Dad makes me laugh.

Email from Dad after reading previous post:

Guilt has overcome me after realizing the tragic mistake of teaching you to pedal before teaching you to steer, I am so glad Brian was able to teach you correctly.

Love,
Dad

Ne te quaesiveris extra

I just realized I hadn't updated my blog after the forecast of doom/gloom. That's ok, as no one reads this anymore.
So anyway:
This is a semi-public announcement that the liklihood stated in the below blog post was proven wrong. I passed my qualifying exam, thus admitting me to PhD candidacy. Unbelievable. (Reasons for this being unbelievable are touched on in the following and previous posts.)
After passing, I was relieved, but a bit perturbed because I didn't do as well as I should have. Ideally, it would have ended with my committee declaring that, had they been NIH, they would fund me immediately and without question. Unfortunately, it ended with them suggesting that I should probably learn the downstream pathways of the Insulin receptor. True, but not as glamorous.

The fact that I'm an advanced graduate student studying neuroscience seems to be in direct contradiction with the many basic bits of knowledge and skillsets that I lack. Following are some examples of things that do not befit a neuroscientist.

Things every 3rd grader has mastered, but I have not:

I cannot remember which months have 30 days, and which have 31. I have asked Brian to teach me this at least twice now. All I remember from his trick is that some of the months are on knuckles, and some in the valleys, but then you skip one in between...I don't know. Ask him about his complicated knuckle mnemonic.

Despite being an excellent speller, I still have to recite "i before e except after c" 80% of the time I am writing a word with the I/E vowel combination. Really, though- I'm in the top tier of spelling awesomeness. (Ignore typos here. Blogs do not count.)

I could not ride a bike until about 5 months ago. In case you were wondering, learning that skill is quite difficult for an adult. (Particularly so for an adult who has poor gross motor skills, and is a survivor of "floppy baby syndrome" (a.k.a. hypotonia). I have overcome.) Although I won't be racing any time soon, Brian says he will let me on the road once I can stand up and pedal. Not there yet. Still too wobbly. (I don't practice often.)

This deficiency was for many years a closely held secret, until I reached college and decided that it was kind of hilarious. College is a time when all the cool people become comfortable with who they are, and as such are able to laugh at themselves. People usually laugh along.**

I also preface the bike riding information with the fact that this is the only area in which my parents completely failed me. Way to go, Mom and Dad. I sometimes leave out the part where I ran directly into a cement post after Dad "let go" of the seat for the first time, thus nailing what I thought was the final nail in my bike-riding coffin. It should be noted that there was a wide expanse of street, sidewalk and grass surrounding that one post, but my bike was drawn directly into it.

I suspect magnetism, but whatever.


**All the uncool people think that the laughter surrounding said cool person's stories is directed at them, when, in fact, the cool people are laughing with the storyteller, and not at them. (This is indeed a direct reference to the least-cool person we know, in case family was amused and suspicious.)

observations

1. After sitting in almost complete silence for a few hours, the sound of myself eating chips is almost deafening.

2. I am likely to fail my imminent second qualifying exam. It will be my first major failure in life. I will have another chance to remain in grad school, but failure will stress me out greatly, and will have the following consequences:

a. huge blow to my delicate ego

b. increase in Id, decrease in super-ego (e.g. possible abandonment of hard things like science)
NOTE: I actually think Freud is an idiot.

c. explanation of failure through various pre-qualifier difficulties

(e.g. complete hard-drive failure (happened), full week spent re-analyzing data lost with previous hard drive (true), car going up in smoke thereby stranding me in another town (true), car going up in smoke again the next day thereby stranding me in...nowhere (true), total death of car, and subsequent organization and roadtrip to sell car (happened), husband deciding to buy new car on critical thesis work day, and needing me to help with financing (also happened), car dealership taking as long as humanly possible to do everything, thereby stranding me there (of course)...

but that's only the last couple of weeks.

you know, it probably isn't healthy when I've already considered walking haphazardly into the parking lot of my apartment complex as a car was rushing around a corner (but not too fast, because we are in a parking lot, you see?). The idea would be to get hit just hard enough to break a leg, but conveniently I'd be wearing a helmet to protect my favorite organ (brain). That should easily buy me a few extra weeks to prepare, right?

NOTE: IF the previous event or one similar actually happens, please know that I am joking. I mean, the thought crossed my mind, yes, but I wouldn't actually go through with it on purpose. I generally walk through the street in a daze at 5 am though, so it's possible that it happens without planning.

Laundry quandary

In the culmination of what can only be described as seething, burgeoning rage, she succumbed to the impractical solution necessary to redress the manifestations of an immature house-keeper, and threw away every single sock in sight. "From this point forward, only endless copies of the same sock will reside in this house", she resolved.

Match. (point?)

vanity*

Although it looks like I pasted by face into this picture, that's not the case. It was just a lucky, very in-focus shot. (difficult to do in a mirror, actually.)


I think about how people will respond to me much too often. This is a difficult thing to admit, as I loathe self-consciousness. Lack of self-consciousness is one reason I love my husband, who cares not what people think when he decides to climb the rock wall outside of an uppity shopping mall, and who wears a rotation of two or three outfits to work in any given week. To turn this around to myself (as perhaps I am prone to do), I generally fear that all his coworkers will know I am a terrible wife who doesn't do laundry or iron his shirts regularly. (Correction often made by Brian: awesome wife, but mediocre housekeeper. This, however, is justified since I work 70 hour weeks and am getting a PhD. See how I did that? Turned it around to make myself look not so bad. That's my modus operandi. lame.)
Anyway, this paranoia about people and their undoubted scrutiny (of me) often is expressed through ridiculous actions I take to avoid their disapproval. Note: this applies primarily to strangers, which is totally illogical.

One Saturday Brian was working, so I decided to spend my time reading my book (Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius- excellent). I planned on taking it to Barnes and Noble, and curl up on an overstuffed chair to bask in the rare gluttony of reading for hours.
When I drove up to the bookstore, I pictured myself, curled up, reading amongst the books, and then walking out after several gratifying hours with the book in my bag...

---Dream sequence begins here: Imagine harp music and foggy vision, or something.---

The store manager stops me.
"Ma'am...I notice you have that book in your bag."
"Oh, it's mine...I bought it a while ago" (smile!! I love books so much that I buy them brand new!!!)
"It looks brand new."
"Well, I am only on page 92, so, it isn't quite broken in." (I am gentle when reading...no cover creasing.)
"Hmmm- I'd like to take you to the back"

I know deep in my heart that "the back" isn't a glorious, book-stuffed room with sun rays beaming in to highlight the dust. It's the interrogation room- complete with a bucket of water to threaten my book if it must come to torture. (You see, water-damaged books are one of the tragedies in life**.)

