No Crocs in Public.

Photo from www.crocs.com

In Tokyo, the fashion-foward capital of the world, the last thing I expected to see were Crocs. I was prepared for the Little Bo Peep fashions of Harijuku and the awesomely expensive designer clothing everywhere else; but much to my chagrin, not only were Croc-wearing Japanese on the train, in the shops and on the streets, but there was also a Crocs Store in the middle of an expensive shopping district. Out of place in the formal and image-conscious Japan, Crocs were designed to be a comfortable, clean and lightweight alternative for those with weary feet. Because of their disregard for fashion, they look like two neon platypus beaks with swiss cheese holes. Theyare made in 160 colors and they are unfortunately available, as I have witnessed, around the globe. While I support the notion of comfortable footwear, the public use of Crocs in place of normal shoes should be prohibited.

Functionality is important, but at what cost? Crocs compromise the aesthetic of every outfit. The simplicity of jeans and a t-shirt is overwhelmed by the lime green duck bills on your feet. Imagine a cute dress with a pair of Crocs—it's like a fine steak with ketchup. Sweatpants are the only acceptable compliment to Crocs, but if you're wearing that, just stay home. Don't even go to the grocery store like that. You may feel comfortable, but your look won't comfort others.

Crocs do have a purpose. While gardening, you are sure to get dirt and mud on your shoes. With Crocs, you can just give them a quick spray with the garden hose. They will still be ugly, but they will be clean as the day you bought them. Nurses can wear Crocs with scrubs because they work long shifts on their feet (in a place where people have access to morphine). The last acceptable time for Crocs is private, in-home use. If you want to walk around your house looking schlumpy, that's on you. Just leave them at home.

The Croc Company has tried to improve the Croc image by making Croc add-on straps and buttons. The Hello Kitty adornments seem cute enough until you snap them into one of the holes of your Croc. Then your Croc becomes a black hole of terrible, sucking all cute from the universe. If you live in a cold climate and your plastic shoes with holes aren't cutting it behind the snowblower, you can order fur-lined Crocs. It's a nightmare. Speaking of night-mare, if you want to dress up your evening Croc wardrobe, snag a pair of Croc heels or flats. They have something (unattractive) for every occasion.

My hatred of the Croc is related to my personal inability to wear cute shoes. Due partly to genetics and partly to years of volleyball shoes, flip-flops, and high-heel attempts, my feet are a minefield of pain. I've got bunions, tight tendons and even some neuromas. When I wear heels or cheap flats, it feels like I'm walking on nails. Since I like to walk without crying, I've been sentenced to a life of Birkenstocks and athletic shoes. Subsequently, all of my cute outfits have already been sabotaged. Unappealing as both of my footwear options are, they are better than the look-at-me hideousness of Crocs. At least I look like I've done a lot of walking in the athletic shoes, or like I'm a neo-hippy (minus the pot) in the Birks. Once I don the Crocs, I tell the world “I give up.”

If Crocs were the last shoes on Earth, I would rather go barefoot. Of course, with my foot problems, going barefoot is not an option, so I'd be forced to wear the Crocs. Or cut off my feet.

My First Garden

All that's left to do now is wait.

I've got the seeds planted in my raised bed garden, and I've got the application filed for an apartment in Flagstaff.

I've never gardened before. It's ironic, if you consider my job in The Home Depot Garden Center where I spend 30-40 hours per week instructing customers about soils, plants and lawn equipment (this discrepancy in experience only annoys customers who can see through my facade of pretend knowledge and label reading abilities). Nevertheless, as I am in charge of an upcoming workshop at The Home Depot which focuses on eco-gardening and my lack of productive free time activities, I took this opportunity to try a garden of my own.

Gardens, like moving to a new place, take lots of physical strength, digging through crap, and wait-time. I have sewn the seeds of cool-season veggies into my 4x4 garden, but only time will tell if my haphazard technique and the  Nebraska weather will be fruitful. I hope to be on the road to Flagstaff by July 1, so I won't get to see much of a summer harvest. I will reap a different sort of crop in Arizona--namely, a graduate assistantship and lots of intellectually stimulating material (cue the buzzer sound for a predictable, terrible metaphor).

I live for trying new things, but I still get frustrated when I don't get it right the first time. I like the dirt under my fingernails and the idea of growing my own food, but I'm glad that I won't go hungry if my seeds don't sprout this time. And as for the graduate assistantship, I'm glad I'm getting a stipend--Incidentally, also so I don't go hungry.

Six Word Memoir

Stubborn wanderer wanting to belong here.

I'd rather start the year in April anyway.

Last year at this time, I was celebrating Khmer New Year in Mondolkiri Province, Cambodia. Much has changed since then. My self-esteem has been through the wringer and I've been in crisis with my identity since I returned to my hometown. I've worked two very different jobs, volunteered locally and made a few new friends--not to mention rekindling a few old ones. I've taken a Spanish class and learned to crochet and how to make cheesecake. I've applied and been accepted to graduate school--an achievement I attribute to my experiences good and bad in Cambodia.

