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All posts for the month January, 2013

Revised Emergency Plan

Published January 31, 2013 by Malia

Tonight if aliens invade, or orcas attack, or I find myself suddenly at the mercy of a group of chipmunks who have somehow figured out how to invade my home and climb my loft bed, I have one plan and strategy alone.  I’m just going to lay here in bed and not move.  At all. I am that tired.  I seriously thought earlier that if aliens did invade I’d be super excited because either they would A. be wise and kind and have medical advancement that would be able to deal with my exhaustion and I’d feel fresh and renewed, or B. they shoot and kill me and the disintegration would be quick and I’d be in Heaven, and there would be no more exhaustion.  So, really, win/win.  I’m so tired, I don’t even care that my grammar is lousy tonight.

I still absolutely adore my job, even though it was a bit frustrating tonight.  I had three different people give me completely different sets of instructions about the same exact thing.  I was more than a little confused.  Plus, I felt my inner Sheldon trying so hard to scream, “You’re in my spot!”  Even though spots aren’t assigned at work, we all kind of have certain areas that are more or less our space.  My happens to have all sorts of helpful post-its hanging up with good reminders.  When I came back from supper, one of my coworkers had completely taken over my space.  Inside all I could think was, “You’re in my spot.  You. Are. In. My. Spot.”  Yeah, I’m thinking the counseling center might’ve been on to something by telling me that I have an adjustment disorder.  Anyway, I resisted the urge to actually vocalize my feelings, but I was a bit disappointed when my co-worker left, and didn’t put anything back.  That’s just not polite.  So, not only did I get to clean up the area I was working in, but I also had to put my normal area back in order.    Okay, yeah, I’m whiny and crabby.  I’m thinking I may need sleep.

I’m also thinking that I need to get my chimichanga and white queso on my way to work tomorrow.  I like having something special for lunch on Fridays.

I’ll Never

Published January 28, 2013 by Malia

Never is an interesting word.  Have you ever found yourself thinking, “Well, I’ll NEVER do/be/go/live that/there?”  Why, why, why do we say it?  It’s like we’re asking to be doomed to that fate.  Notice, most people don’t use never in a positive manner.  It’s always, “I’ll never be stuck in a dead end job.”  “I’ll never live in North Dakota.”  “I’ll never marry that person.”  You get the point.  Never seems to be this prophetic word.  I wonder what would happen if you said “never” about things that you actually want to have happen?  “I’ll never live in Hawaii.”  “I’ll never lose the weight.”  “That person will never marry me.”  Of course, that seems like it might backfire.    

Random Saturday Musings

Published January 27, 2013 by Malia

Jane Eyre has been on my mind quite a bit lately.  She has always been my favorite female character from literature.  The book is a fabulous tragic love story.  I don’t know why I’m drawn to the tragic.

Spoiler alert for anyone who doesn’t know the story…

About halfway through the book, Jane realizes that she isn’t just Mr. Rochester’s friend, but she’s also in love with him.  This is fine and dandy, except for the fact that he’s engaged.  One night they end up in an intense discussion regarding the fact that Jane needs to go to Ireland, since Mr. Rochester will have no more need of her being governess to his ward.  Jane ends up making a pretty impressive, impassioned speech.  No matter how many times I read it, I tear up.  And, because it’s just such a great chapter, I’m just going to post it here:

A splendid Midsummer shone over England: skies so pure, suns so radiant as were then seen in long succession, seldom favour even singly, our wave-girt land. It was as if a band of Italian days had come from the South, like a flock of glorious passenger birds, and lighted to rest them on the cliffs of Albion. The hay was all got in; the fields round Thornfield were green and shorn; the roads white and baked; the trees were in their dark prime; hedge and wood, full-leaved and deeply tinted, contrasted well with the sunny hue of the cleared meadows between. 

On Midsummer-eve, Adele, weary with gathering wild strawberries in Hay Lane half the day, had gone to bed with the sun. I watched her drop asleep, and when I left her, I sought the garden. 