---Ok, end dream sequence. Imagine the harp again, but in DESCENDING melodies. That's how you know it's the end rather than the beginning of another dream. Important.---

I needed to prevent this inevitable interception by the B&N manager. I am constantly frightened of people thinking I am stealing things. I blame this on my sister, although she doesn't know it (until now):

When I was very young, I was in an electronics store with my family. My Mom asks a simple task: to hold the calculator we were going to buy. I: obedient, unquestioning, and valiant, follow through. I follow through until we leave the store. In the car, I realized I was still holding the calculator, and it wasn't in a bag.
"Mom! I still have the calculator!"
"Oh- we decided not to get that! Ooops."
No one relieved me of my duty.
Anyway, it was my sister who went off on a dramatic spiel about how I stole this calculator, that it was a really serious crime, how the cops were already after me, et cetera, when we conveniently heard sirens in the distance.
I panicked.

My mom laughed more, and ran it back inside the store.
My sister continued to goad, and wield her power as the elder for evil. (She's since grown out of that habit and apologized. I took that apology as confirmation of my perfectly righteous childhood.)

But back to Barnes and Noble: I had to find a way to undeniably prove the book was mine. I decided that the only irrefutable proof would be an inscription...to myself...as if it were given to me. I know. Ridiculous. Why am I admitting this? (To unload my shame.)

So I had to write something in it that NO ONE would EVER write to themselves. I sat in the car outside of B&N thinking on a clever inscription to myself.
I settled on this: "Kara, I hope your genius appreciates his. -B" (The book is entitled "A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius, just as a reminder")

I chuckled at what I thought to be an exceptionally personalized and creative inscription.
Two months later: loan book to a friend. mistake.

H: (reads inscription aloud) "Who is B???"
K: *uncomfortable chuckle* "Brian gave it to me." (quickly diverted eyes to floor.)

Summary: I wrote an unnecessarily flattering inscription to myself in my own book so that I might avoid an imaginary scenario of being accused of stealing, and then lied to a friend about it.

end story.

* title is referring to both the "trivial/pointless" use of the word, and the pathetic fact that I actually think people are caring enough about my presence to scrutinize my actions.
** Seriously- one time I saw a bag of encyclopedias on the street in Memphis sitting out in the rain and destined for the dump. I almost cried. You think I am exaggerating, I can tell, but the destruction of knowledge AND books in one sitting was too much to handle.

itunes is a monster

I'm just writing this to avoid the very necessary work I should be doing right now.
I don't really expect anyone to care which songs get stuck in my head, but if you happened to be looking for a new song to download, these could be good places to start.



*Monte Montgomery on fire. One of the best guitarists alive. Jaw-dropping in person. The blue thing in the middle of the picture is a guitar pick necklace.


So, every once in a while I hear brilliance in a song, and cannot stop thinking about it for days on end. It pervades my thoughts and is a constant soundtrack. This sometimes happens after I've heard a song several times, and sometimes it clicks after the first few chords.

I'm going to go ahead and claim impeccable music taste... but don't we all? There is this strange phenomenon I've noticed:
people my age tend to think that the more unknown the band, and the more of these unknown bands they know, the cooler they are. (In defense of Ian, who probably doesn't know this blog exists: he is so extreme that I totally believe him when he says he likes an artist...even though they might never have sung outside their parents' garage.)
I'm sometimes late to pick up on artists, but I think I'm reasonably open to the abstract while remaining fairly discerning in my taste.

Of the 7 songs I've been moderately obsessed with in recent memory, Patty Griffin has been responsible for the latest two.

Recent ones:

7. Should've Known Better/ Green and Gray- Nickel Creek
These two songs were concomitant. I totally wrote that just to use the word "concomitant". I don't have many opportunities to interject it into daily conversation, ok?

6. Hallelujah- Jeff Buckley
This song becomes an obsession at least once every 15 months or so. It's a classic. The classic (original) version, however, is trash.

5. For the Widows in Paradise, For the Fatherless in Ypsilanti- Sufjan Stevens

4. I Am Trying to Break Your Heart- Wilco
Don't you want to assassin down the avenue? Forget that it refers to a drunken state- it sounds awesome.

3. Shadowfeet- Brooke Fraser

2. Up to the Mountain (MLK song)- Patty Griffin

1. Every Little Bit- Patty Griffin

Most of the songs that I really fall in love with have slightly abstract lyrics (e.g. 7#2, 6, 5, 4, 1). I appreciate that in a song because it reminds me of a good poem- you have to dig through it a bit. In the end, you may or may not understand exactly what the author was talking about, but you will definitely have a personal understanding of the song.
Some of these songs are musically fantastic, or overtly moving (7#1, 2), while another is a song sung by a voice I would have assigned myself had I been calling the shots in heaven (3). The song itself (while great) wouldn't normally fall into the brilliant category, but I really want her voice.

I'm glad God didn't give me a great voice, because if He had I'd probably be sitting on sidewalks with my guitar and singing in coffee shops. There isn't anything wrong with that, but I like my job, and I like having a semi-secure future. (In academia... secure? HA!)
I also tell myself these things to feel better about having a mediocre voice and being stuck in a lab all day.

I'm still in an "Every Little Bit" phase, so luckily the guitar part is easy. Singing like Patty, however, proves not to be. *Sigh*

-------------

**Late addition: Say It to Me Now by Glen Hansard. It's so raw, and so fun to scream along. (From the "Once" soundtrack) Another fantastic voice- the accent helps.

just random things...

*just a random picture for a random post. Rain caught in a spider web in San Diego.



my computer always makes empty threats like: "DON'T EVER pull that flash drive out without telling me first. I SWEAR I will ruin it, I will mangle it, and then I will follow up with an honorable suicide- Seppuku. Et TU Kara?"
I don't believe it. After years of clicking the little green icon and waiting for permission, I have just started pulling it out indiscriminately. Mac doesn't seem to mind all the time, being the more practical sort.

