thus, in no particular order, here are ten things that I appreciate about modern times--varying degrees of modern, anyway.

1. Google. I am always surprised when people tell me they would like to know something, and I ask them if they Googled it, and they tell me they didn't. To me, it is almost reflex. I don't know how to hard boil eggs? Google. I want to learn to Charleston? Google. I want to purchase a custom fantasy-style cloak? Google. I want to know when the next hurricane will hit Florida? Google. I have no idea what people ever did without it.
2. Modern optometry. I have poor vision, and I appreciate contact lenses and the possibility of laser eye surgery someday, especially as advancements are made in that field. Glasses are fine and all, but they are very impractical if you are in the midst of adventure.
3. The ability to print books cheaply. I don't like to imagine living back in the days where a single book cost a great deal of money just because it was so difficult to make one. I like books. I like having them, and I like reading them. I don't care for e-books myself, but I do like the fact that books are so easily available to whoever wants to read one.
   
4. Cell phones. Texting, in particular. I like that I can call from just about anywhere if I have an emergency, but I am more glad for the convenience and connectivity of texting.
5. Higher education for females. I was permitted to go to college, and expected to go to college, and now that I am in college I am expected to graduate rather than find a husband and drop out. I can go to grad school if I want. I could be a professor. It isn't strange that I read. I may be inundated with learning and academia if I so choose, and even if I don't choose, I am happy that the option exists.
6. Contraception. By the time I get married and have to deal with such things, there will probably be even more available options than there are currently. This is good. I don't want children.
7. Sharpies. Sharpie permanent markers are awesome. Also, Sharpie makes the best pens.
8. Rock music. What would we do without rock music? Specifically, I am fond of the grunge and post-grunge sound.
9. Whiteboards. During the last school year, I used my mirror and dry-erase markers to plan my schedule and to-do list, and to practice math without wasting paper. Now, I have a small whiteboard that I don't plan to mount on the wall. Instead, I sit on my bed or at my desk, and hold it like a large clipboard. It is especially useful for all transient tasks of the pen.
   
10. Indoor plumbing. Whenever I've got myself wanting to live in Narnia or very far back in time, I need only remember proper bathrooms, and the craving subsides.
    

Answers to Pseudo-Random Questions

For kicks and giggles, today I am using the Imagination Prompt Generator and giving brief answers to some of the random questions that come up.

• If your tears could speak to you, what would they say? "It was much warmer in your face. Could you stop crying now?"
• List five books that you've read this year. I just re-read the whole Chronicles of Narnia series, so that's seven right there. Bam.
  
• People that irritate me... are often thrown into my life in places where I can't just avoid them, possibly for some patience-building purpose.
• I wish I could... take a sailing ship around the world. Or around the Eastern seas of Narnia. Or just anywhere, really.
• Describe a typical day in elementary school. I do wish my memory were that good. Uh...I think there were snacks in there somewhere. And we had the alphabet on the floor. Yeah.
• Describe the perfect Spring day and the activities done on that day. I have this Norman Rockwell book called Norman Rockwell's America. If you ever find that book and look at some of his images of happy youngsters outdoors, I think you'll figure it out.
• Name five things laying around your computer. My cell phone, the notebook I've been using to write notes for my novel, mixed herb seed packets from Microsoft, a Secondhand Lions DVD, and my absentee ballot.
• What's your favorite special occasion? Probably the Christmas season. It's so happy! And musical! And cold! I also like any special occasion that lets me wear a dress.

On the Fiction of C. S. Lewis

If you know me decently well, you know I am a big fan of C. S. Lewis. Most folks just seem to know him for The Chronicles of Narnia, but he has written far more than just that. I've read most of his fiction (including the Chronicles, his Space Trilogy, The Great Divorce, The Screwtape Letters, and Till We Have Faces), and hope to delve into his letters and his apologetics at a later date.

Sometimes I meet people who understand this love, completely. Other times, I meet people who don't understand at all. So here, I shall try to explain.

I suppose the first things I love about his writings are the most basic, obvious sorts of things. His descriptions are so full, so vivid, that I may as well be watching it on film, or walking about the book myself. The characters have character. The plot has suspense without relying on it, so that you may read the books over and over again. The good humans have their human flaws, and the bad ones are perfectly despicable.

This despicable quality is the next thing that I so appreciate in his books. Lewis did not write the sort of bad guys that anyone wants to emulate. They are foolish and horrid and at times perfectly disgusting, and almost always quite pitiable. You want them gone, to be sure, for they pose a real danger, and yet you pity them and their miserable states. In his life, Lewis wrote each work purely for the side of good, and he allowed no mistake, no question in that.

So of course, I very much enjoy the goodness of his writings. I like the holiness of the heavenly characters. I like the freshness of Narnia, of Perelandra and Malacandra, of the Heaven in The Great Divorce. I like the portraits he paints of virtuous people, like Psyche and Dr. Ransom. When he wrote these things, he had a clear distinction in his mind between what is good and what is unholy, and every book is a portrait, a verbal portrait, of that distinction. As you read it, he works it into your mind, weaving this tapestry without you noticing it is being woven until it is almost complete.

