And I step into the shoes of my antagonist

"And I'll make you a promise in return," Edward said. "I promise that this will be the last time you'll see me. I won't come back. I won't put you through anything like this again. You can go on with your life without any more interference from me. It will be as if I'd never existed."

The Greatest Gifts...

Well, summer is essentially over. I'm back in Kansas, and had an inservice all day today for the technology grant. My classroom is close to set up, just have to hang the posteres and such. Shouldn't be too bad. Hopefully I can get it all done on Wednesday, but I'm sure I'll go in Sunday after family breakfast and try to get some more done. It's never all done.

The summer was good. Good seems like an understatement. the summer was insane! First, Heather and I decide to leave two whole days early-classic GunMoll spirit and spunk. So we did, and drove straight through, getting home 22.5 hours later. I threw myself into summer-fun with friends, spending time with family, getting Quasi healthy, etc. Worked part time, spent time with my girlies. And one night, I get a text message (I was already asleep, so I was reasonably cranky). It's from my friend Eric.

Eric and I met in fall 2006 in Dr. MacInnes' Elizabethian Literature class and were friendly-wouldn't say we were really friends. The class ended and life went on. The following fall, in the mess of everything, I had Greek and Roman Literature. When I walked in, there was Eric, with an empty seat next to him. Heck yes, someone I knew, but not that well. I promptly sat down. We got to be friends. Around mid-Novmber, he started not-so-subtly hinting we should go out. It took me two weeks to have two free seconds in a row, but he took me on one of the most adorable first dates I've ever had. Then a second date, eating at Subway and wandering around Victory Park, complete with a nice Freudian slip and a sweet goodnight kiss.

Life happened. I was, to put it honestly, terrified and distracted. Winter break happened, and I came back and other stuff was going on. We tried it again over Spring Break, but that didn't go that well either-if fall semester was busy, spring semester was out of control. So we called it at friends and stuck to our game of texting country music lyrics back and forth. We talked, we got each other through some issues in life, and we made sure to check in with each other every so often. He made subtle and not so subtle comments that we should date, but I didn't agree. When I was going to Garden City to interview, I spent Saturday night at Eric's apartment, and he took me to the airport and kept my car for me. When I got delayed leaving Denver, he still showed up at the Detroit airport at 2 am to get me-with Claritan, because his cat makes me sneeze. It was then I started to hang an inkling...just a faint inkling, but an inkling all the same.

Then my June phone call happened a year later. We agreed that on Monday, I would go out to where he lived and we'd go to dinner, maybe see a movie. So we went to Olive Garden-I had a craving, Eric just wanted to be around me. And we ate and chatted and caught up. And on the way out, my inkling became a hunch, so I took his hand...and in the parking lot, he kissed me (though he'll tell you I kissed him :-)). Sparks, fireworks, bread-stick dropping kiss...and the rest, as they say, is history. my mom is relieved to know I'm not an idiot, and I'm relieved to know I'm not a hopeless case.

Unanswered Prayers...Garth nailed it again.

49 Hours!!!!

I'm so excited!! Heather, my best friend (one of my fellow GunMolls!!!) will be here (well, in Kansas)in 49 hours! I can't wait!! And right after Heather and I return form that road trip (Heather, next time I say 'DO NOT FLY INTO WICHITA!' I mean it!!!) Sam will be here!!!!

TWO of my closest friends here at the same time...!!!!!!!! EEEEEEEEEEEEK!!!

Trying to find a way to measure a year

525,600 minutes in a year, right? It takes, what, a minute, for most decisions to be made? It took me less than a minute to know I was going to Kansas. To know Quasi was my dog. To realize that despite her insanity, in one minute, I knew I was glad I was near Jacy again. A minute to fall for a good ol' boy...and a minute to bring that all crashing down about my ears. A minute to book a plane ticket for a visit from a friend-two minutes for two visits, three minutes for three. A minute to burn a bridge. A minute to lose something that would have meant the world to me, something I wasn't ready for, something that would have prevented me from teaching here...kept me from being able to adopt the ugly little Lorax currently sleeping at my feet...to live near Jace and get to know her, to fall for that good ol' boy. I never would have built some of my bridges, and I never would have burned them. But I'd give anything to have that minute of loss back, so i could change it. Take it back.


God, hold them on your lap and tell them about me, won't you?