Why do keyboard makers put the caps lock in the position that my pinky frequents? I will be happily typing and then suddenly I AM YELLING ALL OVER THE PAGE.
I hate you, QWERTY. I want Dvorak.

possible public service announcement:
I despise words that don't exist, or rather, the user of them. Shakespeare got away with it, and actually commands my undying love and respect. You using the word funnest, however, makes me want to gag.
It slipped out the other day.
Granted, I was definitely doing a silly voice with the hubby (he not only puts up with this, he participates). When it came out, like excrement from a pristine mouth, I think I heard him gasp. HE gasped- the master of typos, the one who not only spells every word wrong, but ACTUALLY DOESN'T CARE to edit emails, or resumes, or other things with words on them! (He does not speak that poorly, of course, seeing as I would not have marrie....ok ok, this is going too far: I love him, word-mauler and all.)

Don't tell me you read my blog, because it kind of weirds me out. I will wonder: "does it make me more endearing...do they like me more? Or maybe less...yes, I confess so much that they certainly have an inward disdain for me now!"
I always want to keep this pure, as a true journal: a heavily thought-over, pondered, edited, and publicly acceptable journal.
(Every time I have tried to write a real under-the-bed journal, this is inevitably what it becomes, just in case I become an icon and my children sell my journals to the Smithsonian.)
Anyway, I would prefer not knowing you read my blog. Except for comments... comments are heartily encouraged and appreciated. In person, it is strange, though. Actually, I'd kind of like to know in person too, but you should slip it into the conversation slyly, as if it were an accident. Yeah, slip it in as if my blog is your secret hobby, the thing you do at night when the rest of your household is asleep. You could say something like: "Wow, you are really much more interesting on your blog than in real life!" (true? possibly.)
Ok, so you should let me know if you read my blog. This way I can specifically think about each reader (all fit on my fingers) and edit entries accordingly.
Haha.

I'm going to write something real soon.

who has time for blogs?

Dear person studying behind me,

You swallow loudly.
I've never known a person who couldn't manage to slake their thirst quietly, but you, medical student, never learned to drink politely. A hint: it's like chewing with your mouth closed, but easier.
"Gulp" as an onomatopoeia is more of a figurative thing- people aren't really supposed to make that sound.

Ah- this time there wasn't even a sip of water, and I swear I still heard your epiglottis slam shut. You might have an abnormal throat. I should be more empathetic.

I hope you cannot read what I am writing. That would be awkward. Really- drink on. I will put in headphones.


I want studying to be over.

a comment

In response to a certain someone's worry:

that 'poem' below wasn't inspired by any ahem...how do I say it...old people. All of the older people in my life should actually serve to strip me of those fears, since they prove to be the most amazing, interesting, and insightful of all my family/friends.

Poems never fully make sense to those who don't write them, or mine don't. They might not make any sense at all, I don't know.
This one came from my personal fear of becoming boring. I already feel it happening, which is why I worry about what I will be like down the road. I'm getting more science, less soul.

I think the sparkle is leaving my words, and setting up shop in the science part of my brain. I do cool things, and unfortunately I find this subject to be all that I speak of with passion lately.

See how boring this post is? I told you. I'm transboring. (get it? like transFORMING into someone BORING. ha. I still amuse myself, at least.)

I need to reconnect with my friends of the non-science variety. I miss them.
I need to do spontaneous, artsy, and adventurous things.

I just finished reading slaughterhouse-five. I'm not sure that I fully grasp what it was trying to say, but it made me think. Although this poem has little to do with the subject of the book, time was an important character in the story, and time made me think of this:


I worry
That I will dry up, and shriveled,
Tell turgid ones of my years wet and splashing,
Then scare them, as they see no more sparkle droplets
Fly from my eyes

I fear
That the chaff of my voice will rattle,
Then fall empty and broken,
To bend the corners of sausage lips
Writhing with chagrin and distance

I know
That my thoughts will always wrinkle,
To form crevices deep,
Brimming with gold veins and quartz
Waiting for bold plunder

But, I wonder
Will the pick always reach?
Will the wheelbarrow carry?
Will the jewels reach air?

…Will the canary sing of warning?

my chosen path (part deux)

I know...
I have been finished with school for an entire bliss-filled week now, and people have been waiting, wondering, becoming desperate for an update.
Right.
So when did I start writing as if there were an audience? It is an unsettling thought, as I use this merely to ramble for my own sake: to collect thoughts, remember funny stories, wax poetic, etc.

So this is part deux, a follow up to My Chosen Path (available below with a quick scroll). It is necessary to use deux instead of two, as this reveals my increasing maturity, my ever-expanding outlook, and the inherent supercilious attitude that accompanies one in graduate school and all things French.

To expound upon the realization that I was perfectly formed (fearfully and wonderfully made) to be a professor due to my absent-minded nature:
Much like a future engineer takes apart and rebuilds random household implements when they are young, and much like a future actor creates magnificent home videos of rock concerts using only a red plastic guitar and nakedness for props, (oh...wait, that might have just been my cousin- Clay, we always knew you were born for the stage),
I was famous for forgetting. I was also known for being virtually unable to find things, when, as my mom repeatedly told me, "it" [thing looked for by me] would have bitten me if it were a snake. Still today, when I search for my keys (every day), I hope that they will rattle when I come near.

After deciding the profession was perfect, I sought out research experience. This is a necessary step to becoming a professor, as at least 5 years of research and suffering are required to earn a PhD. Research, to my surprise, was not tolerant of absent-mindedness. Quite the opposite, in fact. How do all these loopy professors with paper-laden desks pull it off?
It was at my first research job that I amazed myself with my ability to forget. I would attempt some tissue staining, but midway through forget what I had and had not done. "Have I put the antibody on yet? I guess it is better to have too much than too little."
I later asked, and found that the 5 mg of antibody cost $500.
(mg = milligrams for you non-scientists who actually think the english measuring system is valid. I mean really, do you even know how many pints are in an ounce? Oh, pints are bigger? You already knew the milligrams thing too, huh.)
This is also when I found out how expensive science is. You can sell a scientist what are essentially steel tweezers for $100 if it has F.S.T. stamped on it (Fine Science Tools- real company), or the scientist could get the same tool for $5 at walmart. If the cheaper option is chosen, it must be made clear that they are called "forceps", not "tweezers".
At my next research job, I saw the practicality of my advisor, who had a device made from coffee cans that was perfectly effective (except when you touched the right lower side where all the knobs were, and it shocked you. "You" was usually Steph, who always cussed loudly when this occurred, or if she was reading email, or if she was just present in the lab. I miss her.)