It was now the sweetest hour of the twenty-four:- “Day its fervid fires had wasted,” and dew fell cool on panting plain and scorched summit. Where the sun had gone down in simple state–pure of the pomp of clouds–spread a solemn purple, burning with the light of red jewel and furnace flame at one point, on one hill-peak, and extending high and wide, soft and still softer, over half heaven. The east had its own charm or fine deep blue, and its own modest gem, a casino and solitary star: soon it would boast the moon; but she was yet beneath the horizon. 

I walked a while on the pavement; but a subtle, well-known scent– that of a cigar–stole from some window; I saw the library casement open a handbreadth; I knew I might be watched thence; so I went apart into the orchard. No nook in the grounds more sheltered and more Eden-like; it was full of trees, it bloomed with flowers: a very high wall shut it out from the court, on one side; on the other, a beech avenue screened it from the lawn. At the bottom was a sunk fence; its sole separation from lonely fields: a winding walk, bordered with laurels and terminating in a giant horse- chestnut, circled at the base by a seat, led down to the fence. Here one could wander unseen. While such honey-dew fell, such silence reigned, such gloaming gathered, I felt as if I could haunt such shade for ever; but in threading the flower and fruit parterres at the upper part of the enclosure, enticed there by the light the now rising moon cast on this more open quarter, my step is stayed– not by sound, not by sight, but once more by a warning fragrance. 

Sweet-briar and southernwood, jasmine, pink, and rose have long been yielding their evening sacrifice of incense: this new scent is neither of shrub nor flower; it is–I know it well–it is Mr. Rochester’s cigar. I look round and I listen. I see trees laden with ripening fruit. I hear a nightingale warbling in a wood half a mile off; no moving form is visible, no coming step audible; but that perfume increases: I must flee. I make for the wicket leading to the shrubbery, and I see Mr. Rochester entering. I step aside into the ivy recess; he will not stay long: he will soon return whence he came, and if I sit still he will never see me. 

But no–eventide is as pleasant to him as to me, and this antique garden as attractive; and he strolls on, now lifting the gooseberry- tree branches to look at the fruit, large as plums, with which they are laden; now taking a ripe cherry from the wall; now stooping towards a knot of flowers, either to inhale their fragrance or to admire the dew-beads on their petals. A great moth goes humming by me; it alights on a plant at Mr. Rochester’s foot: he sees it, and bends to examine it. 

“Now, he has his back towards me,” thought I, “and he is occupied too; perhaps, if I walk softly, I can slip away unnoticed.” 

I trode on an edging of turf that the crackle of the pebbly gravel might not betray me: he was standing among the beds at a yard or two distant from where I had to pass; the moth apparently engaged him. “I shall get by very well,” I meditated. As I crossed his shadow, thrown long over the garden by the moon, not yet risen high, he said quietly, without turning – 

“Jane, come and look at this fellow.” 

I had made no noise: he had not eyes behind–could his shadow feel? I started at first, and then I approached him. 

“Look at his wings,” said he, “he reminds me rather of a West Indian insect; one does not often see so large and gay a night-rover in England; there! he is flown.” 

The moth roamed away. I was sheepishly retreating also; but Mr. Rochester followed me, and when we reached the wicket, he said – 

“Turn back: on so lovely a night it is a shame to sit in the house; and surely no one can wish to go to bed while sunset is thus at meeting with moonrise.” 

It is one of my faults, that though my tongue is sometimes prompt enough at an answer, there are times when it sadly fails me in framing an excuse; and always the lapse occurs at some crisis, when a facile word or plausible pretext is specially wanted to get me out of painful embarrassment. I did not like to walk at this hour alone with Mr. Rochester in the shadowy orchard; but I could not find a reason to allege for leaving him. I followed with lagging step, and thoughts busily bent on discovering a means of extrication; but he himself looked so composed and so grave also, I became ashamed of feeling any confusion: the evil–if evil existent or prospective there was–seemed to lie with me only; his mind was unconscious and quiet. 

“Jane,” he recommenced, as we entered the laurel walk, and slowly strayed down in the direction of the sunk fence and the horse- chestnut, “Thornfield is a pleasant place in summer, is it not?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“You must have become in some degree attached to the house,–you, who have an eye for natural beauties, and a good deal of the organ of Adhesiveness?” 