Home is Where My Brussels Is

I was never a big "dog" person as a kid. We had cats. I like cats. Cats are independent. When I was 12 or 13, we adopted a one year old German Shorthaired Pointer, Molly. Molly was a learning experience...and what I learned was, I'm not a puppy person. I don't care for their hyperactivity, the yipping, the barking, the nipping, the messes in the house. Sure, they're cute. But they're a lot of work, and frankly, I'm not patient enough to give puppies the time they need. Probably won't ever be.

My parents' new house came with a 14 year old red lab, Maxie. Maxie was old, but in good health, and we figured that she'd make it another couple of years and then pass away. Maxie didn't run away from you, or into the road. Maxie didn't nip (though she did bite Mom if Mom got too close to Dad, Maxie's person). Maxie didn't jump up. She barked-at hot air balloons and taught my brother's Beagle puppy Chester to do the same. Maxie and I were buddies, so long as I wasn't distracting my father's attention from her. She lived to be 21. I found her the night she died. The farm isn't the same without her. Sure, Chester is now six, and his companion beagle Sarge is seven. But nothing replaces the presence of that red lab. Maxie, in conjunction with Maggie and Georgie, taught me that older dogs are something I enjoy very, very much. Their companionship was remarkable.

I have been a cat person my whole life, but for a multitude of reasons, I decided in the fall of 2009 that I wanted a dog. I'd been mulling the idea over for many months, and I knew I wanted an older dog who needed a home. Usually a rash person, I knew I had to wait for the right dog to come along. I wanted an English Bulldog- short, stout, adorable, with an under-bite, loyal, and snory. Unfortunately, those cost the same as an entire paycheck, so I knew that unless I found one for adoption at the shelter, I wouldn't be starting my dog-ownership career with a bulldog.

One day at work, I was describing my ideal dog qualities to the women I work with. One, a definite dog person herself, startled up and said "there is a Brussels at the shelter that is exactly what you want!"

A what? "What the hell is a Brussels?"

"A Brussels griffon." She went on to describe the breed for me: loyal, small (a good thing when living in a room in a house with a small back yard), under-bite, and snory. I logged onto the local shelter's web site and found a picture of the dog she was talking about, who was named "Quincy." He certainly had the underbite. He wasn't very big. He was hairy. Long story short, the dog on the website was a hot mess.

("Quincy" September 2009.)

The next day I went to the pound, on a hunch. I've walked through countless pounds in my life and never been motivated to take home any of the dogs. The cats all make me sneeze (a cursed allergy) so I'd never been real motivated to take any of them home with me either. I presented my ID and began to wander through, passing cages with Chihuahuas (a breed so common in my current place of residence that they are referred to as squirrels) pit-bulls (adorable, but I can't afford the insurance on a pit-bull) and a cute little Chocolate Pomeranian that I'm sure some of my friends would have wanted me to adopt on the spot. And there, in the kennel next to the Pom, was "Quincy." He wasn't barking or yapping or showing off. He simply looked up at me through the overly long eyebrows, with his mustache creating wings off his face. To put it simply, he was ugly. He was hairy. He was skinny. He moved funny. And from the second I looked down into the brown eyes staring up at me, I knew he was mine.

I wandered around a while longer, always coming back to cage 14. My little guy didn't change-just continued to look up at me in his patient, all understanding way. After a while, I went to the woman in the front and asked to adopt the dog in 14. She nodded, and checked her records. "UGLY?! YOU WANT TO ADOPT UGLY?!" I affirmed that I very much did want to adopt the dog in kennel 14. She looked at me doubtfully and sent me back to get him out and pet him. He settled into my arms immediately and I kissed my heart goodbye. This was my dog. I returned to the front and confirmed that I indeed wanted him.

Another woman had joined the one in front. "UGLY?!" the new one asked for confirmation. I nodded, grinning happily. "Yep. That one." As I was filling out the paper work, the shelter's humane society contact came in and was greeted by the original worker saying "Guess what! she's adopting Ugly!!"

I got the story on my new pet from the Humane Society worker: He was 9 or 10 and had arthritis in his rear legs (hence the funny movement). His owner had kept him outside all of his life. His name had been Jake. He was neutered. When the owner and his girlfriend had split up, she'd let the dog get out. The pound had picked him up and called the owner, who quite passionately said he did not want the dog back and for the pound to dispose of the dog, which they were faced with having to do the following day, as he had stayed the limit on his welcome. He was a sweet dog and never caused issues.