Anyway, I didn't forget as much in my second research job. Upon my graduation I had successfully completed an undergraduate thesis! (it's true, just google my name-and PLEASE don't read it. You will quickly tire.)
All of this experience (2 solid years of research, 4 solid years of class) was supposed to prepare me for graduate school.
It did not.
I entered my first neuroscience class thinking, "yes! neurons, action potentials, saltatory conduction...I got this covered!". Within the first 5 minutes, Paul (whom I have come to know and love/fear) gave us all our very own electronics learning lab. He then describes the class (Intro to Neuroscience Methods- cutely abbreviated as "Meth lab" on our schedules). This class could have also been named "Electrical engineering and biophysics class for which Kara was sorely unprepared!"
Generously, Paul gives us the chance to make up half of the points missed on the midterm exams. To earn these points we take an oral test with him.
TORTURE.
He actually makes us do math in our heads, on the board, in front of HIM (human calculator).
It is terrifying.
I never believed my mom when she told me I have "math anxiety", but it sure is clear now. Though, I am not sure how much of it is actually Paul anxiety.
The first time I went through this, he implied that going back to "basics" (i.e. elementary school) would be a good idea for me. The next time I did the oral exam for Analysis of Neuronal Function, it was better. I was much more confident, and all he said was "you are showing a weakness in algebra here"
YES. Algebra is totally high school level. I'm movin' on up.

Anyway, classes panned out just fine, and I hold my own. (That's self-effacing code to let you know that I ROCK.)

I will make it through this graduate school thing. Although I have contemplated quitting more than once, I am resolved never to do so. I quit piano lessons when I was young, and to this day it remains my biggest regret.
(Really? Biggest Regret? Yes. I was a careful child. No drunken mistakes or anything of that sort.)
Now that I have written that I won't quit in a semi-public venue, people have to hold me to it.
Exception: Accidental babies (but only if there is more than one, otherwise, I still have to go through with it.)

I honestly wouldn't have made it through grad school so far if my wonderful husband had not been there every night to make me laugh, calm me down, reassure me, and remind me that I am not stupid. Thanks my love.

studying too long

After hours of silence in a room all alone, I noticed ticking. Regular but subtle, and certainly present. I took note of my pen. It was ticking? How could this be? I pondered the spring inside, and thought, "perhaps". Why was the ticking so frequent and consistent? I gently laid it down on the table. Still ticking. As I timidly lowered my ear to the level of the pen, my head turned, and I saw the face of a clock on the wall.

Ah. More likely source.

a first?

This is an old wooden wheelchair behind Brian's grandma's house. So quaint.

I never hesitate to choose the handicapped stall, as I had gone a full 22 years without ever seeing a handicapped person in a public restroom. My justification for this was destroyed the other day, when I saw a wheelchair parked outside of the restroom, and crutches leaning against the inside of the handicapped stall. A moral obligation had now fallen upon me. No more roomy stalls for me...or so I thought. The girl then walked out carrying her crutches. Fake. I'm not changing.

After studying spinal cord injury for my undergraduate thesis, one would think me to be more sensitive.
I AM profoundly against parking in a handicapped parking space when the person to whom the pass was given is not present.


There will be a "my chosen path pt.2", but not until finals are finished. I will then be better able to judge the efficacy of my schooling.

Oh...it turns out I had written similarly about why I am more suited to be a professor than a doctor, but it was back in '04, so that doesn't count. Upon inspection, I was fearful of using many paragraphs back then.

my chosen path

Picture taken on the 6th floor of evan's library. The color of the carpet is completely real. shocking, I know.


When did I first decide academia was for me?
I have never told anyone this. (Naturally, I choose to write it online- the most private of venues. Actually, it is quite private other than a few family members who might give it a pity-check periodically.)

Cut to freshman year:
I was quite down on myself after forgetting that I left my car parked illegally outside my dorm. I parked it to run up to my room, change clothes quickly, and drive accross campus to a meeting. I did change clothes, and then proceeded to walk across campus to the meeting, and didn't realize this fatal mistake until 1.5 hours later. This resulted in a hefty fine and a towed car.
Such stupidity, and I wasn't very surprised with myself.
Let's just say, similarly mindless actions had caused me some trouble before.

Anwyay, I was pondering: What job in life is friendly to absent-mindedness? WHAT? Nothing. This tragic character flaw will haunt me all my days! I cannot be a doctor, for doctors cannot begin replacing a knee on the wrong leg. Doctors cannot leave a woman on the brink of labor to grab a cup of coffee, get caught up reading the paper, and forget about the imminent baby struggling for escape. Doctors cannot finish surgery, sew the last suture and say "Well darn it...I left the scalpel inside."
These are all things I could imagine doing. My life a a doctor would make for a ridiculous film noir sitcom (new genre) where about 3 times per show I would make a mistake, and the camera would subsequently cut to my face as I gave a sheepish grin, rolled my eyes, and shrugged my shoulders, and a goofy voice said "wuh-whoa" in the background.

Other things precluding me from doctor-hood:
1. I don't like sickness
2. I don't like people (en masse)
3. I really don't appreciate sick people in my close vicinity, coughing, germs, snot, or other things about which my mother
effectively scared me. This is also why, if by chance you offer me a sip of your drink, I will find a reason to turn it down
despite just having proclaimed my infinite thirst.
4. three (?) words: methicillin-resistant Staphylococcus aureus. (MRSA)
white : rice :: MRSA : hospitals
5. So cliche. I mean really, everybody's doing it these days.

Nonetheless, I have this really absurd passion for anatomy/physiology and disease (on paper, not people). I also would look impeccably intelligent in a white coat.

Anyway, I was pondering my absent-mindedness when the well known epithet came as music to my ears:

absent-minded professor.

PERFECT!
The cherubim sang, and the prototypical Jesus-on-a-cloud came surfing down from the golden rays of heaven, winked, and gave me one of those single handed gun shot gestures as if to say "this one's for you, kid".

That's how I decided on my profession.

More to come.

Happy Birthday...to me?

I have a pretty poor track record with birthdays.
It stems, I think, from an awful memory for dates. It took me 20 years to learn my parents birthday, and I still am not exactly reflexive about knowing the current date, and connecting it to the day a person was born.
Last year, I was actually in San Antonio the weekend before my mom's birthday. She made a point to preemptively chide me about the fact that I wasn't going to call her that wednesday, and I indignantly replied that I would OF COURSE call her on her birthday. I followed through with that promise.
She didn't answer when I called, so I left a message. She told all of her bible study friends, "oh, that was just my daughter calling to wish me a happy birthday". She later listened to the message, and I think it went something like this:
"Hey momma! I was just realizing that I am actually getting kinda low on funds, so since rent is coming up I should probably get some money. Anyway, call me later... love you!"

