GPS Day

Today is February 14th, and everyone knows what that means! GPS Day, the anniversary of the first GPS satellite launch.

I won't have much of chance to celebrate any sort of holiday today, given my crazy schedule on Tuesdays, but I will have get to go to my favorite watering hole with some friends for pizza and a beer. It's not a fancy dinner, which is a good thing. After nearly twelve straight hours of class and work, I don't think I'll be any sort of shape to enjoy anything more than the basics.

Happy GPS Day!

Icons of the New England Saints

I had a great deal of fun in New England. And why not? There were bookstores, old houses, people dressed up as nineteenth-century American authors, cemeteries, more bookstores... So, since Art majors have convinced us all that pictures are worth a thousand words, here are some snapshots from my trip.

Moonrise over Plimoth Plantation

Contemplating Walden Pond

My first autograph!

Back Again

PiP (Person in Progress, aka, me) has once again returned the snow-lined, ice-filled pathways of College. It is 10 after 5 on January the 22nd, over a full month since my last posting. For the past 2 1/2 weeks, I've taken a half-assed fast from the Internet. I left my computer behind, you see, but not my phone. So you couldn't see me, but I could see you.

I'll let that creepy thought percolate in your brain cells for a moment.

Where did I go? To a hermitage, to cower away from the crowds of people and snowflakes and begin cat collecting? Far, far, from it, my (presumed) friend. I joined an expedition of the most fantastic sort: a literary expedition. Not without trepidation, I boarded a coach (bus) for the overnight journey to Massachusetts, where I would study New England writers, particularly those of the nineteenth century. Wasn't that a fun sentence?

We began our expedition a bit earlier in time than that, disembarking from our coach near the much lauded Plimoth/Plymouth Rock. Lauded in verse only, I presume, for nothing but the finest poetry could lend drama to a chunk of rock repaired with a seam of cement. The iron bars of its cage and the "1620" carved into its surface leant its only difference from the other boulders strewn about the beach. But, as dutiful, if rather bus-stiffened tourists, we took photos and waved back to the condescending early-morning joggers.

To reconstituted our shriveled consciousnesses, we retired to the All-American Diner, where we tucked in with more than a good will. The pancakes were as big, or bigger than one's head, depending on one's physiology and ego. This repast gave us the strength to wander through the collection of the charming Plimoth Hall Museum, whilst caffeine fumes and maple syrup began to warm our blood and wake our brains.

We would need our strength for what was to come: Plimoth Plantation itself!

Recap of the Semester

So...it's been a crazy semester. All sorts of inanity and insanity, which heavily contributed to my lack of postings. So what have I been up to?

1. I now work at the Career Development Office. I am a student employee, with regular hours and a paycheck that covers my gas and groceries and Miscellaneous Account bill. I make appointments, score personality tests, post jobs, and whatever other tasks they see fit to give me.

Greatest personal achievement? Making double-sided copies. Seriously, it's a life skill.

2. I had an internship with Zondervan, a Christian publishing company. I worked with one of the production editors, learning the business and editing manuscripts. I edited three (yes, three) manuscripts, and will receive credit on the copyright page. I also figured out what I want to be when I grow up, which is kind of a big deal.

Greatest personal achievement? I may/probably will receive an acknowledgement from the author of one of the books I edited. That's right, my name, in print. It's not on a cover (yet), but hey, for a 21-year-old aspiring writer/editor, I'll take it. I'm very, very excited.

3. I've been working out. Not as much as I'd like because of everything else I've been up to, but still going at it. Even started jogging a bit, though the cold weather has ended that for the moment. I may even have to get a new pair of shoes because I've worn my old ones out. That's right. I didn't outgrow them, I wore them out.

Greatest personal achievement? I lost another 4 pounds (bringing it to a grand total of 27 since the end of January), and managed to run 3 miles. Not regularly, but it's a start.