They opened the cage and placed my baby in my arms. The cost? $30. Perfect for my first year teacher's salary. As I was collecting him and my paperwork, the second lady in the office offhandedly mentioned she'd been calling him Quasimodo, after the hunchback of Notre Dame. I looked at my baby and said "Hey...Quasi." His eyes met mine and he gave a snort, which I have learned to be his noise of contentment. That was easily settled. Quasimodo. Quasi for short. We left the pound and went to the store, where I got the best dog food I could find, a leash (his nemesis), a food and water bowl, medicine for the arthritis, treats, and a dog bed which cost me as much as his entire adoption. We went home, where my new guy got a bath, a brushing, and a haircut. Not too bad.

My roommate's reaction was "What the HELL is that?" He wouldn't bark for the first two days. He liked to be petted but didn't seek attention. He slept and snored at the foot of my bed in his bed. Because of the damage to his back legs, he could not go up or down stairs. I took him to the vet for his rabies shot, where they told me he was suffering from malnutrition (the former owner's doing, not the shelter's) arthritis, and was abused. My poor, poor little Quasi. He got his shot, his nails trimmed, and a clear bill of health, minus a few bad teeth, which need to be removed. I asked if they had a date of birth, as his former owner had employed the same vet I was now consulting with- September 16th, 2000. 9 years exactly before I had adopted him from our shelter.

Since September, I have seen radical changes in my dog. He started eating. His love of water became apparent quickly. "Wah wah" is his favorite word. Through walks, medication and good nutrition, his arthritis improved. He now goes up and down stairs, though it takes him a bit longer than it would a completely healthy 9 year old Brussels. He learned to talk: and boy, does he!! If he's left alone (or goes upstairs without waiting for me) he lets you know he does NOT approve being by himself. He often goes to work with me on days when we have no students, and he sleeps contentedly next to my desk. I took him home with me at Christmas, and he went to work with my mom a couple of times, where he greeted customers and gave them all an earful. When I arrived to pick him up, having realized my mother had stolen him that morning while I slept, he followed me everywhere I went: mom said he'd spent the entire morning looking for me. The customers (after trying to convince my mom to sell them my baby) commented on how he never took his eyes off me.

He was granted his middle name of Lorax due to his resemblence to the Dr. Seuss' character (and his tendency to bark at the trees in the back, as if having a conversation). Quasi's love for me, his mommy, overwhelms me. My little rescue dog turned out to be the rescue I needed.



(Quasimodo Lorax, Christmas 2009).

In Memorium

In recent days, I've been opening my facebook page to see many statuses reading "RIP." These always touch me, and a few have even been of people that I knew-my resident from my last year as an RA was the one that hit the hardest, until today. I got home from a frustrating day at work to discover, via Facebook (where else do I get my news) that one of my mentor teachers had passed away. This man...I fell into his classroom by accident (or, more accurately, Mae Ola and Ian's meddling) and had the opportunity of a lifetime. It was a life changing experience. I got to teach. I got to write an entire curriculum. It's funny...Albion Public Schools trusted me, a college senior over a year from finishing, to write an entire nine week curriculum, and my district now doesn't trust me to supplement my curriculum with so much as a song. Anyhoo...I got to teach. Really TEACH. Tuesdays and Thursdays, 11:00 to 1:45. He let me stretch my wings, feel things out, experiment. I had 100% support.

Albion lost a great teacher and a great coach. A student, a remarkable young man, lost his father.

RIP Allen Jackson Sr.

Jerk Roommates

I'm 24 years old.

This isn't bragging, it's a statement of fact. I'm 24 years old and I've never lived by myself. I went from my parents' home to my freshman residence hall, where I lived with two girls. My sophomore year I lived with the same girl all year, and she's still one of my best friends. Junior year, senior year, and student teaching semester I lived by myself in a single room, but on a hallway full of people. The closest I've come to living alone was various house sitting gigs ranging from a week to five weeks. Mostly, I like living around other people, so that's why I chose to live around others when I moved from Michigan to Kansas. The big historical home was great when there were six and we were all still "honeymooning" (cleaning up after ourselves and not being douchbags to each other).