IDIOT...freaking IDIOT!!!

I called my mom on her birthday to ask for money. I am a massive failure.
I was actually pretty torn up about it when she told me. I cried and stuff. My roomates had to do the whole pat-on-the-back "she still loves you" kind of pep talk.
Anyway, she does still love me, and the incident was written off as " oh...we know how you are, Kara. It was funny. Don't do that next year."
I also have to point out that I really de-emphasize my own birthdays, since I had very traumatic experiences with my birthday parties when I was young. They aren't the kind of stories that one looks back on and laughs. These are stories that made me teary when I retold them only three years ago. After a first grade party it took me a few years to recover, and I tried again in the 5th grade. I vowed that night to never have another bday party. I followed through. Nothing for 16, nothing for 18, and nothing for 21. Dinner is as far as I go.
Even dinner stunk for my 15th, when I went to Logan's roadhouse with my Mom and Aunt. They told the waitress it was my birthday, which is a bad idea in certain restaurants. This is one of those restaurants. They dragged me into the middle of the place and yelled "It's this girl's birthday! Throw peanuts at her while we sing!". The audience followed through, as this is a peanut-laden restaurant. Who the hell thought that throwing peanuts would be a pleasant birthday celebration? What happened to the clapping and free dessert accompanied by a copyright-safe song? Small projectiles and happiness don't mix except at 4th of July and New Years.

So this is all to lead you up to tonight, when I was at a lovely wine party hosted by my sister. First, her friends asked which one of us was older. ? Five years apart and you can't tell? I have young features! One time a lady almost didn't sell me a ticket to a PG-13 movie, so I had to show her my drivers license!! (I was 16). A high school teacher thought I was still in high school only four months ago!
Anyway, I guess they saw my grey hair, which is starting to become quite prominent when I part on the fault line.
I answered them, "I am only 21!". Or something to that effect.
My sister paused. "You are 22, Kara"

*Critical moment of social awkwardness. fight or flight kicked in. I chose fight. fatal mistake*

"Haha, no I am not! I am 21!"
"You were born in June of 1985. It is October" she said, with a wry smile.

I paused.
Crap...I am 22.

Who has arguments about their own age, and LOSES?

You know, we all have our lapses. Age forgetfulness is well accepted past 60. (I am 22, however)
As a single incident, this is just really funny. I was under the influence of a little wine, so silly mistakes happen. It was during that pause, however, that I realized I had been telling everyone I have met in the past 3 months that I am 21. All the people in my neuroscience program were surprised by my youth! I affirmed...yes! I am young for my grade!
I truly only became aware of the fact that I was 22 last night.
Tomorrow I have to confess to them all.

In my defense, my 22nd never really sank in, since it was right before my wedding. Who thinks about birthdays when your wedding is just around the corner?

But still...come on. I am supposed to be sharp, and with it and all.

So don't feel too bad Mom. I don't even keep up with my own birthdays anymore.

wow

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domestication

As my life comes to the border of that country they call adulthood (brought about by the title of Mrs., and nothing else), I think on what prepared me for this. Marriage is utterly fantastic, and although I am only two months in, I can't imagine a more wonderful "institution". How can something so adult be such a rollicking good time? People always speak of marriage with such disdain and warning. What a tragedy- even if it is in a joking manner. Ball and Chain? More like trampoline and water hose. Ah, what a brilliant combination.
Anyway, as my newlywed mind wanders, I think about the fact that maybe we aren't really grown up yet. In fact, maybe I never learned the facilities for grownupness or good wifery.
Baby animals (at least in most mammals) play, just like children do. The play time is supposedly biologically beneficial to help the animals learn and hone vital skills needed in adulthood.
When I learned this in my animal psychology class, I immediately thought of common child pastimes. The most typical and applicable example is "playing house". That particular game arose in any gathering of children where a small plastic kitchen with accessory plastic food was present. I distinctly remember that every time this game was suggested, all the girls immediately claimed the role of mother. There was usually arguing involved, until eventually the more outspoken girl won and made her least favorite girl the father, and assigned child positions to any other remaining children. This game always made me nervous, because whenever it was suggested, I wanted my position in the family so much, and I was always afraid someone would try to take it.
I had to be the dog.
My frantic worries proved to be unwarranted, as no one ever challenged me on it.

I can't help but think that maybe I missed out on some essential childhood learning because I always chose the role of family dog.
Mine was a non-speaking part, but I made up for it with ample panting and tail-wagging.
Did I never learn how to become a proper domestic wife/mom because I never played the part? I don't fix meals every night...or any nights, really, and life with Brian is full of childish giggling. Often our meal is a frozen pizza (for financial reasons AND convenience)...however I do own an apron.
I have been known to wear the apron while putting the frozen pizza in the oven. After it comes out of the oven, I also sprinkle with basil, oregano, and paprika, which evidently justifies the apron, I think.
Perhaps, in time, I will learn to be more domestic. Maybe one day I will always have a meal prepared, and the house will sparkle with cleanliness, and our bed will be fluffed and appropriately adorned with multiple sizes and colors of pillow. For now, it is still sort of ...what's the word...
College. With an awesome roomate.
Is this quasi-adulthood such a bad thing?

I think not.
I rather enjoy it, and so does he.

commence

That is it. I am no longer a college student. I am so very stuck in the middle of uncontainable excitement and twinges of sadness or nostalgia that I can't very well say just how I feel. Thin is the word, maybe. The fullness of being a college student, with the joys of impractical late nights and sleepy mornings, the incomprehensible amounts of learning (or in many cases, I hate to admit, just memorizing/regurgitating), and the impromptu hang outs...all the joyful stuffing of life for the past four years... is finally taken out of my plans. It wasn't ripped from me, and I certainly have no insecurity about handing it over, but with change comes adjustment. There is so much that will fill my life so soon, but still the unfortunate reality is that it isn't here yet. So for now, life is thin, but enjoyable.
You know, I had a grand time at graduation. Three hours is long, that mortarboard is unflattering and itchy, and about 6 people could hang out inside my graduation robe and no one would notice, but is was neat. It was sort of a mini reunion with many of my classmates and friends from over the years. Since we are nerdy biologists, we entertained ourselves for a while by looking at optical illusion cards (provided by Caroline, my organic chem lab partner and alphabetical neighbor) while I excitedly explained the neurological mechanisms behind them. Appropriate you think?
I hate to admit this, but having to wait while the announcer said lots of stuff about me before I walked across the stage was pretty cool. I worked for that, even though it feels like I was so lazy sometimes. I got a nice yellow stoll with some extra patches, and I was internally proud enough of it to confirm my academic vanity. I might throw it away in a couple of years, but for now it will hang with my belts.
Graduating and leaving this place is easier for me than most, I think, because of how much I have to look forward to! Marraige, moving, starting a new life with the man who will be my favorite roomate ever, and starting graduate school are all sufficiently exciting to make leaving College Station easy. That doesn't mean I do it without looking back fondly, though.