4. I had my first relationship. Now, because this is a semi-public forum, I won't go into details, but I was un-singleized for a while. It was fun. I got dumped in the middle of exam week. That wasn't/isn't fun.

Greatest personal achievement? Contrary to popular belief, having a relationship isn't an achievement. But I'm glad it happened.

5. I increased my church attendance. Because of my difficult experience with church in high school, going to church isn't easy for me. But over the past year or so, I've been trying to make it a regular habit, because I do feel like a church home is important. It's slow going, but I've managed to go more often than not this semester.

Greatest personal achievement? Sadly, it's merely getting out of bed on a Sunday morning, but the spiritual rewards have been amazing.

That's just a sampling of what I've been up to. It's been quite a busy, stressful semester, but it's been a wonderful experience. It also makes me look forward to next semester, which will (hopefully) be a little slower-paced. So what's in store for me?

1. JUST 14 credits (two Japanese classes, my senior seminar, and then 18th Century British Lit and Women's Self-Defense for fun)
2. Work at Career Development
3. The Festival of Faith and Writing (I'm hosting two authors now, and I'm very, very excited)
4. Preparing for post-grad life (AHHH!!!)

I'm sure there is much inanity and insanity to be had.

Frustration: Road Rage and Me

I hate driving. People who know me know that I hate driving, because I am (excessively) vocal about my hatred of driving. It's a stressful, dangerous task to me. Especially parking.

However, I have done rather significant drives on my own. Yesterday, I drove 9 hours from family in Ohio down to North Carolina, accompanied by a carefully constructed playlist, snacks, coffee, and a dramatized, audible rendition of The Two Towers. This was part two of my journey; Wednesday, after my last exam, I packed the car and drove 5 hours from Michigan to Ohio. Needless to say (but I'll say it anyway), my bum was not too excited to be in the driver's seat again. But I had the best light at the end of the tunnel: home.

* * *

I pulled off the last highway, Peabody, my trusted-yet-despised GPS chirping at me to turn right, and then left. I, the ever faith Igor to her Frankenstein, obeyed. I turned right, scooting into the left turn lane.

But I was too slow. The light turned yellow, and not being one to tempt fate (or traffic cameras), I reluctantly stopped at the thick white line. It was frustrating: so close, yet so far away. Why couldn't the 70 mph speed limit and lack of traffic signals extend all the way to my driveway? I watched as Peabody's ETA crept up a whole minute. Another minute dividing me from home.

Behind me, a woman honked her horn. I looked in the rearview mirror to see her gesticulate at me. She was dressed in business attire, driving a nice car. I gesticulated back through the mirror. "What do you want me to do, b****?" I asked angrily. Usually, this question is directed towards Peabody. I'm sure she was relieved to have the cursing targeted elsewhere. 

My brows were furrowed, my lip curled, my shoulders tensed nigh to my ears. The road-rage beast, already stirring from lack of sleep, food, and patience, was awake. 

Maybe, just maybe, the woman behind me is a nice person. Maybe she had someplace to be. But after I've been driving for two days after a very stressful exam week, you don't get the benefit of the doubt. You get called naughty names.

You won't like it when I'm angry.

One of Those Days

I'll take a brief break from the literary dissection of the facial expression. And a break from my break from writing for this blog.

The weather has stricken me down once more. I awoke a few precious minutes before my alarm, my head making its plaints known to me in a very specific and painful manner. I fumbled my way through the dim apartment for some medicine and coffee--thankfully, I had set the coffee maker last night. Score one for Alicia.

Usually, after the application of heat and caffeine, my brain's plaints subside. And I, triumphant over my own physiology, attend my second class of the day, albeit a tad befuddled. This morning, I am not so lucky. Every sudden movement reminds me why I'm not moving from the futon.

Why, then, am I writing now? Why, then, did I take the effort to write two emails in two different languages (neither of them English) to excuse myself from class?

