Hanging up the Suit

Sharp suit. Perfect hair. Pin straight posture. Commanding voice, piercing eyes, precise movements.

There was the woman who I had always aspired to be.

She began our Honor Choir rehearsal by diplomatically expressing her deep disdain at our lack of preparation. In her southern belle twang, she mocked, "If ya'll aren't gonna learn your part, I'm going to take the word 'honor' out of the program title." Touche, Professor, Touche. The girls walked into the rehearsal hall the next morning with harmonies as tight as their pants... well, and to be honest, the boys did too. I was amazed that anyone could whip a bunch of lazy (or incredibly busy) high school students into shape that quickly. 

As I grew ever more fascinated by her expertise, I admittedly found myself searching for brownie points. When none of the other 2nd sopranos were singing through the phrase, I was turning blue from lack of oxygen. When she told the basses to mark that they needed to be louder at measure 62, I boastfully wrote "Be quieter" on my own. More than anything else, I wanted this woman's favor. I wanted to be her next shining star, her diamond in the rough. 

Ha. Reality check, anyone? 

In the last few moments in the green room before we performed our final number, I decided to make one final move. Although still somewhat strategic in my little ladder of fame and stardom, it was still 100% genuine. With a heart pounding over the thought of messing up my words in front of the woman that epitomized what I've always wished to be, I simply gasped, "I just wanted to say thank you so much for taking time to rehearse with us. I really appreciate it." 

A quick "Of course" was all I got back.

And that's when I realized that although this professor is undoubtedly spectacular at what she does, I don't actually want to be her. Not one bit.

I was raised with the value that there is no such word as "stranger." That we're all people. That whether you work at Pizza Hut or at the Louvre, you are valuable. That a smile is the greatest investment you can make in someone's day. That people don't care how much you know until they know how much you care. 

She left us with the words, "I am proud of your accomplishments, but this is just my normal operating style; I don't show favorites." 

I want to be the adult who, rather than picking no favorites, picks everyone as my favorite. Because everyone has a beautiful talent just waiting for the warmth of an encouraging word to allow it to blossom. Everyone just needs someone to believe in them. 

There will always be a little piece of me that wishes I could be like this particular professor, with such a deep level of authority and confidence. But at the end of the day, I see where my values really stand. I don't care about a silly suit, how much hairspray I use, or if my voice cracks three times before I finally finish a sentence.

Instead, I'll be the one in the Student Council t-shirt, with my hair untouched, and likely slouching (sigh...).  I'll have a gentle voice, soft eyes, and I'll always be braced for a hug. 

Because I really, really care. 

You Say You Want to Change the World?

It's mesmerizing that a few simple words, when paired with the fervency of the human spirit, can truly change the world.


No, I am not suggesting that they literally shake the foundations of the earth - we'll leave that up to aliens, asteroids, and - dare I say it - atomic bombs. But words do have an incredible power to change a silly little thing we call perception - and as our perceptions are changed, our passions are stirred, which eventually boil over into change.


Granted, at times this change is arguably for the worst, as in the example of the French Revolution. Robespierre used the atomic bomb of his rhetoric to infuse the mistreated of France with an urgency to destroy the current (and all future) monarchy. But 20,000 deaths later, we wonder if Robespierre should have spared this make-shift Hiroshima and simply kept his mouth shut.


As with everything in our humanity, though, inspiration is bound to occasionally backfire. Examples like Robespierre cannot and should not keep us from using this amazing, simple power to influence change. One of the greatest change-producers (and I am not talking about a mint, here) of all time explained it this way, "In the end, we will remember not the words of our enemies, but the silence of our friends." Martin Luther King Jr. didn't spare his words, and if we truly want to make the world a better place... we shouldn't either.