I've gotten to know Lincoln better than ever. I've spent more time with my family and my grandparents. I've gotten in better shape. I've started eating more healthfully. I feel better than I used to.

I'm still writing. I'm still learning new languages. I'm still teaching. I'm still struggling. I'm still worrying about what's next. I still double check that my straightening iron is turned off, even if I haven't used it.

I may not be exploring the jungles of Cambodia by elephant, but my adventure continues. By the Lunar calendar, this is the year of the rabbit--that's my sign. Must be a lucky year for me.

A cat's life

If you know me well, you know that I love cats. I have pictures of my cats on my cell phone, I talk about the dead mice they leave near my car, and I often do impressions of their unique cat-voices. That is, I meow.

I have two cats at home. Twilight, an elderly Maine Coon with real cattitude; and Berlin, an excitable young "Tuxedo" cat. They are the lights of my life, even though they ignore me unless they want food or petting...or a drink from the sink. Twilight, that's you. You are annoying in the morning.

Berlin

As I watched Berlin leap to the top of a tall dresser loaded with tip-able objects. I predicted the tumbling outcome as she soared toward a bad decision. Four clunks, a crash and one de-clawed slip later, she hit the ground in a full sprint, terrified of the hazardous falling stuff and the consequential noise.

It takes a leap of faith to get to a higher perch. Kitty inspiration. She didn't know what awaited her atop the dresser. Sharpened knives? A pool of water? Curious as a cat, she jumped anyway. Her good faith didn't pay off that time, but I'm always proud of her for trying.

Grad school (and all the tough decisions!) is a leap of faith to get to a figurative higher perch. One day, I will leap high enough to sit upon the refrigerator of life and revel in my achievements. Then I'll take a nap.

Was that a voiced postalveolar fricative or a glottal stop?

Already twice in my lifetime, I've had to cram the International Phonetic Alphabet into my brain long enough to pass the quiz. First, in Austria during Sprache und Sprechen, a 100-level linguistics course for native German speakers. Besides the lunacy of learning about a difficult subject in another language, this class was held only once a week, late in the afternoon and in a room full of windows. Most of the students were asleep, or texting friends, or even talking on the phone. During the lecture. Even my studiousness took a nosedive in that class. My notebook is full of partial notes taken halfway between German and English, and intricate drawings of eyeballs, evening gowns or potential tattoo designs. It was hard to pay attention and very easy to tune out the foreign language. The worst part was when I went home to look up the German words I didn't know, I didn't even know what the English word meant.

For anyone who lives in a world without the IPA, it is a universal alphabet for writing and pronouncing any language. The IPA symbols are organized by place and method of articulation. If you make the sound at the beginning of "dog," it is [d], a voiced alveolar plosive. Every sound has a description that either makes me think of an unethical medical experiment or a lewd joke for nerdy people.

As the end of the semester in Austria neared, I realized that even though no one else in the class understood the topics (I was actually providing correct answers to the teacher's questions from time to time to break up the silence), at some point, there would be a test or a Klausur as we called it. I summoned the courage to meet with the professor. She was so happy that I cared about her class, she gave me a special study guide that mirrored the final test. I got a good grade.

 Not even a year later, I was back at UNK trying my hand at an upper-level German course in Linguistics. The class was taught in English, which would have been more useful to me before doing the entire class with native German speakers, but it wasn't to be. I struggled with the IPA in the second class, too.

This time, I'm learning the IPA on my own as part of my preparation for grad school in TESL. I need to know how to talk about language objectively and with linguistic terms. The hard part is that I have to do this on my own with no guidance from a syllabus or professor. Self-motivation.

I understand the merit of the IPA system. Had I been more in tune with my voiced retroflex consonants, learning Khmer might have been a little easier. Well, probably not, but I might have been able to pretend to hear the difference between the four "ng" sounds.

I found this book at the library: A Practical Introduction to Phonetics by J.C. Catford. The author guides you and your speech organs through the IPA. He has exercises to trick you into pronouncing almost anything. For example, start by saying the "ee" of "see". Then stop using your voice but keep the air going. You end up with the elusive German "ch". I love that stuff. Heck, I have even learned how to close my glottis and make a cool windpipe xylophone. You can imagine how much fun I have with this book on my days off from The Home Depot.

I hope the IPA is good to me this time. More to follow.

Who needs the gym when you've got The Home Depot?

The Home Depot is exhausting me. In a good way. I've logged 5 consecutive days over 12,000 steps on my pedometer. Two of those days crested at 19,500 steps. To compare, my record while working at Licorice International was only 10,000. And I only got that one day when I put in a full work out before work.