“I am attached to it, indeed.” 

“And though I don’t comprehend how it is, I perceive you have acquired a degree of regard for that foolish little child Adele, too; and even for simple dame Fairfax?” 

“Yes, sir; in different ways, I have an affection for both.” 

“And would be sorry to part with them?” 

“Yes.” 

“Pity!” he said, and sighed and paused. “It is always the way of events in this life,” he continued presently: “no sooner have you got settled in a pleasant resting-place, than a voice calls out to you to rise and move on, for the hour of repose is expired.” 

“Must I move on, sir?” I asked. “Must I leave Thornfield?” 

“I believe you must, Jane. I am sorry, Janet, but I believe indeed you must.” 

This was a blow: but I did not let it prostrate me. 

“Well, sir, I shall be ready when the order to march comes.” 

“It is come now–I must give it to-night.” 

“Then you ARE going to be married, sir?” 

“Ex-act-ly–pre-cise-ly: with your usual acuteness, you have hit the nail straight on the head.” 

“Soon, sir?” 

“Very soon, my–that is, Miss Eyre: and you’ll remember, Jane, the first time I, or Rumour, plainly intimated to you that it was my intention to put my old bachelor’s neck into the sacred noose, to enter into the holy estate of matrimony–to take Miss Ingram to my bosom, in short (she’s an extensive armful: but that’s not to the point–one can’t have too much of such a very excellent thing as my beautiful Blanche): well, as I was saying–listen to me, Jane! You’re not turning your head to look after more moths, are you? That was only a lady-clock, child, ‘flying away home.’ I wish to remind you that it was you who first said to me, with that discretion I respect in you–with that foresight, prudence, and humility which befit your responsible and dependent position–that in case I married Miss Ingram, both you and little Adele had better trot forthwith. I pass over the sort of slur conveyed in this suggestion on the character of my beloved; indeed, when you are far away, Janet, I’ll try to forget it: I shall notice only its wisdom; which is such that I have made it my law of action. Adele must go to school; and you, Miss Eyre, must get a new situation.” 

“Yes, sir, I will advertise immediately: and meantime, I suppose–” I was going to say, “I suppose I may stay here, till I find another shelter to betake myself to:” but I stopped, feeling it would not do to risk a long sentence, for my voice was not quite under command. 

“In about a month I hope to be a bridegroom,” continued Mr. Rochester; “and in the interim, I shall myself look out for employment and an asylum for you.” 

“Thank you, sir; I am sorry to give–” 

“Oh, no need to apologise! I consider that when a dependent does her duty as well as you have done yours, she has a sort of claim upon her employer for any little assistance he can conveniently render her; indeed I have already, through my future mother-in-law, heard of a place that I think will suit: it is to undertake the education of the five daughters of Mrs. Dionysius O’Gall of Bitternutt Lodge, Connaught, Ireland. You’ll like Ireland, I think: they’re such warm-hearted people there, they say.” 

“It is a long way off, sir.” 

“No matter–a girl of your sense will not object to the voyage or the distance.” 

“Not the voyage, but the distance: and then the sea is a barrier–” 

“From what, Jane?” 

“From England and from Thornfield: and–” 

“Well?” 

“From YOU, sir.” 

I said this almost involuntarily, and, with as little sanction of free will, my tears gushed out. I did not cry so as to be heard, however; I avoided sobbing. The thought of Mrs. O’Gall and Bitternutt Lodge struck cold to my heart; and colder the thought of all the brine and foam, destined, as it seemed, to rush between me and the master at whose side I now walked, and coldest the remembrance of the wider ocean–wealth, caste, custom intervened between me and what I naturally and inevitably loved. 

“It is a long way,” I again said. 

“It is, to be sure; and when you get to Bitternutt Lodge, Connaught, Ireland, I shall never see you again, Jane: that’s morally certain. I never go over to Ireland, not having myself much of a fancy for the country. We have been good friends, Jane; have we not?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“And when friends are on the eve of separation, they like to spend the little time that remains to them close to each other. Come! we’ll talk over the voyage and the parting quietly half-an-hour or so, while the stars enter into their shining life up in heaven yonder: here is the chestnut tree: here is the bench at its old roots. Come, we will sit there in peace to-night, though we should never more be destined to sit there together.” He seated me and himself. 