Here's the real reason I started writing this blog post: My beautiful, fun-loving, intelligent, 21-year old cousin Johanna was recently diagnosed with Stage IV lung and arm cancer. She, of all people, does not deserve to have her entire future crash in a matter of a few months. But reality, unfortunately, is much harsher than loving Jo is. Although I undoubtedly mulled over her diagnosis, I didn't cry over it. (And I cry over everything.) I pushed it to the back of my mind because it was too painful to consider losing her. And, from a selfish perspective, it was too hard to think that her loss of vitality could have been - and someday could be - mine.


It wasn't until I read her boyfriend's heartfelt tribute to Johanna's strength that I started crying. Not a little trickle, oh no. I am sitting at a table in a coffee shop bawling my eyes out. His words, together with his enduring love for my cousin, is what brought me to this place of stirred emotion and passion, which lifts me out of apathy and into a desire to make her life a little better. To join the fight against this terrible annihilator we call cancer, to make the world a better place - or, at least, Johanna's world.


 I am no MLK. My words here aren't much. But if I can inspire just one person who reads this to start using yours, I've been worthwhile.


 You should have learned by now to never trust science fiction. Don't leave it to extraterrestrials to crash into earth and shake our foundations.

Saying Goodbye to Small Talk

Here we go with another Hastings story! Ohhhh boy.

I have to preface this by pointing out that I am truly terrified of talking. (I should totally insert some epic story about how I almost had my tongue cut out when I was seven or something here, but I promise, this isn't quite that intense.) However, I have good reason because I am the worst conversationalist ever, and thus I embarrass myself often. Add a terrible sense of comic timing to a smidgen of shyness and BAM! There goes my shot at being a politician!

But today, I realized that maybe I am only freaking myself out. Of course I was reading in my little bookstore oasis (This time it was Mockingjay - see my previous post to get more info on this newfound hobby) when I coincidentally came across my best friend Emily. She informed me that she and a few other Student Council members were designing t-shirts, and I agreed to help them out. (Our t-shirts are really legit, by the way!) At the conclusion of the meeting, though, we came to that awkward part of the conversation where no one really knows how to politely say goodbye. ...Do you hug, or nod, or run out before anyone notices you're gone? Yeeeeah... So we all just kind of stood around, twiddled our thumbs and made small talk. Cooper and Emily eventually faced the maladroit farewell, but Katie and I couldn't quite bring ourselves to part.

Thank goodness.

In the middle of Hastings, in the middle of the African American fiction section, Katie and I had the most engaging conversation I have had in some time. We talked about school, about our favorite people, about our future plans, about our fears. There was no stress, no small talk about the weather, no trying. Just talking.

Three hours later, we got kicked out of Hastings because they were closing.

Maybe the problem with talking is that we are so worried about how we appear, we forget who we are.

Thanks, Katie, for reminding me.

I might never have the conversationalism of John F. Kennedy, but I'll always have the spirit of Angela Kettle. And maybe that's more important than silly conversationalism anyway.

Finders Creepers!

While devouring Wuthering Heights in Hastings bookstore today, I observed a 50-something man, slightly grungy-looking, walk through the door. "Ugh, he comes here every day. Does he even have a life? What a creeper..." I thought.


Then, it dawned on me. If I know that he has been at Hastings everyday... doesn't that make me the creeper?


Yes, folks, it does - and all of the employees who confusedly watch me trudge into their store nearly everyday, plop down on a comfy couch, order a small caramel macchiato, and commence reading whatever suits my fancy most likely agree that I have maybe even outranked the strange, old man in creeper status.