Perhaps the thing I like best about his works is this portrait-painting. Where the Bible is straightforward in giving you a class on goodness, listing things like the Fruit of the Spirit and the sorts of actions that God despises, Lewis shows these things instead of telling them. He hints at it, meanders through its gardens and leads you by the hand, as you look about you in wonder and realize, "This is what they meant." The Psalms and the prophets proclaim the glory of God, and Lewis, with the verbal paintbrush that God handed him, shows the glory of God to us small, childlike, foolish people, who forget to see the wonder in the setting sun, and who never before could see the things the Psalmists could see.

The Holy Bible is the only true and complete Book of Truth, and Christ is the only One we should strive to emulate. With that warning in mind, I bid you to try the fiction, or the letters, or the apologetics of C. S. Lewis. It is well worth the time.

Things My Father Has Taught Me

In honor of Father's Day, today's blog shall be a sort of Father's Day special, listing some of the advice my dad has given me, directly and indirectly.

The companion Mother's Day blog can be found here. Also, apologies for posting Sunday instead of Saturday...yesterday just ran away from me.

So what has my father taught me? Well...

• +Never upgrade your computer's OS - or Office software, or your cell phone, or your coffee machine - without waiting to see whether everyone hates it first. In fact, if you can wait two or three (or eight) versions without upgrading, you're totally awesome.
• +Clutter is sinful.
• +Classic rock is good.
  
• +To save money, keep your thermostat at 77 in the summer and 62 in the winter. Higher than 77, you start to get mildew. Below 62, your family starts to revolt.
  
• +Drink coffee.
• +When everyone else is going crazy, chill out, because there's probably no need to go crazy and you'll start to miss important details.
  
• +Being an engineer is exactly like the Dilbert comics make it seem.
• +When a motorcyclist is near you on the road, imagine the bike is taking up the same amount of space that a car does, and base your passing and following distance on that imaginary size.
  
• +Trust in God, for He is good.
  
• +Reading is superior to watching television.
  
• +Make yourself indispensable, so that nobody may dispense with you.
  
• +Motorcyclists are inherently good people.
  
• +Even when the Republicans are being stupid, the Democrats are always, always, always twice as stupid.

If you have any Dad-isms of your own to add, please share them in the comments!

Things My Mother Has Taught Me

Since Mother's Day is tomorrow, I'm doing a sort of Mother's Day special on advice from my mom. Most of it has been gleaned indirectly, from seeing how she does what she does.

(Edit 20.Jun.2010: The companion Father's Day blog can be found here.)

Some things my mother has taught me:

• +Unplug your toaster after using it, or the next lightning storm will destroy it for sure.
• +Use coupons, discount cards, and mad haggling skills to get things cheaper. Also, take advantage of rummage sales, thrift stores, garage sales, and friends who are getting rid of stuff.
• +Take vacations.
• +Make sure your tires aren't flat before you get in your car.
• +Archie comics are the best comics.
  
• +If something isn't perfect (including purchased items and food at restaurants), complain until they fix it or make it up to you. After all, you paid for it.
• +It is perfectly okay to collect toys when you aren't a kid anymore.
• +McDonald's is good. Burger King is evil.
• +On hot days, don't go outside between 11 AM and 3 PM. Between 3 and 6ish is fine, but after that the mosquitoes come out and you have to go back inside.
  
• +Cats are completely worth the trouble it takes to own them.
• +Be nice to your mother, or your life will be much harder than it needs to be.
  
• +Always check under your car for gators and rapists.

If you have any motherly advice of your own to add, share it in a comment!

A Personal Taste of Wonderland

It is a brick building, an old building, five stories high and full of rooms and mysteries that I will never know. It is a world of its own, full of tea-drinkers and puzzle-solvers, men in collared shirts who feel quietly important, offices and rooms for learning that have chalkboards, not whiteboards, with real chalk and erasers.

The first floor is more like a basement, in terms of access to the outside, and houses the locked door to a Foucault pendulum, which is suspended from the ceiling and has been inactive for years.

The second floor is the main floor. One major entrance leads to the landing between the first and second floors, and the other, on the opposite side of the building, leads straight to the second floor. On the second, third, and fourth floors, between the two flights of stairs heading towards and away from each floor, there is a row of chairs. That row on the second floor is especially good for sitting. It is prime for watching people, the people who belong to that place and the people who don't, and it has a view of that second main entrance, the ramp that goes straight to the second floor. There is a brick arch over that ramp, which connects to brick ceiling and brick walls and the rest of the brick building, and sitting in that row on the second floor allows a perfect view of the slanted natural light on the large alcove beyond the arch. You see, when walking into the building, from that ramp, the main doors are to the left of the arch. When sitting in that row of chairs inside the building, the main doors are directly in front of you, placing the arch beyond the doors and to the right, sunlight slanting in like something magical, something unreal. Especially, it is something beyond what one expects to see in this city.