There are three distinct areas of the "Garden Department". In total, they account for at least one-third of the store. I bust my behind to help customers in each of these areas, and I rack up the miles in the process. Now that the weather has warmed up, I've added a new skill: hauling and loading mulch. I've been assisting customers with these 50-pound sacks of sopping wet wood chunks. "Did you say 25 or 28 bags?" Sorry, lower back, I'm still working on that lifting technique.

Working at The Home Depot is the absolute last thing I expected to be doing a year out of college. Funny how that works, isn't it? But here I am, apron and all. I water plants, I help customers choose a lawnmower or grill, and I do my best with the multiple communication technologies that are supposed to help me broadcast my unending stream of questions. When I come home at night, my feet are warped to my shoes, my jeans smell like rotting mulch, and my ears ring with the sounds of our store phones, the walkies, and other devices that go "ding." Ding ding Ding Ding DING!!!

I feel much better after I eat dinner and recount the most annoying customer or my best use of Spanish vocabulary. I am grateful that I finally got a job with plenty of available hours and friendly coworkers. However, I am also grateful that I only have a few months of this job. It's hard!

The Grand Canyon, graduate school and some music, too.

The Grand Canyon

Last fall I blogged about Brandon Flowers' album, Flamingo. Although I have always wanted to go West, Flowers' music inspired me to adjust my compass southwest as I browsed graduate schools. Is a random album a good reason to relocate? No. Is a graduate assistantship? Well, it's better than an album.

Since I first heard the call of the Southwest, I have been craving a road trip. A long, blistering drive down desolate highways through the desert. Last week, dear reader, I got my wish.

I recruited my boyfriend to accompany me on the 3000 mile trip across Nebraska, Colorado, Utah, Arizona, New Mexico, Oklahoma and Kansas. He is outdoorsy, easy-going and one of the few people with whom I could stand to be in a confined space for seven days. We had been planning this hard-core road trip for months. We would camp out in National Parks along the way, hike the Grand Canyon and save money on food by packing a minimalist cooler of sandwich fixings. Self-imposed hardship, I thought, makes character. Just like Cambodia. 

But in Cambodia, I always had indoor sleeping options, plenty of food, and very, very predictable weather. For reasons I don't understand, I often choose to do things the hard way. Or at least the more uncomfortable of ways, if it will make me look tough afterwards. As we set up the tent the first night, Green River, Utah seemed a perfect place to sleep outside and prove my toughness after ten hours of driving. Then it got really cold. And windy. I had a hard time breathing in the frozen mountain air, and my body kept trying to make heat by staying awake shivering. I shifted around in discomfort, hoping that my body would give up and sleep. I was happy to dismantle the tent the next morning and head for the camp showers. To my unrested body, the spray of water felt like a pelting of sand, but at least it was warm. That night, as we pulled up to Grand Canyon National Park after another day of driving, we discovered that a snow storm had blanketed Mather campground with several inches of soggy snow. I was nearly in tears just imagining setting up the tent, let alone trying to sleep in it. Two nights of not sleeping does not a happy girlfriend make, so I was absolutely thrilled when my boyfriend suggested we find a hotel for the night. Did I mention that he is smart, too?

As for our plan to dominate the hiking trails into the canyon, well, let me remind you that I am a total novice hiker. The Grand Canyon, though gorgeous and awesome, is an enormous chasm of death. Moreover, the snowstorm that had ruined our camping (but probably saved our friendship) had also iced the hiking trails into the Canyon. From the South Rim, we peered down at the people attempting the Bright Angel trail. They were descending steep downhill paths, totally exposed to sheer cliff drop-offs on one side, on ice. They are the definition of total stupidity, I thought. We inched down the trail for a few painful minutes, and when we saw a father guiding his four-year-old over the icy death trap, we decided that being life-flighted out of the Canyon would blow our budget, so we turned around. We instead took the 17,000 step (yes, I do wear a pedometer) trail around the South Rim. We were able to focus on the grandeur of the canyon from above rather than the incredible risk of free falling half a mile down into the Colorado River.

Yes, we wussed out of snow-bound camping and the frosted Bright Angel, but we survived the trip. I, however, wussed out of yet another part of our trip. Sandwiches, I found out, are made with bread. And bread, I found out, is full of gluten or some other evil that sends stabbing pain through my abdomen a few hours after ingestion. Now, I haven't been diagnosed with any specific gluten intolerance or other food-related ailment, but I do know that I've eaten two sandwiches in the past two weeks and I was very sorry both times. My dear boyfriend, unaware of my recent self-diagnosis, had supplemented our sandwich bread with flat bread wraps, which actually get along with my stomach, so we decided that I would just eat those, and he would tackle the loaf of bread alone. So there we were, eating our respective grain-based products slathered with mayo, mustard, provolone, and lunch meat. We had baby carrots and celery for crunch; and apples, oranges and bananas for sweetness. The first several meals of this concoction were actually very good, but by the third day, we started to run low on interest and flat bread.