Total epic win! The world could use more creepers! Here's my reasoning:


 Creepers are observant, but they don't need you to acknowledge them. They are content to watch from a distance. Granted, they usually have incentive in this (A.K.A. not being discovered and having some insecure teenage girl text all of her friends saying, "OMG so dont EVER talk to the creeper in Hastings! He asked me if my cafe latte was good!!") But beyond that possible hindrance, maybe creepers just want to study human nature. Maybe they want to see if petty girls and cafe lattes are somehow correlated. Being a psychology-lover myself, I feel like you can never have enough opportunities for naturalistic observation - studying people in their natural environment without disturbing it. How better to get a holistic view of the world than to remove yourself from it? Yep, that's right. There is no better view. As Marshall McLuhan put it, "We don't know who observed water, but we know it wasn't the fish." Not that I am suggesting you quit your job and spend the rest of your days contributing to your caramel macchiato debt... because frankly, that role is already taken. But perhaps taking a creeper-vacation of sorts every once in a while can add some dimension to the 2-D routine of life. It can remind you that people are out there beyond yourself - people who have a family, a favorite book, maybe an abhorrence toward cats. Creepers can see things non-creepers can't because they aren't looking for anything in particular - just at whoever comes sloshing through the doors next.


The ultimate creeper? Alexander Fleming. Whoa now, you are starting to look a little feverish after hearing of my ostensible mislabeling - perhaps I should get you some... penicillin. We almost all know this little story of how Fleming untidily left some Staphylococci sitting in his lab one weekend and came back to unearth one of medicine's greatest discoveries. Finders may be keepers, but they're also creepers. He simply observed what had already taken place, just as it is a creeper's creed to do. He wasn't looking for an innovation - he was simply looking at it. And if he could find something noteworthy in some mold, how difficult can it be to find something noteworthy in a human being? Serious props to Mr. Fleming for outcreeping us all.

On a side note, you never know what interesting characters you might encounter while creeping. Just today, I met a woman who had a medical dog that could tell when she was about to have a seizure. I didn't even know pups like that existed. I also conferenced with an outdoorsman who thought my intense highlighting of Wuthering Heights was legit (if a good book isn't completely marked up, it probably wasn't actually very good,) and a sweet, elderly woman who told me the story of her grandson becoming an automechanic for NASCAR. Sitting silently on a couch is what brought me to these people, not joining a new club or getting an eHarmony compatibility test. Just waiting to see whose stories life was going to lend me to read.

So, maybe I have completely gone off the deep end. Maybe I am hopelessly entrapped in the whirls of a bookstore with no hope of regaining a social life. Either way, though, I am glad I have finally plunged into the depths of creep. Because you never know what or who you will discover when you just stop looking and start really seeing. Hey, maybe I'll even strike up a conversation with the grunge-guy I mentioned earlier! After all, you should never judge a book by its cover.


Creepers included.

Sometimes, you just have to embrace your inner white van.

Red Sharpie Blues

Incompetent. Multiplied by 32.

That's how many times I scribbled that nasty, hurtful word on my waitressing pad during my dinner break at the local pizza place. The red sharpie penmanship still stings to look at. I listlessly sipped my water and tried to de-stress, but I still couldn't help but feel like I was a little Matilda being trapped in the Chokey by a big, mean Miss Trunchbull.

Only I was both Matilda and Miss Trunchbull, and with or without Miss Honey, it was a sticky situation.

See, I am one of those crazy overachievers who strongly feels the need to be good at everything. Underwater basket weaving? No sweat. (Do people sweat underwater anyway though?) Honors classes out the wazoo? Got it in the bag. But waitressing...

I can't learn it from a textbook. It's not a concept that I can contemplate about late at night when I can't sleep. It's practical know-how, an insane ability to focus, and a channeled skill for multi-tasking. It's the real world.

Yeah... could I have a one-way ticket to Mars, please? I'm not ready for the real world...

I spilled someone's drink all over their table, I made some customers 20 minutes late to their meeting because I couldn't figure out how to split their ticket, and I stained all of the artifacts of my apron with blood-red sharpie because I lost the lid. With every pity tip I collected, I felt like they should have given me a tip more like this: Become unemployed.

Thank goodness they had the kindness not to leave such a tip, though, because 1) I might have actually, in exasperation, taken their advice, and 2) I feel like I have finally figured out what it means to persevere. To keep going when I want to quit. To tell myself I can when my broken ego screams that I can't.