The first through fourth floors all have normal purposes, but the fifth floor is small, tiny, in fact, and holds only a door to the roof, a door to a room of excess furniture, and a door to the place of the building's inner workings. The floor itself is merely a partial room with a brick floor, good for thinking alone. It is the one place that I can find true solitude in the middle of the day.

There is more to this place than just the physical building. To breathe its air, to learn of its world, to meet its true inhabitants, is to begin to fall under its spell. I have breathed this air, had tea with the puzzle-solvers and believed I too belonged there. But I have not visited it for days now, and in breathing the air that is fresh, I begin to wonder--is that the world in which I belong?

They did welcome me. Oh, how they welcomed me. It would take work, to join them, but it was perfectly possible, even for one so young and ignorant as I. And others congratulated my choice--to have a woman among them would be marvelous, and unexpected. I received smiles, I received guidance, I was handed a perfect plan for solving the puzzles with them, for the rest of my days if I chose. I need give up no other dream, merely the time and money it would take to gain the necessary skills. And then, I could live in their world for real.

But I have not visited for days now. Maybe weeks. I have been thinking. As fresh oxygen reaches my lungs, instead of their stardust, their chalk dust, I have begun to wonder if that world is where I belong.

What I want to do is to do as I am doing now, at this very moment, as I am putting these letters in this order. I want to write. "How vain it is," spoke Thoreau, whom I seldom believe but for this, "to sit down to write, when you have not stood up to live." I want to live in all worlds, to experience all good things, and to breathe the beauty of every good place. This world of brick and puzzles and magic, which I have grown to love, will never be thoroughly known to me, for I have other worlds to taste, and other beauty to see.

This building is the Math and Physics building at my university. It means nothing to so many students; it has been Narnia and the Wardrobe itself to me. I briefly thought I should do this for my life, that I should get a Ph.D. in mathematics, that I should be one of these professors, living in my office every day, solving puzzles for the world and teaching students how to solve puzzles of their own. It sounded beautiful, it sounded perfect. The epiphany hit me as I sat within that building, breathing in its spell. As I rule, I don't trust epiphanies, but I chose to trust this one anyway.

But I have not visited it for days now, and I can breathe air again. So back to my original plan I go. I would like to be a writer. I want to solve puzzles in my free time, of mathematics or cryptography, but if I never have the time for such things, I want writing and exploring to be the main takers of my time.

I don't much care whether you disagree with me. I have missed breathing proper air.

bought a Dionaea

So I bought a Venus fly trap.

I should update this thing more often. I'm actually a terribly exciting person.

Double Major

There’s an accelerated masters program at UCF available for computer science majors, and I, a computer science minor and digital media major, was nearly sucked into changing that minor to a second major. It would certainly be useful, and as more and more jobs are requiring graduate school from their employees, being able to complete a master’s program in just one extra year seems like it would be a very good idea.

Well, a good idea except for the fact that I would never have time to see my friends again.

This semester, I took six classes that totaled nineteen credit hours. I had to get an override in order to do that, since UCF normally limits a semester to seventeen hours. I was also active in the Robotics Club and the College Republicans, and I have a boyfriend who goes to UF and who visits regularly. Throw friends and hobbies into that, and I have no time to breathe. Well, I like breathing, so I more or less put my friends and hobbies on hold.

All semester long, I told myself, it’s just a semester. Come winter break, I’ll have time again. Come spring semester, I’ll take fewer hours and everything will be okay. It’s just this one semester.

Then I found out about the accelerated BS to MS program. Oh, how tempting, how useful! And I do love being busy, and I love taking on unnecessary challenges “just to see if I can,” and I love computer science. However, I would have to take many extra classes, and I’d have to take graduate-level classes in my junior and senior year, something for which I was wholly unprepared. I dithered for days. Should I do it?

Well, I made my decision. Were I to double-major and do the master’s program, I wouldn’t do it because it is “useful” or even because I enjoy computer science; I’d be doing it because I am addicted to being busy, to having every second of my life too full to think. I like the feeling of accomplishment when it’s over, and I’m arrogant enough to feel special while I’m in the thick of it, telling people “I can’t, I have a lot of work to do.” Sometimes, the work itself is fun. Calculus seemed like a game sometimes, a series of puzzles, and for history I took pleasure in writing an amazing piece on H. L. Mencken. Learning logic in discrete structures was positively delightful.

Yet, I let important things fall to the wayside when I am busy. My friends call me “stranger” and ask me where I’ve been. I wish I weren’t three months behind on Vogue and Elle. I bought an Ironman comic book many weeks ago, read a few pages, and it’s been woefully neglected since. By firmly deciding not to double major, I am allowing myself a healthy amount of free time in future semesters, something I know I desperately need.

I haven’t even had time to write anything that wasn’t required for a class until now. Good grief.