Thank goodness for Flagstaff. Mechanics, food, and GA stipends. A town to fix all my problems at once. The squealing sound my new serpentine belt was making? Fixed. No Charge. The grumbling in my stomach asking for a hot meal? Chili and cornbread. And hot tea. The most anticipated news of the last year? Oh yes, I've got the Graduate Assistantship at Northern Arizona University, a full tuition waiver, and a stellar stipend. Flagstaff is my favorite. We stocked up our cooler at the nicest Wal-mart I've ever seen, and the hotel even had free breakfast with boiled eggs. Glorious. Perfection. Do I really have to go back? Can't I just move in now?

Impatient for sunset at the Grand Canyon

The official e-mail about my GA-ship was a great start to the trip. I got the news outside of Eagle, CO on my cell phone's tiny e-mail application. Since that's all I've been thinking about lately, it was a relief to finally have an official offer. This assistantship almost guarantees that I will move to Arizona, 1,500 miles away, this summer. I wanted that assistantship so badly, and I adore NAU, so I was thrilled that my dream was finally sort of official. My boyfriend did a good job of congratulating me even though my moving creates serious uncertainty for our fledgling relationship. The struggle of long-distance relationships has often plagued me, and it will continue until I either settle down or begin dating a lap dog that fits into one of those cute dog purses so I can just haul it around with me.

The Southwest exceeded my expectations of mesas, desert and Route 66 nostalgia. I feel a renewed connection to the American West, the spirit of the pioneers, and to my Mitsubishi's front seats. I spent seven days straight with the same person and we didn't kill each other or fight—though I did make fun of him for using the suffix “-wise” so often that I started saying it too. Although blindly choosing a graduate school based on an album doesn't guarantee a good choice; school- and city-wise, NAU and Flagstaff made me feel at home. At least until I download new music.

My life as a granddaughter

Grandma's Locket

Grandparents are worth their weight in gold, and I'm not just saying that because I spent the afternoon helping my grandma photograph her jewelry collection.

I arranged her beloved Whiting Davis jewelry sets on the white felt material. I secured diamond necklaces with pins to capture their sparkle and value. I listened to the story for each piece as I snapped a digital photo.

"This one was my mom's." My Grandma pulled off one of her diamond rings and put it next in line for the photo shoot. "And these," she handed me a string of pearls, "My mom always called these 'her pearls'. She just loved to wear them, but many years ago, she had to get them restrung at a jeweler in Hastings. We never thought a thing of it, but when I took them in to be appraised, the guy said, 'I'm sorry, these aren't real pearls.' Those jerks in Hastings stole my mom's original pearls and gave her back fakes. It just makes me sick."

For every piece of jewelry, there is a story. Just like for every set of dishes, every saved postcard, and every hand-made blanket. Grandparents are our storytellers and our wisdom-holders, our chocolate chip cookie makers, and our first basketball coaches. More important, grandparents are our history and they are part of us. I am fortunate to have spent much of my childhood at Grandma and Grandpa's learning the stories of rural Nebraskan schoolhouses and Midland Lutheran College and the good old days of Husker Football.

As a kid, I didn't realize how special grandparents are. I had fun trying on Grandma's costume jewelry and 1950's-style dresses. I always ate ice cream with Grandpa, and he was never too tired to pitch me a few tennis balls after dinner.

Now, as a young adult, I respect my grandparents for enduring life's obstacles with grace and persistence. I love the stories about the old days, even the ones I already know by heart.

Today my grandma gave me one of her lockets. I'm the only granddaughter, so I take the position very seriously. Getting some of Grandma's jewelry is a big deal. Those special things that are passed down keep the stories and the family alive.

My Apron

Right now, the world is buzzing. The constant news coverage of the revolutions throughout the Middle East was interrupted by updates on the earthquake and tsunami in Japan. Everything is being shaken up.

But for me, in my little world, the biggest news is that I've donned my Home Depot orange apron. Look out, I'm on the sales floor! I get to pack lots of fun stuff in my apron, like a box cutter, a tape measure, and little information booklets that no one reads. I even have a Spanish picture dictionary that I often read during my breaks. I despise the little "I'm in training" button that I must wear for the first four months, but I don't have a choice. I get a walkie-talkie so I can show the entire staff how "in training" I am with just the push of a button. I also get a store phone so I can confuse and frustrate customers, associates and associates from other stores in yet another way.

Despite (or maybe because of) the computer training about many of the products, I struggle to tell the difference between our ten models of push lawnmowers. When I find myself in an unfamiliar situation, I usually try to fake it. Oh yes, THIS is a great lawnmower. It has so many...features...to cut...your grass? My lack of product knowledge makes me feel uncomfortable and stupid. Most customers are very forgiving and actually take pity on me for trying. They thank me sincerely for my efforts and then walk away from the chainsaws empty-handed.