“It is a long way to Ireland, Janet, and I am sorry to send my little friend on such weary travels: but if I can’t do better, how is it to be helped? Are you anything akin to me, do you think, Jane?” 

I could risk no sort of answer by this time: my heart was still. 

“Because,” he said, “I sometimes have a queer feeling with regard to you–especially when you are near me, as now: it is as if I had a string somewhere under my left ribs, tightly and inextricably knotted to a similar string situated in the corresponding quarter of your little frame. And if that boisterous Channel, and two hundred miles or so of land come broad between us, I am afraid that cord of communion will be snapt; and then I’ve a nervous notion I should take to bleeding inwardly. As for you,–you’d forget me.” 

“That I NEVER should, sir: you know–” Impossible to proceed. 

“Jane, do you hear that nightingale singing in the wood? Listen!” 

In listening, I sobbed convulsively; for I could repress what I endured no longer; I was obliged to yield, and I was shaken from head to foot with acute distress. When I did speak, it was only to express an impetuous wish that I had never been born, or never come to Thornfield. 

“Because you are sorry to leave it?” 

The vehemence of emotion, stirred by grief and love within me, was claiming mastery, and struggling for full sway, and asserting a right to predominate, to overcome, to live, rise, and reign at last: yes,–and to speak. 

“I grieve to leave Thornfield: I love Thornfield:- I love it, because I have lived in it a full and delightful life,–momentarily at least. I have not been trampled on. I have not been petrified. I have not been buried with inferior minds, and excluded from every glimpse of communion with what is bright and energetic and high. I have talked, face to face, with what I reverence, with what I delight in,–with an original, a vigorous, an expanded mind. I have known you, Mr. Rochester; and it strikes me with terror and anguish to feel I absolutely must be torn from you for ever. I see the necessity of departure; and it is like looking on the necessity of death.” 

“Where do you see the necessity?” he asked suddenly. 

“Where? You, sir, have placed it before me.” 

“In what shape?” 

“In the shape of Miss Ingram; a noble and beautiful woman,–your bride.” 

“My bride! What bride? I have no bride!” 

“But you will have.” 

“Yes;–I will!–I will!” He set his teeth. 

“Then I must go:- you have said it yourself.” 

“No: you must stay! I swear it–and the oath shall be kept.” 

“I tell you I must go!” I retorted, roused to something like passion. “Do you think I can stay to become nothing to you? Do you think I am an automaton?–a machine without feelings? and can bear to have my morsel of bread snatched from my lips, and my drop of living water dashed from my cup? Do you think, because I am poor, obscure, plain, and little, I am soulless and heartless? You think wrong!–I have as much soul as you,–and full as much heart! And if God had gifted me with some beauty and much wealth, I should have made it as hard for you to leave me, as it is now for me to leave you. I am not talking to you now through the medium of custom, conventionalities, nor even of mortal flesh;–it is my spirit that addresses your spirit; just as if both had passed through the grave, and we stood at God’s feet, equal,–as we are!” 

“As we are!” repeated Mr. Rochester–“so,” he added, enclosing me in his arms. Gathering me to his breast, pressing his lips on my lips: “so, Jane!” 

“Yes, so, sir,” I rejoined: “and yet not so; for you are a married man–or as good as a married man, and wed to one inferior to you–to one with whom you have no sympathy–whom I do not believe you truly love; for I have seen and heard you sneer at her. I would scorn such a union: therefore I am better than you–let me go!” 

“Where, Jane? To Ireland?” 

“Yes–to Ireland. I have spoken my mind, and can go anywhere now.” 

“Jane, be still; don’t struggle so, like a wild frantic bird that is rending its own plumage in its desperation.” 

“I am no bird; and no net ensnares me; I am a free human being with an independent will, which I now exert to leave you.” 

Another effort set me at liberty, and I stood erect before him. 

“And your will shall decide your destiny,” he said: “I offer you my hand, my heart, and a share of all my possessions.” 