I will miss roaming campus on those perfect fall days.

The boot of Lawrence Sullivan Ross. All his friends call him "Sully", and Ags lay pennies at his feet for good luck on tests. It gets really full around finals.

the skin of things

I have such trouble explaining the heart of things that I often settle for explaining the skin of things. It proves to be a hazardous and fruitless habit, bringing only frustration and constricted feelings -conveying a mere penumbra of the truth. Yes, I use the word penumbra naturally and I will not hide the fact, damn it. (My lexical prowess has degraded over the years of simplifying for the sake of the less nerdy collegiates (!) who lack my appreciation for precision AND accuracy in the realm of verbal expression. I want it back.)
The propensity to jump around the center of a question, and to trade what I wish to say for something far easier, has only served to make me mull over past conversations continuously. I revise and refine them, hoping that the new polished conversation will somehow be converted into future “real-time” conversation and consequently replace the old conversation.
An example of this insufferable defect in my communication skills (perhaps not skills, so much as tendencies) is found in conversations with my new friend from London. She is the most delightful person I’ve met in a fairly long time, and as such I can spend hours talking to her and remain completely fascinated. She is quite excited to experience College Station, and at one point during lunch she asked very decisively, and in a manner indicating that she intended to listen at length, “So. Tell me everything about College Station!”
My mind was full, and a lengthy discourse was shooting through my head as I intended to explain that “although I love this city and the spirit of its people, it is shocking for its homogeneity and congruent resistance to the influx of diverse people and thoughts which make for a rather narrow-minded population that overwhelmingly claims to be Christian but shows few signs of such allegiance other than a Sunday ritual and an elephant-like stumbling around the precepts of a supposedly grand old party which actually no more accurately represents their aforementioned ‘faith’ than the donkey upon which Jesus rode- but rather has stolen their faith to use as a platform upon which it elevates itself while it wipes its dirty feet… and all of this consequently drives the few who know they aren’t followers of Christ far away from ever wanting to know Him. Oh yeah, and the guy that stands on campus periodically yelling at the sinners passing by while singing a song about how all homos go to hell doesn’t really help their ‘cause’ either…”
*NOTE: no I am not really a total democrat, nor am I a republican hater, and yes, there is a guy who has sung an ‘all homos go to hell’ song and several guys who frequently yell at sinners walking by on campus.*
So as this discourse runs through my head in response to her question, my mouth actually says, “well now, let’s see… there are four main streets that form a square around campus. You have University Drive at the North…”
Useful information? Absolutely. Is it what she was interested in finding out about the cultural climate of this place? Not really. Would I actually ever have expressed the inner discourse? Yes, but in a much softer manner. I really just want to warn her. Coming from a largely secular country, (not to generalize, but hey, I fully realize I am grossly over-generalizing College Station, so it is only fair to do it to both sides.) I feel the need to prepare her. This place can either be an amazing and life-giving resource to people who are open or desiring to hear about God, or it can be an utter turn-off.
Basically, this is just one example of my issue with communication, and I used it because it is a recent example, AND one that allowed me to indirectly stand on a soapbox for a bit.
The most prominent example in my life is when people ask me about Brian. What I want to tell them is how he laughs contagiously like the most endearing little boy, and I want to tell them how his eyes lose their ever-present laughter when he is stirred up with passion, and I want to tell them that he is passionate about the RIGHT things, and I want to convey how he is the most singular and fantastically unique person I’ve ever met…but those things are so hard to explain. I tell them what they are expecting. The dissatisfaction comes, however, with the understanding that the measure of a man just cannot be explained through age, height, eye color, or college degree. It also comes from knowing that what people think matters is skin. We communicate on surface levels not only because it is easy, but also because we rarely notice or prescribe value to much that is deeper.
A fried chicken leg gets some flavor from the skin, but it’s the meat that fills you up and it’s the bone that gives it strength and structure.

I don’t want to only value the heart of things anymore, but I actually want to be open to letting others know what I value.

God is the most difficult to explain, because I truly cannot. There are no skin-deep things of God. Platitudes and clichés, perhaps, but when examined closely they are plenty difficult to fully grasp. As I am vastly dissatisfied with incompleteness, inaccuracy, and diluted power in words, He remains rarely described by me. A thorough vocabulary just won’t do it.

another thing

So after it is all said and done, after museums, new years party (pinata included), enchanted rock, numerous photographic expeditions, riverwalk rambling, running around with friends, eating at the best Mexican food restaurant in the world (Guajillo's), and lots of fun family time with blood fam and (future) in-laws...
after all those great fun things, my absolute favorite was seeing Brian every day. The best of all was him coming over to my house in the morning and waking me up. I've never been happier to wake, and it was such a delightful preview of the joys to come.
One thing I look forward to most in marraige is waking up with him next to me. sigh...
I'm sorry I'm sorry, I'll stop.

photo of us courtesy of Wes Kitten - taken at the Mcnay

Painting by Robert Indiana, who unfortunately didn't copyright his work and thus it was ripped off for all sorts of uses.

The Mcnay

Over my incredible month-long break, I realized something very important: I LOVE museums. I did lots of fun things, but I think visiting the Mcnay art museum was my favorite activity. (Sad you couldn't come, Katherine- hope you feel better!) Actually it ranks behind the trip to enchanted rock, but what indoor activity can possibly compete with the coolost chunk of granite known to man? Much like our trip to erock, a large amount of our museum time was devoted to taking pictures. At the Mcnay, we probably spent as much time doing that as we did looking at the pictures inside.