Beyond learning to sell the products, I've also got to move the products. This isn't boxes of licorice. This is 300-pound boxes of grills and awkward and heavy stuff that I don't recognize. I felt sorry for the guy from the paint department who had to partner with me this morning to move the heavy stuff up to tall shelves. He had to walk that funny line between being nice because I'm a girl and making me do the work because I'm...well, at work. The formalities disappeared when some of his buddies rode up on a fork lift. The next several hours were belches, cuss words, and man-gossip. I tried really hard not to be weird. Or belch.

13,000 steps later (or so my pedometer read), I had my first Home Depot paycheck, a new understanding of lawnmowers, and a humility that only comes from being mildly embarrassed for two days straight.

Success.

Lesson Plan Gone Right!

By now it is clear to me that I want to be a teacher. When I'm spacing off on Interstate Highways, I'm thinking about lesson plans. I should focus more on the road, you're right. But still. You could drive from Lincoln to Kearney with your eyes shut.

The more I learn about teaching, the more successful my lessons become. No surprise there.

I've been wanting more direction with my Lincoln Literacy Council student, a gifted writer and musician from Korea. I've also been wanting to test-drive sample writing assignments. Seems like a good fit.

So I drafted out a basic 5-paragraph personal essay assignment with the cliche title "Words to Live by." The object is to write a simple essay connecting the inspirational quote of your choice to your own life's mission while also including information about the quote and its author. My initial assessment of the assignment was twofold: this sounds like a legit assignment and this is total crap.

I would have chickened out of giving her the assignment, but at our last meeting, she said, "Could you give me some writing topics that have to do with America?"

Haha! I whipped out my 3-rind binder and presented her with a shining copy of the "Words to Live by" assignment. She was politely skeptical of the rigid structure and topic, but I assured her (and myself) that it would be a great exercise.

Later that week, I sat hunched over my netbook at Scooter's Coffee, trying out my own assignment. And hating it. I couldn't find the right quote or voice for such a self-promoting piece. I settled on a Nelson Mandela quote, "a good head and a good heart are always a formidable combination." Then I got stuck between a politically charged rant and a timid Miss America speech.

What a terrible assignment. I wonder how my student is doing.

So today, just minutes before our lesson, I knew I was going to need a teaching tool, something to divert attention away from the crappy assignment and on to the good intentions behind it. I flipped through my Lincoln Public Schools Gifted Materials (which, by the way I have yet to be assigned a mentee!). I chose the Venn diagram exercise because it seemed the least irrelevant. I drew three interlocking circles and assigned each a title: Me, Quote, Author. I wasn't so sure it was going to work.

My student, though still critical of my assignment (I grateful for her comments during the test drive), had found a quote and had already encountered some of the same difficulties I had at Scooter's. To my delight, our Venn Diagrams served as a perfect medium to collect and organize our thoughts and to discover the areas we needed more information. As she was filling in her diagram, she discovered that the author of her quote was a clergyman and she was able to compare and contrast her own Buddhist beliefs with the quote of a Christian. I felt very rewarded when she began drawing deeper connections between the three circles. Actually, she helped me brainstorm through my diagram, too. As always, the successful lesson plan was beneficial for both of us.

I left the lesson on a high note, thinking: Hmm. Teaching is better when you have some training and specific expectations for the lesson. Glad I'm going to get a lot of that very soon. Do you hear me, grad school?

A Jena-tastic Drama featuring my Spanish Teacher and my Guardian Angels.

A few weeks ago in my Spanish class, we were talking about those funny nuances of language. When you begin a Spanish sentence with "Bueno..." it's the same as the English, "Well,..." The teacher referred to this construction as "the introduction of doubt." We use "well" when we're about to lie about how much experience we have during an interview. We use "well" to indicate boredom when we are trying to usher out a guest who has overstayed his welcome. We use "well" to buffer any situation requiring the words, "What else was I supposed to do?" I thought my teacher gave a strange definition, but I think she's right.

"Well, I'm all set. I've got them all filled out, mailed and organized." That's what I said last November when I sent big, brown envelopes requesting letters of recommendation for my application for a graduate assistantship. I enclosed information about the position and I even stamped and addressed little envelopes for convenient mailing. But, notice the doubt I introduced. It's not that I don't trust other people, it's just that I want more control than that. I want my application completed as early as possible. Other people are not as, how to put this, early-minded, as I am. And I don't like that.

"Well, all I have to do now is wait, right?" That was December.

And January.

"Well, I'd better get another job to pay for school.They will decide the GA positions in the spring." That was also January.

And most of February.

"We should know the first-round GA offers on March 7." The woman in the English Department said, surely an angel's smile. That was earlier this week.

No work, no word from school. Lingering visions of adventure in developing countries. Political unrest in the Middle East. Gastronomical unrest in me. Hola, Doubt. Soy Jena. Mucho gusto.

Today: March 4. Voicemail. "Jena, this is Northern Arizona University. I was looking at your GA application, and we haven't received either of your recommendation letters. Please call me back." What? Did I address those stupid envelopes wrong? Did the letters get lost? Were they ever written? Forget doubt. Introduce panic.