“You play a farce, which I merely laugh at.” 

“I ask you to pass through life at my side–to be my second self, and best earthly companion.” 

“For that fate you have already made your choice, and must abide by it.” 

“Jane, be still a few moments: you are over-excited: I will be still too.” 

A waft of wind came sweeping down the laurel-walk, and trembled through the boughs of the chestnut: it wandered away–away–to an indefinite distance–it died. The nightingale’s song was then the only voice of the hour: in listening to it, I again wept. Mr. Rochester sat quiet, looking at me gently and seriously. Some time passed before he spoke; he at last said – 

“Come to my side, Jane, and let us explain and understand one another.” 

“I will never again come to your side: I am torn away now, and cannot return.” 

“But, Jane, I summon you as my wife: it is you only I intend to marry.” 

I was silent: I thought he mocked me. 

“Come, Jane–come hither.” 

“Your bride stands between us.” 

He rose, and with a stride reached me. 

“My bride is here,” he said, again drawing me to him, “because my equal is here, and my likeness. Jane, will you marry me?” 

Still I did not answer, and still I writhed myself from his grasp: for I was still incredulous. 

“Do you doubt me, Jane?” 

“Entirely.” 

“You have no faith in me?” 

“Not a whit.” 

“Am I a liar in your eyes?” he asked passionately. “Little sceptic, you SHALL be convinced. What love have I for Miss Ingram? None: and that you know. What love has she for me? None: as I have taken pains to prove: I caused a rumour to reach her that my fortune was not a third of what was supposed, and after that I presented myself to see the result; it was coldness both from her and her mother. I would not–I could not–marry Miss Ingram. You– you strange, you almost unearthly thing!–I love as my own flesh. You–poor and obscure, and small and plain as you are–I entreat to accept me as a husband.” 

“What, me!” I ejaculated, beginning in his earnestness–and especially in his incivility–to credit his sincerity: “me who have not a friend in the world but you- if you are my friend: not a shilling but what you have given me?” 

“You, Jane, I must have you for my own–entirely my own. Will you be mine? Say yes, quickly.” 

“Mr. Rochester, let me look at your face: turn to the moonlight.” 

“Why?” 

“Because I want to read your countenance–turn!” 

“There! you will find it scarcely more legible than a crumpled, scratched page. Read on: only make haste, for I suffer.” 

His face was very much agitated and very much flushed, and there were strong workings in the features, and strange gleams in the eyes 

“Oh, Jane, you torture me!” he exclaimed. “With that searching and yet faithful and generous look, you torture me!” 

“How can I do that? If you are true, and your offer real, my only feelings to you must be gratitude and devotion–they cannot torture.” 

“Gratitude!” he ejaculated; and added wildly–“Jane accept me quickly. Say, Edward–give me my name–Edward–I will marry you.” 

“Are you in earnest? Do you truly love me? Do you sincerely wish me to be your wife?” 

“I do; and if an oath is necessary to satisfy you, I swear it.” 

“Then, sir, I will marry you.” 

“Edward–my little wife!” 

“Dear Edward!” 

“Come to me–come to me entirely now,” said he; and added, in his deepest tone, speaking in my ear as his cheek was laid on mine, “Make my happiness–I will make yours.” 

“God pardon me!” he subjoined ere long; “and man meddle not with me: I have her, and will hold her.” 

“There is no one to meddle, sir. I have no kindred to interfere.” 

“No–that is the best of it,” he said. And if I had loved him less I should have thought his accent and look of exultation savage; but, sitting by him, roused from the nightmare of parting–called to the paradise of union–I thought only of the bliss given me to drink in so abundant a flow. Again and again he said, “Are you happy, Jane?” And again and again I answered, “Yes.” After which he murmured, “It will atone–it will atone. Have I not found her friendless, and cold, and comfortless? Will I not guard, and cherish, and solace her? Is there not love in my heart, and constancy in my resolves? It will expiate at God’s tribunal. I know my Maker sanctions what I do. For the world’s judgment–I wash my hands thereof. For man’s opinion–I defy it.” 