*Brian, the photographic fiance, trying out his nice new fancy digital SLR (canon XTi)

The Mcnay is located in an enormous Spanish-style mansion, and houses ALOT of great art. What made the trip even better was the fact that I had use of some bad a** camera equipment courtesy of friend, photographer, and constant winter-break companion Wes Kitten. All the pictures I took here were taken by me with his Canon 20D. great camera.

Anyway, back to me loving museums. This is all thanks to my parents, who used to take the family hiking and to museums fairly regularly. I loved both of those things, and still do, so thanks, Mom and Dad. Brian and I plan on taking museum and hiking excursions with our family, too.

this world is not so brave

The distance of our bodies
Does not equal the distance of our souls.

With heavy thoughts our hearts not sparing
We give light and cheery smiles
To break ice but never melt it

What is it that meets there, in your eyes?
I think it pain and longing
But white teeth bare much less trouble

So please administer your soma
And I’ll give mine to you-
A reminder that this world is not so brave.



**NOTE: the fact that this picture includes Brian does not imply this is about him, in fact, he is probably the only person in my life that this poem does not apply to at all. I just am trying to include some of my pictures on here as they fit with the mood.**

Believe Me, If All Those Endearing Young Charms

Cat and Josh


Believe me, if all those endearing young charms,
Which I gaze on so fondly to-day
Were to change by to-morrow, and fleet in my arms,
Like fairy-gifts fading away,
Thou wouldst still be adored, as this moment thou art,
Let thy loveliness fade as it will,
And around the dear ruin each wish of my heart
Would entwine itself verdantly still.

It is not while beauty and youth are thine own,
And thy cheeks unprofaned by a tear,
That the fervor and faith of a soul can be known,
To which time will but make thee more dear;
No, the heart that has truly loved never forgets,
But as truly loves on to the close,
As the sun-flower turns on her god, when he sets,
The same look which she turned when he rose.
~Thomas Moore

"Charm is deceitful and beauty is passing, but a woman who fears the Lord is to be praised"-Prov 31:30

shallow death

A ruffled mind makes a restless pillow. ~Charlotte Brontë


it's not insomnia, no no. something...softer, more muted and less painful.
sleep confounds me with the way it addicts, and yet right now, it eludes me. maybe my body has revolted. maybe this is me saying in a vindictive whisper, "you don't own me".

difficult occurence, it is, because always I want it, always I love it, and always I am so happy to get it. Yet, somehow it upsets me that I need it. What a waste of precious hours.

So if I had all those hours back, what would I do?
My favorite thought: (...besides living out nonsensical dreams...)

just run around places at night, at the MIDDLE of it- When no one else is around, and you have large empty places with yellow and green lighting all to yourself.
I love large empty places that you know will be bustling, or were bustling, at a different time.
civilization at a pause, it seems- as if all the characters in a movie were removed from the plot to soon be rewritten, but the set still remains, and you are left there to enjoy the in-between of stories.

sleep is almost like a shallow death to me... where do you go? Once in a world with others, it lets you be alone.
actually, it's kinda the same as when you don't sleep.

so I never cease to amaze myself with my apathy, my distant complacence, and overall disobedience when it comes to following God...because I want to, you see, that isn't an issue. But are my actions in line with my supposed desires?
To the world, I've been the same. To the world, I'm plently of things. In my heart, I've just been a child, as if I've regressed in my spiritual life. This isn't like being a Matt 18:3 child, this is more like the child who cries about nothing at all...who cries about a cut not because it hurts, but because they saw blood come out, and decides that blood warrants crying regardless of pain.

I took this picture in a Barber shop, and the little kid didn't know what was going on, but was sure pitching a fit. I know that haircuts don't hurt, so was he crying because he was unsure, or afraid? His parents were right next to him...why was he afraid? I don't understand kids sometimes.
I'm sure God feels the same way. What is it that so easily draws them away from Me? Why must they whine about nothing at all?

I haven't really been crying about petty things lately, or even doing "bad" things. I've never really done "bad" things. Maybe that's my problem. I get into routine, into school, into work, into life, and forget about LIFE, and the source therein, and why I NEED HIM.
The world slowly starts taking over, but not in a drastic immoral way, because that is much to conspicuous.
God is always on my mind, but not always in my heart, and I often do things for Him, but rarely with Him.

In fact, I have stopped doing things I love all together. Music, poetry, reading, writing, and God have all just become distant shadows of who I am "inside"...this enigmatic essence that used to makeup me. I want it back. I've spent more time with rats lately than I've spent in the word, and that's when you know priorities are a little out of whack.
(The whole rat thing is because of my research, I'm not like some freaky rat-lover...haha the thought makes me laugh...kinda like those old cat ladies who take in every stray they find and their house becomes something of a cat brothel with pee stains everywhere and cardboard boxes strewn about the yard. Ok, this digression has gone too far.)

Anyway, I'm quite transparent when you know me. I haven't written...REALLY written, in a a few months, and that means I haven't taken much time for introspection, which subsequently means I haven't spent much time with the Lord. Always a bad sign. I'm giving Him my leftovers, and these days I don't have anything but crumbs left on the table.
So I'm starting to rebuild me (secondary goal), by rebuilding my relationship with Him. That's what has been going on these past couple silent months.

One of the most humbling verses:
" 'What a weariness this is,' you say, and you sniff at me, says the Lord. You bring what has been taken by violence or is lame or sick, and this you bring as your offering! Shall I accept that from your hand? says the Lord." Malachi 1:13

p.s. this is maybe one of my favorite pictures that I have taken...ever.

apologies!

So according to comments, I've left the four people that read this a bit wanting lately. sorry y'all! I hate to post when all I have time to talk about is the fact that I have no time to talk about anything...in fact, no time to comtemplate, write, sleep, eat, breathe or other necessary parts of living. Between 17 hours of coursework (3 of them graduate-level), what amounts to a part-time job in the lab, an undergraduate thesis, 15 hrs/week at Sweet Eugene's house of Java, and a DESPERATE attempt to enjoy senior year in the social realm a bit, I have pretty much lost my "mind-time". (Note: don't read that as I have lost my mind... although maybe you could read it as such and get the right idea... I don't even know anymore.)
Unfortunately I have thought it through, and something has to go. I am afraid the activity that must decrease is not only my favorite, but also the only one that is actually making me some money instead of taking it from me. It isn't essential that I work seeing as I am particularly blessed (a.k.a. spoiled) in the parental finance department, but I can't stand not trying to help out a bit. At least I can pay for bills by myself, since they pay for everything else. Being a barista is probably one of the greatest things I've done in the past few years, and I always look forward to work, so I couldn't wholly quit. Maybe I will just ask to go down to 10 hrs/week.