I called back. The lady with angelic voice and the Italian name soothed my distress with a calm plan. She had been organizing the applications and recognized my name from a phone conversation we had just a few days ago, and she realized that my application was incomplete. "Get in touch with your references right away," she advised, "have them email me by Monday and I will put the letters with your application. No problem." No worries. Peace. Namaste.

Well, not exactly. It was Friday at 5:30. I switched into my get-it-done mode and immediately sent emails to both of my references, then untensed vocal chords for a few phone calls to alert my references. I got a half excuse/half apology and a promise for an email by Monday; and a voicemail that might as well have said "Well, you could leave a message, but by the time I get to the office Monday morning it'll be too late and your application will be tarred and feathered." I needed a backup.

"I need a big favor," I blurted to a trusted friend who has often served as a reference. She replied without introducing any doubts. "Of course I will do that for you, sweetie!" Relief.

I've been doubting many things this week. Between listening to the voicemail and calling my back-up reference, I doubted everything. My personal efficacy to complete an application, my responsibility to check on my application, and even my little stamped envelopes.

But really, what happened today showed me something other than catastrophic application scenario. The lady with the pretty name was looking out for me. She could've just thrown out my incomplete (and by this time...ahem...LATE) application and said, "Too bad for whoever that was, she won't even be considered for the GA position." Instead of doing what most people would do, she took the time to call me and explain the situation; moreover, she gave me a chance to have my application considered. She didn't have to do that. That's extraordinary character. I might not get the position, but at least I'll have a shot at it.

Although this post began with the introduction of doubt, it ends with the certainty that people will go out of their way for friends, or for strangers.

Thank you to everyone who did a good deed today. Particularly if you did one for me.  Muchos gracias.

Boys, Boys, Boys!

You're probably familiar with Motley Crue's anthem, "Girls, Girls, Girls"--or maybe even the movie starring Elvis with the same title.

A tune you may be less familiar with, Gaga's "Boys, Boys, Boys," is exactly how I would describe the store meeting today at Home Depot, my newest workplace.

Yes, I have been writing so many "woe is me" posts lately, I can hardly stand it. and among the many things I have been wishing for myself this week: a graduate assistantship, courage, clarity, clear skin, carbohydrates, etc..., I had forgotten about boys--not boyfriends, I've already got a good one. I'm talking about the dudes you know or you work with. Maybe the word is "friends" (something I'm low on at the moment). I like having male friends because they balance me out. The Home Depot is chock full of rugged boys with flannel shirts, jeans and sailors' mouthes. Not since the glory days at UNK have I heard the F-bomb used to describe how good something is. Somehow, it felt like home. Nebraska guys workin' hard, wakin' up extra early Sundays for the comp'ny meetin'.

All but one of my coworkers at Licorice were female, and I nearly went into shock as I scanned the mostly male crowd at this morning's meeting. Several very cute boys! This South Beach diet is very restrictive on sweets, but they didn't say anything about eye candy!

Why I should never be allowed to Google.

I always suggest, "write what you know," and today, like many days, I know total confusion.

I've been stressing about getting the right kind of funding at Northern Arizona recently because of the out-of-state tuition. On top of that stress, I've never even been to this campus, nor do I know any faculty of current students. I've never even been to Arizona (though a roadtrip will soon fix that). The underlying problem is one I've had many times: I picked the place on a hunch, fell in love with a romanticized idea of how it would be, and and now wondering if I am making a good choice.

Speaking of romanticized ideas, I also know a lot about those today. From time to time, I've considered graduate school abroad (you may be saying, didn't you already apply? twice?). My interest in international students always seeks out the type of environment that is automatically presented during schooling abroad. I have many day dreams of studying in a foreign country and feeling like I am on an adventure with an academic purpose.

Enter Payap University in Chiang Mai, Thailand. I had a brief visit to the place in 2007, and the campus seemed very accommodating and the town small enough to suit me. By chance, today I saw that Payap offers an MA TESOL program--very similar to the program offered in Arizona. Payap's tuition, however, is less than one third the cost of in-state tuition, and the cost of living is about one fifth that of Flagstaff. Granted, it's a developing country, and it's a long way from home, but I've actually been there--it was surreal to see the online pictures of the dorm rooms where I stayed a few years ago. A serious advantage of the program in Thailand is the hands-on teaching potential in the community. I could be volunteering or working in my field while going to school. Did I mention I would be living abroad? Again? And going to graduate school? It's all the things I want to do. I think? Or maybe not. I don't know. Who knows?

Maybe the snowglobe world outside has me feeling cabin fever a little too strongly. I'm not saying that I am going to ditch any current plans, but I wanted to write about the things I am working through. Since I'm in the strict phase of South Beach, I can't even eat away my problems correctly. No one gorges on asparagus. This calls for Ben and Jerry's. Or at least a bag of licorice.