But what had befallen the night? The moon was not yet set, and we were all in shadow: I could scarcely see my master’s face, near as I was. And what ailed the chestnut tree? it writhed and groaned; while wind roared in the laurel walk, and came sweeping over us. 

“We must go in,” said Mr. Rochester: “the weather changes. I could have sat with thee till morning, Jane.” 

“And so,” thought I, “could I with you.” I should have said so, perhaps, but a livid, vivid spark leapt out of a cloud at which I was looking, and there was a crack, a crash, and a close rattling peal; and I thought only of hiding my dazzled eyes against Mr. Rochester’s shoulder. 

The rain rushed down. He hurried me up the walk, through the grounds, and into the house; but we were quite wet before we could pass the threshold. He was taking off my shawl in the hall, and shaking the water out of my loosened hair, when Mrs. Fairfax emerged from her room. I did not observe her at first, nor did Mr. Rochester. The lamp was lit. The clock was on the stroke of twelve. 

“Hasten to take off your wet things,” said he; “and before you go, good-night–good-night, my darling!” 

He kissed me repeatedly. When I looked up, on leaving his arms, there stood the widow, pale, grave, and amazed. I only smiled at her, and ran upstairs. “Explanation will do for another time,” thought I. Still, when I reached my chamber, I felt a pang at the idea she should even temporarily misconstrue what she had seen. But joy soon effaced every other feeling; and loud as the wind blew, near and deep as the thunder crashed, fierce and frequent as the lightning gleamed, cataract-like as the rain fell during a storm of two hours’ duration, I experienced no fear and little awe. Mr. Rochester came thrice to my door in the course of it, to ask if I was safe and tranquil: and that was comfort, that was strength for anything. 

Before I left my bed in the morning, little Adele came running in to tell me that the great horse-chestnut at the bottom of the orchard had been struck by lightning in the night, and half of it split away.

Jane Eyre Chapter 23 Charlotte Bronte

http://www.readprint.com/chapter-685/Jane-Eyre-Charlotte-Bronte

The story just gets more fantastic from there-on.

Pillow Talk

Published January 24, 2013 by Malia

My bed is cold.  Every.  Single.  Night.  My bed is lonely.  Every.  Single.  Night.  I’m surrounded by pillows, but you know what the problem with pillows is?  Pillows never ask you how your day was.  Pillows just lay there in various forms of flatness, and are silent.  In fact, if my pillows start talking, I’m pretty sure I have bigger problems than just having a cold, lonely bed.  My point is, on some levels being in my late 20’s and single truly has it’s downsides.

Now, don’t misunderstand me, I greatly enjoy some parts of being single.  I love that if I want to go hang with friends, I have no worries about if I have plans already, or if my friends will accept my boyfriend into our group.  I love that I can be pretty selfish when it comes to my money.  If I want to buy a book or movie or video game (although, I’m pretty sure most guys don’t care if their girls buy video games) and I have the money, it’s no big deal.

Overall, though, as the years pass and I remain single it tends to get more wearing.  I just want someone to share in this adventure of life with.

To this end I was having a conversation with two really close friends a few weeks ago, and one friend asked me if I had a list of what I was looking for.  I had a mental list, but afterwards, I realized that I’ve never written down that list before.  Then earlier this week, as I was praying that God would bring that special someone into a friend’s life, I realized that I’ve never actually prayed that God would bring someone into my life.  So, I immediately texted one of my 3 very bestest friends and asked her if she would pray with me about this.  I really don’t believe I was created to be alone.  I believe that I am alone right now, because there are lessons I am in the process of learning.  However, the desire to be married has yet to be removed (and crazy as it sounds, I’ve prayed it would be), so I’m changing up how I pray.  I rarely ask for help from anyone (even God), which is pretty wrong.  It’s not that I’m too proud, I’m kind of backwards. I don’t want to bug people or God with my needs or wants, because I feel they’re so paltry compared to people with real needs.