Maybe it was a blessing in disguise that I lost that sharpie lid because now I will never have the ability to sting myself with "incompetent" again. That word dried up long ago. Now all I have is an empty waitressing pad and one simple question:

"What delicious pizza can we make for you today?"

The True Question of Love: Would you dive for it?

As an upcoming senior in high school, I am highly concerned with how I am going to pay for college next fall. However, I never thought I would become this frugal...

Today, I went dumpster diving. 

Now, before you write me off as a disgusting, radical tightwad, let me make it very clear that this endeavor was actually not an effort to boost my savings account. That part was only a joke. I did, however, go where no sane 17-year old girl ever hoping to achieve dating status again would go. Still, all the boys in the world couldn't teach me the lesson I learned from getting covered in last week's discarded sandwich:

Sometimes, you've just got to get in that trash can and show it who's boss!

Because I do slightly care about my image (sigh...) I will give a little more background info on this dirty little secret of mine (pun intended.) It's an odd twist of fate when something like this happens to me solely because I was trying to be responsible and vacuum my car. I had one floor mat left to clean when my CarVac decided to start royally sucking. Well, I mean, technically it stopped sucking... but you get my point. In the inconvenient minutes I had to wait for it to take a chill pill (it overheated), I decided to do something productive and empty the bag inside. (It's bad chi to mess up a vacuuming routine. Never empty the dang thing until you are finished!) I pushed the "release" button and shook, expecting all of the trash inside to meet its pitiful destiny. 

Of course, it's never that easy. The entire air filter came out as well. And I think my stomach might have too when I realized what I needed to do to retrieve it... 

A garbage bin can be so symbolic. I have always imagined my brain having such a contraption. When someone says something hurtful, I throw it in there. When I fail at blogging for 13 whole days, in the bin it goes. But what about when you throw away the filter? 

The filter in this strange analogy could be anything that you didn't mean to give up. It could be a precious relationship that you ended, or maybe a job opportunity you let slip by. Regardless, you have to retrieve it sooner or later. So get in that can and do some diving. Face the spoiled tomatoes of yesterday, because if whatever-it-was is really important, it'll be worth a little ketchup stain. 

And now that I think about it, dumpster diving might have even increased my dating factor. One very looooong shower later... I smell absolutely delightful.

The Electric Current of Personal Reflection

As I am writing this, my room is surrounded with darkness. My cell phone is plugged in, but it’s not charging.  Even the constant of time has capered as my alarm clock has transformed into a dull, black screen. 

Getting past the prose, the power is out. I am literally writing this at the side of a small candle in a notebook that I haven’t used in who knows how long. Obviously, I will have to type it out tomorrow so that I can share with you all what this experience holds.

First of all, it is so weird. I keep finding myself surprised when I turn on the television and Piers Morgan isn’t there to serenade me with that gorgeous British accent, or when I open the refrigerator and can't tell if I am about to pour milk or orange juice all over my cereal.

It’s aggravating that my modern conveniences are missing. No wonder people used to hit the lights (or the lack of lights) so early!

But considering the power has been out for over half an hour, I am starting to get used to the idea. There’s a certain inspiration that comes with the quiet flicker of a candle; simplicity lulls you to sleep as it reminds you that the to-do list will have to wait until the morning.

If I had the capability, I would research how modern technology has affected stress levels. However, considering the Internet requires electricity, this is a no-go. So, you will have to bear my humble opinion. Modern technology has caused a rise in stress level for most of the world. We are constantly hearing about war and chaos, about how that new "trendy" shirt you bought just went out of style, about how an innocent 2-year old's murder has still not been avenged. Sometimes, I know that I just want to scream, "Shut up already!"

Now, go back and read my first three paragraphs. I love technology. I am addicted to it, and I think it is a vital tool of the future. Never in a million years would I want to survive without Facebook, without constant updates on the world’s current status, or without… dare I admit it… the AntSmashers app for iPod touch (My high score is currently 653.)