I want to be--your sledgehammer

Although my eyestrain is making this very unpleasant, I want to write about my first day as a Home Depot employee.

The eyestrain, dear reader, is from the web-based training I did today during which I learned some basics about Home Depot policy and Garden Care. I am a firm believer in sufficient training and Home Depot is not going to disappoint me. From what the other employees tell me, I've got several more days of eyeball-puckering computer screen staring before I even get my cute little orange apron.

The best part of the day was the popular music tracks playing throughout the giant store. As I rounded the corner to the long, wide hallway to the time clock, the brassy riff of Peter Gabriel's "Sledgehammer" set the perfect soundtrack for my strutting through a home improvement store next to a bunch of ladders.

The training hasn't covered sledgehammers yet, but I have a feeling I will learn about all kinds of demolition equipment in the coming days. In the meantime, I am already prepared to assist customers with many important decisions. Do you want a perennial or an annual plant? How about a light duty electric chainsaw? Need a commercial-grade weed whacker? Maybe some gloves to complete your purchase? I learned a lot today.

A few Visine drops, and I'm sure I'll be dreaming of begonias and ferns and the scent of freshly cut lumber, the hum of fork lifts, and the sweet sound of money in the bank. And Peter Gabriel, too.

Calm...er--Sort of.

The lavender essential oil must be working. Or maybe my return to a stricter version of the South Beach Diet has my head cleared of the coffee-, chocolate- and licorice-fueled panic about my life's direction.

Beyond my superficial lifestyle adjustments, I'm feeling a huge sense of relief today because I've been hired on as a temporary sales associate at Home Depot. Yes, I will be one of the people in cute orange aprons circulating through the Garden Center, selling garden stuff.

Maybe we will sell the licorice plant. I know lots about that.

It seems like a funny career path: Cambodia, Licorice, Home Depot. Becoming more American with each move. Next, I'll work at a fireworks stand.

I worked hard to get a job this time around. I've never had to do that before, and I think it did me a world of good. I really hated that I didn't get hired right away, but I was motivated to keep applying and interviewing. You don't always get what you want the first time, or the second, or maybe you don't get it at all. Then Home Depot calls you on a Saturday morning and all your dreams come true.

The reason I got this job was to help fund my actual dream of graduate education in Arizona. I'm still waiting to hear about graduate assistantship possibilities, because if I have to pay out-of-state tuition, I will have to put off that part of the dream for a while. Don't worry, I've got a back-up plan. And, yes, it involves a visa.

Wish this post could hatch out of an egg, too.

A few days ago, a coworker of mine told me a funny story. She's an avid runner, but she doesn't take it that seriously. As she crossed paths with a man decked out in spandex running gear, he huffed "Be strong!" mid-stride. I guess the spandex-wearing macho man and the all-too-serious jogger attitude are the punchline of the story, but it got me thinking.

My co-worker got a chuckle out of the experience, but I think that man had a point. Sometimes we all need someone to tell us to keep going.

Enter Gaga. Lady Gaga, that is. The body suit-wearing weirdness incarnate. She sings, she dances, she shocks the heck out of everyone, and when she's offstage, she is a polite and articulate woman (though still in a wacky outfit) with a message.

I'm a big fan of Gaga, but unlike my made-up relationships with John Mayer and Usher, I think of Lady Gaga as the alter-ego I always wanted. I enjoy listening to her music, and I think she's a talented artist. Her performances are almost too much for me, but I respect her creativity as an artist. But the thing I like most about Lady Gaga is that she is a loud voice for the same causes I believe in--social justice and HIV prevention. I saw Gaga on Good Morning America today wearing a latex condom-inspired pantsuit. During the interview, her message was that HIV is still a problem, but it can be stopped if people protect themselves. She spoke about the stigma and shame attached to condoms and getting tested, and how these negative feelings reduce a person's ability to protect themselves. Um, that was my undergraduate research project... Right on, Gaga.

 While watching the interview I admired Gaga's presentation of herself--a little crazy, but thoughtful and honest. I've been feeling lost lately and my self-esteem has suffered. The post-college life and identity is so much harder than I thought. I've been questioning the things that make me Jena, too: the love of other languages and cultures, the quirky awkwardness, the introspective and creative person.


Gaga's latest single, Born this Way debuted this week and is already atop the charts. It's an anthem for anyone who has ever been doubted or doubted him or herself. She even incorporates some foreign language lyrics (as she often does), so you know I'm happy. In a way, I think Gaga is my figurative guy in a spandex running suit, encouraging me to be strong, be myself and "don't be a drag, just be a queen". One day I'll tell my grandkids about the lady in the condom suit who inspired me to do great things.

Thanks Gaga!

Wait. Wait. Wait.

Today, February 15, is the day that my application for a graduate assistantship will land on someone's desk.

Someone will look through my application, my essay and my recommendation letters. Someone will decide if I am a good candidate for the job. Some will decide--and I know they know it--whether I will go to school in Flagstaff.