Anyway, since I’m not desiring my pillows to develop voices, and I’m not wanting to be known to my “niece” as the crazy cat lady, here’s my list of what I’m looking for:

1.  Not just a fan, but completely on fire for Jesus.

2.  Loves pets; sans bugs, snakes, and spiders.

3.  I don’t care if he’s a sports fan, but he needs to be okay with the fact that I am not, nor will I probably ever be a sports fan.  Also, if I do watch sports, I rarely cheer wildly.  However, I totally love the Olympics, and he will have no problem getting me to sit and watch those games.

4.  Enjoys musicals.

5.  Loves movies.  Going to the movies is something I really love doing, and I would hope that I’d be able to be with someone who not only enjoys the whole going to the theater experience, but is willing to make entertaining comments throughout.

6.  Loves British t.v. shows, especially all things “Who.”  I have always had a soft spot for things produced by the BBC.  Generally, they’re quite a bit better than most things on American television.

7.  Loves books.  Hmmm…maybe this should be a bit higher on my list.  Yeah, it probably belongs up there as number 3.

8.  Family relationships should be important.  I’m pretty much it when it comes to parent care on my side of the family, so he’s going to have to be okay with this, and willing to help me.  Also, it’s super important to me, despite my age, that he ask for my father’s permission to date/court/marry me.

9.  Wants to travel, visit museums, go to the zoo, see the world, and take pictures of all of it.  I admit I’m not a great photographer, but I really love to take pictures.  I want to be with someone who enjoys travel and photography as much as I do.

10.  Be okay with the kid thing.

Let me explain number 10.  (And yes, I’ve kind of talked about this before, and yes, it may be slightly graphic and uncomfortable to read.)

Last fall, when everything went really south, health-wise, I found myself sitting, facing a doctor who was trying to figure out how to deliver unpleasant news.  She had to tell me that it was highly unlikely that I would ever be able to have children.  To this day, I don’t envy doctors who have to tell women this.  Fortunately, for her, I didn’t go into hysterics or any of that sort of reaction.  In fact, I pretty much had already guessed.  I’d known for a long time that certain parts didn’t work right.  Parts that are required to carry a baby through a pregnancy.  Her telling me, just confirmed what I already suspected.  Now, I’ve never been wild about having kids, but I certainly thought having one might not be too bad.  I’m okay (mostly, but believe me there have been some intense discussions with mom and with God regarding the fact that there are 15 year old’s who sleep with everything and get knocked up, and yet I try to be a good kid, and not only do I have this whole nightmare weight situation, but I also have a body that doesn’t understand the basics of how to work right) with all of this, but recently I’ve found myself wondering if this will be a huge check-mark against me for guys.  It seems that a lot of guys, even good guys, are obsessed with the idea of producing babies.  I guess they need to know that their sperm can swim in order to feel like a “real” man.  I figure that if I there’s someone out there who can love me, knowing that I can’t have babies (unless a miracle takes place), then they truly love me, and don’t just view me as breeding stock.

11. Doesn’t take himself too seriously, or say mean-spirited things, thinking he’s being funny.

12.   Loves, respects, and treats me as a partner, not just someone who’s supposed to clean and cook.  In return, I guarantee that I will love, respect, honor, and be loyal.  I’m looking for a best friend.

And there you have it.  I know that we can’t always have what we want, but I figure it doesn’t hurt to be specific.

Vintage?

Published January 22, 2013 by Malia

This May marks 10 years since my name got called and I got my high school diploma.  Well, Sunday I got the Facebook invite to my first class reunion.  I’m really torn, because part of me would love to see everyone again, but there’s this other part of me that just doesn’t want to go anywhere near it.  I don’t want to be reminded that I’m about the only one who didn’t get their bachelor’s degree, nor have I got anyone in my life/or kids.  Maybe I’ll just wait for the 20th.  Surely, surely I will have accomplished something by then…

Anyway, one of my friends from high school posted a story on the reunion page about the fact that someone had borrowed her old cheerleading uniform, and brought it back to her at work.  Some young girls apparently saw it and exclaimed, “OMG! Thats so cute…totally vintage!”  Seriously?  Vintage?  I thought that at least 20 years had to go by before we qualified as owning vintage stuff.  Also, I remember what those uniforms looked like, and I really don’t think that there’s been that much advancement in the field of cheerleading uniforms in the last 10 years.  I wonder if those girls actually understand what the word vintage means.