Now there are three of us. Two, really, because our house manager is rarely home. Not their fault...they have a life. But I'm 24 years old. I have no interest in cleaning up after another human being. There's a reason I don't have children. There's a reason I got a dog who has no interest in chewing on things or tearing things up. So my having to constantly be cleaning up after a grown man (Cleaning our shared bathroom, doing all of the dishes, etc etc etc) is unacceptable. I'm out. New mission: Find a place to live where rent is reasonable, and I can have a dog.

FanFiction...

I admit it.

I read fanfiction. I started with the X-Files. It took Chris Carter too bloody long to give us fans what we wanted. So, I went searching for someone else to do it, and discovered, at 13, the deep and sometimes scandalous world that is fanfiction. I've read a little bit of everything: X-Files, Harry Potter, Pirates of the Caribbean, Dukes of Hazzard, Gilmore girls, Bones...you get the idea.

I admit the following with even less shame than I admitted the above: I write fanfiction. I don't mean the occassional one shot every so often because Hart Hanson let the UST go too far or because someone thinks that Harry and Hermione got drunk in the tent while Ron was off being a wanker and had really awkward sex (which, if you give it more than a half second of thought, you realize could not possibly have happened, and your fanfiction sits undone and a blotch on your pride as a Pot-Head appears). No, I write long, involved, details fan fictions. One of these is a multi-hundred page piece which crosses Pirates with Potters. We probably should have let that one RIP after Pirates 2 and Potter 6 came out (we did start the fiction in 2004. And yes, I said we...I have help in this insane endeavor). Instead, we strive to include every Pirates movie and Potter book into our story. Cannon? It's more guidelines than actual rules. It's a testament to my pride that I can go in public with my co-author, order breakfast at 9 PM on a Friday night, and sit at a table, discussing how Jack Sparrow interacts with Albus Dumbledore and Severus Snape's pet Mongoose, named Wum (co-incidentally, be ready for Wum to star in his own children's book series). Well, either my pride or my sanity.

Aside from Of Potters and Pirates, I write fiction all the time. One shots, set in and around Hogwarts. Time travel pieces that allow my OC to meet and marry Luke Duke. Murder-mysteries with lots of Bones/Booth UST. Hell, Bones and Booth, along with Mulder and Scully, have arrived in Potters and Pirates. So has Edward Cullen-Bella left him for Barbossa (that whole time travel thing comes in handy when you want to get rid of annoying, brainless twats and leave their manipulative, possessive boyfriends behind to torment).

Some one is bound to read this and say "wow, she needs a life." Thank you for giving me the same line that I would give myself when I was sitting at Country Kitchen at 10:30 on a Friday night. however, I have one: I work full time as a teacher, and my students kicked ass on state tests this year. I coach volleyball from June to March, hang out with my friends, read my way through the public library, and am 200+ pages into my own novel.

No fan intends to infringe on a copyright. NO ONE would read my fanfiction and get their "fix" for any of their fandoms. If they are...well, I need to quit writing FanFiction and finish that novel of mine. Maybe then I can retire to the Keys.

Wesley

Well, I find myself compelled, through another random conversation with the Usual Suspect, to start a new blog. Truth be told, I haven't updated my WordPress in ages (mostly from a serious lack of creative endeavors) and my Livejournal seems to be a Deadjournal. My last paper journal entry is from Jan. of 2009- the night the Steelers and Cardinals won their respective Conference Championships (Go Pittsburgh. Ben is a womanizing ass, but I sure love what he pulls off in the pocket. Make a 'that's what she said joke' and I'll de-pocket you).

All of those last journal entries have one thing in common with each other: Wesley Hall of Albion College. Present budget crisis aside, I love my undergrad institution, and I certainly love the building I called home for my junior, senior, and student teaching years. It's ironic that the Freshman Residence Hall ended up being home, as I avoided it with a fiery passion my freshman year. But Wesley has special magic like that. It brings together people and things that would, in any other place and time, never come together.

Not everything written in this blog was written in Wesley Hall. Most of it was probably written in various academic buildings across Albion's Campus as I sat in class, pretending to listen to a professor. Worse, pretending I'd read the assignment for class that day, instead of wandering around Wesley till all hours of the night, socializing with my awesome residents. Oh, let's face it, I was probably with my staff, creating more mischief than we ever stopped. Anyway. While the writing did not come into existence during my years in the prettiest building on Albion's campus, you can believe that those years have influenced the writings. Enjoy.