Even so, I am humbled by the minimalism around me. Because it’s in this dim, troublesome spot that I am reminded of what it means to think for myself. Of what it means to contemplate only on my own, to truly form my very own opinion of the world. I can’t provide you with stats or evidence from leading experts in the field; heck, I can’t even look up better word choices from thesaurus.com.

I can only tell you what is spinning through my very own brain. And here it is: Sometimes, my own brain is all the power I need.

A Small Dose of Orange-Striped Perspective

When some crazy teenage driver starts yelling at you for absolutely no reason, just smile back at her.

I was jamming out to Jack Johnson and quickly speeding down the road so that I could be somewhat timely (an unlikely ideal) to my dog-walking date with my best friend. With the breeze wafting through my rolled-down window, I was happy, lighthearted, carefree... WHAT? BIG ORANGE "ROAD CLOSED" SIGN? Say goodbye to aforementioned adjectives. Oh boy, was I mad. That's the second time that road has been closed this year, and in a little town like mine, closing a street is a major inconvenience.

Feeling as such, I proceeded to speak my mind to the striped orange obstacle. "Why the heck are you here? You're so dumb! Can't you just go away and let me drive down the street?!"

Note to self: Never yell at roadblocks.

Especially when there is an innocent woman standing on the side of the road who happens to be in hearing distance of this conversation - and who might, in her naïvete to the new trend of talking to inanimate objects, think that you are screaming at her.
Rightfully so, the lady also put in her two cents on the issue in the form of a raised middle finger and a "What the hell did I ever do to you?"

Because I was so involved in my hatred toward the sinister sign, I didn't realize just what I had put that helpless bystander through until it was too late to apologize (I feel a Chris Brown song coming on.) Now, though, I feel terrible about the incident. It was never my intention to ruin someone's day because of a not-even-really-that-big-of-a-deal hindrance in the street.

As the old adage says, things are not always as they seem. It seems like foods that taste good should make you look good too, beautiful love should never turn to tragic heartbreak, and all journalists should be millionaires. (All right, so maybe that last one is opinion.)

Life has its fair share of barriers, whether it be in the form of a traffic mechanism or a 17-year old who should perhaps watch her temper a little more. Here's the kicker, though. We choose our own destiny. And we choose to either approach these impediments with poise and problem-solving skills, or we choose to let them destroy us. The trampoline to lunge us over them is just a wee bit of perspective.

And to you, poor, innocent pedestrian, my deepest apologies.

Grab the Spoon!

We were down to the final two in the Spoons tournament of the season. Two players, one spoon. One destiny to conquer. My older brother Josh and I sat face-to-face like two old west cowboys ready for a showdown. And the time had come.

In case you aren't familiar with Spoons: Each player always has four cards in his hand, and as the cards get passed around the table, players are allowed to pick up the card of their choice in exchange for one that they discard. The object is to get four cards of a kind (ex. four 6's) and to pick up a spoon, of which there is always one less on the table than the number of players. Once a person picks up a spoon, the other players must grab one also. Whoever ends up without a spoon loses the round, and once he loses six rounds, he is eliminated.

I normally employ a unique strategy when playing this simple but competitive game: Look sparingly at my own cards and instead keep an intense focus on the spoons present on the table. However, this becomes a problem when there are only two people. With only one spoon available to grab, the person who wins would obviously be the same one who got four of a kind.

Obviously not.

I had one round left available to lose. It was the nitty-gritty. I peered at my three 9's, awaiting the last of the set as Josh furiously passed cards to me. Finally, the 9 of hearts made its appearance. Excitedly, I reached for the spoon, thinking I had victory in the clutch of my hand.

 Until Josh suddenly leaped out of his chair and grabbed the victory before I had even felt its metallic surface.

I was absolutely bewildered. It wasn't fair that he could win! I had four of a kind! But, the rules of the game did declare the player without the spoon the loser, and four a kind or not, that happened to be me.