Funding is a big deal for grad students. A BIG deal. At this point, we've chosen a field that we are spiritually invested in and we have given up most of our soul to writing papers, doing research and filling out applications. Most of us are also broke. I wouldn't feel good about calling us greedy, but we do want our achievement and our potential to be recognized in the form of a big fat check.

If I don't get a graduate assistantship out of the English department, there is a slim chance that I could find a GA-ship in another department, or find another on-campus job to offset the out-of-state tuition; but let's get real. Out-of-state tuition is nearly triple what an Arizonan would pay. We're talking the price of a new BMW. Come on.

I put my soul into school, and I'm not ready (or financially able) to fork over that kind of money for a degree of any sort. I know I can find a way around paying through the nose.

I hear Payap University in Thailand has a kickin' and affordable MA TESOL. Actually, I could do most of the things I want to do without a Masters degree, so I'm feeling pretty liberated--except the part where I'm totally depending on someone else's decision.

But, my best scenario includes an English Department GA-ship at Northern Arizona, a cheap apartment that allows a little kitty to be my roommate, and free (good) coffee.

I hope the grad school gods smile upon me and my application. For now, I'll just have to wait.

 

Moonlight, sunshine and perpetual blabbering on the same sorry topics

Last night's post was honest, but I don't want to end my thought there.

Today, though patchy blankets of snow still cover Lincoln's yards and sidewalks, spring-like temperatures and full sunshine have me feeling more optimistic today. It must be a primal human instinct to rejoice at the coming of warmer weather. Especially in the depths of January, I often wonder if I will survive the winter. Physically, of course, but also emotionally. Of course John Mayer wrote an entire song about this desperation and the relationships it often creates titled, "St. Patrick's Day." But neither of my boyfriends are the subject of this post.

I escaped the hardest part of winter last year. I went from blizzard to heat stroke in 40 hours. I missed the rebirth of the Prairie and I lost a good friend. It was a tough transition. It's like tossing a frozen turkey into the deep-fryer--you'll ruin your kitchen and Thanksgiving for everyone. Spring is our time to thaw out before summer.

When I poke around on Facebook, I always come across old friends who are living the dream I thought I had a few years ago--i.e. living abroad, going on crazy adventures abroad, staring on episodes of Locked Up Abroad... etc. I realize that comparing myself to other people is counterproductive, but I do it. I often feel like I wussed out of something when I left Cambodia, an unfair assessment that may haunt me forever (feel like you've read this post before? I do.). One of my childhood friends is in the Peace Corps teaching English on some isolated mountain in Rwanda. It sounds like she loves it and that she is really good at what she's doing there. That's a tough and unfair comparison. I'm working on appreciating the choices I make, and accepting myself as a whole person. I see that life isn't a perfect series. Everything that I want to happen may not happen in the order I thought, or it may not happen at all. But in all that mess, I suppose there is a beauty: taking my brother to school, rediscovering my hometown, gaining control of my love life.

I read this quote in a magazine.

Although the wind blows terribly here,
the moonlight also leaks
between the roofplanks
of this ruined house.

A Japanese woman wrote this in the 11th century. Times were probably tough, but she found the beauty of her situation. She never knew the Nebraskan Prairie winds, but I imagine she also never had a furnace.

My favorite part of this poem is that it makes me want to stop whining for a few minutes and enjoy the sunshine.

Unworthy of Witty Title

I've been wanting to blog lately, but I didn't have a starting point. I still don't, but I'm gonna write it anyway.

I'm still waiting to hear about graduate assistantships at Northern Arizona university, and still waiting to hear anything from the University of New Mexico. The GA-ship will probably make or break my decision to attend grad school this fall, so I hope the stars align carefully.

I'm still volunteering with the Lincoln Literacy Council. My student is teaching me a lot about English and about composition. We are working on a short fiction story that she began writing last year. We meet on Friday mornings to discuss definitions and connotations of words and phrases in her writing. I look forward to our meetings because it's fun to explore language from another point of view. Last week, we wore out "to accommodate" in a very satisfying comparison of many definitions, examples and non-examples.

I'm still working at Licorice International part-time. It is a wonderful part-time job, but part-time is no longer enough for me. My search for full-time employment continues into its second month. I have grown accustomed to the online application now preferred by most employers, my dress pants have been worn to several interviews lately, and yet, my cell phone remains still and quiet. No job offers. The passive rejection weighs on my fragile heart. A college degree, I thought, was the ticket to happiness. Or at least to minimal job-related confusion.


In the midst of my applying and waiting phase, I'm working on a new relationship. Love and geography have always created problems for me, but my jet-lagged heart hasn't given up yet.

This may be the least fun post I've ever done. Probably has to do with the current time: Saturday night, 11:45; and location: under the covers. When I think of something to write about (or get out of bed and do something worth reporting), you'll be the first to read it. I promise.