10 years.  It’s nuts.  It certainly doesn’t feel like 10 years.  No, actually it feels more like 30.  I’m so glad I don’t have to go back and relive those 10 years, because while I wouldn’t change the friendships I’ve made, life itself has been kind of a nightmare.  The first time I actually breathed and felt like I was finding the self I knew 10 years ago happened about 3 weeks ago when I started at my new job.  Every day I look in the mirror and see flashes of a face of the girl I used to be.  Older and wiser (?), but more in tune with what she knows, what she wants, and confidence in who she is.  10 years is a long time to spend wondering if you’ll ever be those things again, and trying desperately to find them.

So, I may be vintage, and they may play songs on the oldies radio that were produced after I was born, but I think I’m going to be okay with all of it.

This is rare…

Published January 21, 2013 by Malia

That’s right, it’s a morning post!  The sun is actually out (or at least I’m assuming it is out somewhere behind the piles of dark grey clouds outside) as I write this.

There’s not very much that’s new in my life.  I’m quite busy at work.  I really love that it lets me make use of my minimal OCD-ness.  I’m really only OCD at work, although my parents are really hoping that maybe my need for everything to be in a certain place and done a certain way will translate into my room getting put in order and my boxes unpacked.  I’m not sure why it’s so difficult for me to unpack.  Maybe it’s because I have moved so many times, I just am leaving stuff packed because subconsciously I’m expecting to move again, and what would be the point of unpacking in that case?  (Wow, that’s a terribly constructed sentence, and yet I refuse to fix it.  I’m just that kind of rebel.)  Anyway, work is pretty fun and on occasion slightly gross.  I like that while there’s the structure of routine, I’m getting different specimens to sort every day, so I never get very bored.  This is a good thing, because I get bored quite easily.

I’ve been working out almost daily (usually M-F with breaks on the weekend).  I can tell my clothes are fitting much better.  I haven’t had a chance to weigh myself in a while, so I have no idea what my weight actually is currently.  Therefore, I’m labeling my weight as “Less-Fat.”  I’m still fat, just not as fat as I was.  I’ve been using the Leslie Sansone walking videos to work out.  I do anywhere from 1-3 miles a day.  It all depends on how awake I am and whether I get to go to work at regular time, or if I have to leave and hour earlier for work (car fun, which has led to sharing of vehicles, which means I usually end up at work 1.5 hours early.  This is okay, though, because I’m getting lots of reading done!)

I got a new betta this weekend.  My last betta, Elvira, passed away while I was at school last fall.  She was living here at home because I wasn’t sure she’d survive the 8 hour drive to Grand Forks.  Anyway, the new betta is a really beautiful blue color, and kind of looks like the eye of a peacock feather.  I had a terrible time not bringing home all the bettas at the store.  I know they’re a little fish, but it seems kind of inhumane to keep them in those itty-bitty little cups.  It makes me quite sad.  Enough with the sadness.  My new betta is named Perseus Jackson or PJ (for short).  I figured that naming a beautiful fish after the son of Poseidon could only help it survive!  Now, I’m just wishing I could figure out how to take a good picture of him.

One of those days…

Published January 16, 2013 by Malia

First off, let me just say that I really, truly love my job, and I’m incredibly thankful for it.  It’s incredibly interesting, and even kind of fun.  I like the people I work with, and usually the atmosphere is pretty calm.  Today, however, was a different story.

My supervisor ended up getting upset (rightly so, although I wish she’d not taken it out on them in the room) at a couple of my co-workers because they were having a gab fest and the work was piling up.  It was just a little tense in the room after that, for the remainder of the day.  Even though I’ve grown a spine, I still desire my surroundings to be peaceful.  Of course, it didn’t help that I forgot to take my meds today, so my brain was in a fog anyway.  (It’s weird what happens when I’m off my meds, I don’t notice them making a difference so much when I’m on them, but when I forget a dose, I end up feeling like I’m lost and sleepy).

I’ve made it through the first four Percy Jackson books, and I’m having a terrible time convincing myself to wait for my break time tomorrow to start the next one.