There, of course, is a greater lesson to all of this. Even when you've worked so hard for something, when you're seconds away from achieving your lifelong dream, it's not yours until you grab the spoon.

In a more legitimate example, golfer Thomas Levet just won the French Open. Pretty sweet, but there is a lot more left to win in the season. Except Levet decided to celebrate by jumping into a small lake... and broke his shin in the process. Oh shin, looks like someone might not be able to compete in the British Open after all. He had his four-of-a-kind, but he celebrated before he grabbed the spoon.

We have to persist beyond the realm of "I think I've won." Beyond "Of course I'll get scholarships; I'm a straight A student!" (Speaking to myself there.) Beyond "I've been an extremely productive employee for the past two years. That promotion is mine." We have to absolutely leap over the set standard and grab that shiny piece of silverware before someone else does.

And folks, I'm not just spooning.

The Presently Untitled Post Explaining the Presently Untitled Blog

Admittedly, I just spent forty solid minutes trying to think of a blog title.


I covered everything from "When Charlie Sheen and Reality Collide" to "The Flowers of Love Never Die," even finally resorting in my frustration to a simple "." Nothing stuck.


Aggravated that Blogger was going to make me choose a title before I had even begun posting, I almost called it a night. You can guess what happened next.


Presently Untitled: It has undoubtedly been used before, perhaps even by some newbie who named his blog, say, forty minutes ago. But whereas he might have hastily chose this title as an excuse to turn out the lights a little sooner, I have thoughtfully taken this title as a description of my life. At 17 years old (18 in less than a month!), I am quite unsure of who I am, let alone what my blog should be called. Nor do I particularly want to know. What is the fun in life if you always know what is coming?


My friends will be shocked when they read that last sentence. I'm pretty positive they think "Angela" is synonymous with "Must always plan ahead; freaks out under pressure; delays change for as long as possible." (I'm sorry, other Angelas of the world, that I have put such a bad rep on you.) Ah, but my dear friends, what you don't know about me is that my spontaneous experiences, regardless of the fact that they terrify me, have made me who I am.


Let's take my choice to run cross country in 8th grade as an example. I've always loved running, and when two buddies convinced me to join their practice just for a day, I happily agreed... and then IT happened. Yep. Someone made a bet that I couldn't last a whole season. Ohhh, he did not just go there. Of course I told him to shut up, and of course I puked my guts out after attempting three miles in the 102 degree heat of Canon City's deserty Hogback hills without any previous training. (I think I might have purged my ego also, thankfully. I now have the utmost respect for cross country runners!) Although I now know XC isn't my thing, I DID last the entire season. And it made me a more disciplined, focused, and confident individual. Not to mention, I was one sexy girl in 8th grade!


Or, we can take the more recent example of my encounter with a fellow Original Orator (http://www.nflonline.org/AboutNFL/Events) who happened to be in one of my rounds at a speech tournament. He was giving his oration on balancing uncertainty in our lives. Coincidence, anyone? At any rate, because I am adamant about adding even acquaintances on Facebook, I maybe slightly creepily friended him... but it turned out to be worth the risk of being labeled as a stalker. After occasional status-commenting and late-night-complaining-about-homework, Jake and I started chatting. And kept chatting. I now consider him a treasured friend and an important influence in my life - it was not planned, and maybe not even wise according to Internet safety protocol, but definitely just what my life needed.


I don't know where this blog will take me. For all I know, tomorrow I could decide to shut it down. (Unfortunately for you, don't count on that.) It would be foolish for me to title it now because how can I decide on the all-important description of something that hasn't even happened? How can I name my thoughts and experiences before they occur?


If at some point in the future I know I have exactly 30.52453 more seconds to live, I will name this blog. And I will probably name it "A Boring Life," because anyone who knows they have exactly 30.52453 seconds left had a little too much time on her hands. But until that moment comes, this blog will remain Presently Untitled.


 Because I am presently untitled.