Because, unfortunately, though my migraines limit my physical efforts, it doesn't limit my mental acumen. Quite the reverse, actually. I seek distraction, a way of distracting my brain from the pain that it can't ignore otherwise.

Well or not, I often find myself seeking distractions; it is one of my hobbies. And today is just one of those days.

A (Truly) Crooked Smile

It had been quite the summer. But it wasn't over yet; Ben, having decided to switch universities, was going on another college visit. I served as his faithful companion, and, of course, as his GPS. Starting in northeast Georgia, we hopped in the Brave Little Toaster and set out on our adventure.

I miss my baby... :(

When I woke up that morning, I noticed nothing amiss. One of my eyes felt a little heavy, but we started off (relatively) early in the morning. And this was before I started drinking coffee, so you can imagine that I wasn't the most perceptive of individuals at the time. 

Okay, okay, I'm not the most perceptive of individuals at all. But I digress.

The loss of sensation was odd. I don't know exactly when it happened, but eventually, half of my face was numb. As we left Lousiville, I contemplated the situation. 

I can't move half my face. That's weird.

We enter Indiana.

Have I had a stroke? I mean, isn't that what happens when you have a stroke? Can 17 year olds even have strokes? This is really weird. I wonder what my face looks like when I talk. Ugh, I hate this song.

I had to make a decision. I didn't have access to WebMD, but I didn't need the vague symptom checker to tell me something was wrong. 

Okay. Something is wrong.

"B, I'm gonna call Mom. Maybe she'll know what to do." 

I'm not going to guess what my brother said, but I'm sure it was some form of grunt or other sound effect that meant, "Yeah, that's probably a good idea." 

"Hey Mom."

"Hi sweetie, how's the trip? Are you guys having fun?"

"Ummm...Mom? I can't move half my face."

"What?"

"I can't move half my face. It doesn't move, Mom." 

I'm proud to say that I remained calm for the duration of the conversation. My mother, however, cannot make the same claim. 

"Okay, okay, well, you're going to your grandmother's house. Call her. Tell her what's going on. Have her take you to the emergency room." Now imagine that spoken with the rapidity of a tongue twister.

"Oh, I should go to the emergency room?" That hadn't occurred to me. Was it that serious?

My mom sighed. "Yes, Alicia. You need to go to the emergency room."

"Okay, I'll do that." 

Now, emergency room trips aren't exactly fun, but if you absolutely have to go, take my grandmother. After raising two boys with a horrifying propensity for injury, she is a pro. 

I got a CAT scan and a MRI to make sure my brain was okay. (Don't worry, there was one there. I checked.) I had to follow a flashlight and my reflexes tested. Meanwhile, my brother cancelled his visit to a certain college in Grand Rapids, Michigan. At some point, our youth pastor called.

"Yeah, I'm in Kalamazoo, with my grandparents. I was supposed to. No, I had to cancel. We had to take Ali to the emergency room. Oh no, she's fine. She just has some sort of weird facial tic."

For a writer, my brother has no dramatic flair.

The doctor came back, looking very important in his white coat, as doctors tend to do. "So, you have Bell's Palsy." My half of a facial expression must have communicated my confusion, because he explained. "That means your facial nerve gets irritated. When it swells, it gets pinched, and that causes it to be paralyzed."

Good. Not a stroke. 

"There's not a lot we can do. We'll give you some antibiotics and some artificial tears. And you need to make sure you tape your eye shut when you sleep to make sure it closes all the way." He scribbled a prescription. "Actually, I've never heard of someone getting it so young before, but that's a good thing. It means you should get the feeling back in a few weeks, with no real side effects."

"Good." I flashed half of my pearly whites and hopped down from the paper covered table. Just a few weeks. Few meant a small number. It was summer, so there was no need to go out in public. No photographic evidence. No one had to know about it beyond its role as a funny story I could tell later. Much, much later. Heck, road trip aside, the timing couldn't have been better!

Wait...when does school start?