See, look how boring I am right now. You don't want to hear from me! I'll figure it all out in good time, and maybe think a little bit sometime in the near future.

For now, I'll just leave you with a picture I took back when I had a couple hours of free time.

this = my life

a bit disorderly with far too many compartments.

(don't worry, I still enjoy it.)

slam

So every sunday night there is open poetry in downtown Bryan at a little place called Revolution's. I have gone twice now, and have to say it is the neatest thing I've found here. Revolutions is quite hippie, and the poets are inspiring and often angst-ridden. I'm not very angst-ridden, but going there does make me want to write again. The angst isn't exactly what inspires me, but their passion does. I wrote this the other night after the poetry slam.



I don't know if I can show this, but what's inside insists I grow this
see poetry sometimes if flows but sits and stutters as is stops beneath my nose
and yet it's seething, no one knows this
but when I see what's left in me I wanna show this
to he who watches me and wonders:
is she bleeding deep beneath that placid core?

you see the struggle lies within though I feel it's not for you to break or bend
because these trifles that I tickle with my mind just will not mend
if left alone

but see they're small the things I think on
and maybe all the time I can't go wrong with leaving them to dissipate away

but I want to participate in action and react to any passion
that arises as my thoughts await the day
for anticipation of revolution however small deserves some resolution
even if it just stumbles out through fumbling words you say.

summertime

...and the livin's easy


Short weeks of blissful langour unhindered by deadlines, and unencumbered by dates or hours. That has been my summer, and though it will soon change form with the approaching blocks of time cut out for work and school, I plan on keeping the breeze about me- that breeze in my step that only summer brings. The ease is what I love.
I've had freedom to take pictures, have long conversations, watch countless movies, read a little, sit and listen to music, dance around my room to music, and just experience life in its daily form with the one I love-all of this with no raincloud lingering overhead, waiting to end the fun and holding me captive with a tight squeeze of responsibility. During the school year, there is always something I should be working on, and I have found that it is difficult for me to compartmentalize work and fun, because the work overwhelms. Even when I have fun, no matter how deep I bury it, there is part of me thinking about the fact that I have plenty to be doing, or that I will be doing, or that I should have been doing already. Horrible bondage. Perhaps if I take the ease of summer into my schooling in the next 10 weeks, I will learn to carry it over into the year.

plans:
10 hours of summer school (genetics+lab, polysci (puke), abnormal psych)
working at Sweet Eugene's
working in the lab- starting thesis research
hopefully taking various roadtrips

I took this of lovely Nicole (my roomate) on her birthday. I love this picture- for the color and the composition...but mostly for the feeling. Those, to me, are the best sorts of pictures. Ones that speak to you on a level deeper than your eyes. I like pictures that invoke a feeling or an emotion, or just capture it in its moment of existence, however fleeting. I enjoy photos that make you stop, pause a second, and look at a snippet of life a little closer. I appreciate the purely aesthetic photos too-photos that make you see ordinary life and commonplace objects in an artful manner. I always prefer art over crisp documentation.
That is the beauty found in photography. Not so much what is does for other people, but what is does for the photographer. Maybe it is a selfish art- but then maybe all art is selfish in some respects. The eyes of a photographer can see objects, places, and moments in ways that no one else can. Whatever the viewer gains from the photo may be similar, seeing that viewing other photos always gives me inspiration, but it is always a graded, secondary response.
I remember back when I was in my photography class, ALL I saw was framed in pictures. Driving home on 21, everything around me was a landscape worth saving, and it was all I could do not to sweep my eyes along the scenery instead of fixing them on the road. (Mom, don't worry- I am past that phase.) I haven't had a chance to take pictures for the sake of mere art lately, and I think some of that has faded in me a bit (along with all my other creativity). My love for it is still there, and hopefully I will reignite it over the summer. I will stifle its effects while driving, though.

a view from the bridge (a.k.a engagement site) near Lamar street- I took it the first time we went there.


So. I am engaged...ENGAGED!!! It still feels a bit unreal to me, but in a great, wonderful, awesome way. I have been floating for a over a week now. Most people get to spend lots of time with their fiance after the engagement, but sadly that wasn't the case. A short weekend where he had to work half the day on saturday just doesn't cut it, and I think that is why I have a hard time believing something this great just happened- but then the sunlight reflects off that new piece of jewelry and temporarily blinds me. That usually serves as a good pinch letting me know it's not, in fact, a dream.
Fun Fact: Fiancee (with an accent on the first 'e') is the feminine form, while fiance is the masculine. Most people just interchange the spellings at random. They both come from the french word to betroth, which comes from the Latin word meaning to trust. To trust. I like that.
It is kind of different adjusting to calling him my fiance and not my boyfriend. It generally comes out something like "biance", and people wonder whether the lead singer of Destiny's child and I are buddies.
Things you should know: The wedding date we have set is 07/07/07. (whoop!) Don't laugh. You are just jealous that you didn't get it first. Our wedding will be awesome, and casual. I don't plan on wearing shoes. (My mom might have something to say about that.)

I have told this story over 8,000 times this week, but I figure this is a good place to explain it in slightly more detail. I generally give people the 30 second rundown, and they miss some fun details:

On Friday, April 14th (2006...obviously), Brian and I met in Austin to go on a date. We do Austin dates periodically when I am not able to stay the weekend in San Antonio, and he isn't able to come to College Station. The plan this time, however, was to go back to San Antonio for easter weekend. Anyway, so we met, hugged each other for probably 10 minutes without stopping, and then ate a wonderful dinner at one of our favorite places (Magnolia Cafe). I had noticed that he was acting a little different from normal, but I couldn't pin down exactly what it was. It wasn't better or worse, just different. When told him he was acting funny, he said, "yeah, I have been getting more exercise and drinking lots of water lately. I think that must be it." And herein lies the brilliance of Brian: he can pull off silly answers like that because he is just that random. So I was like, sure, whatever. (I have since pinpointed the Brian I saw that night- it was "incredibly nervous inside but trying everything in my power to not seem that way" Brian.)
After dinner we went out to a Lamar Street bridge over town lake (a place we had been on a previous date- and it is a pedestrian bridge, so don't worry, there weren't cars whizzing by). It was a beautiful night, with a full yellow moon slung low over the water, and just enough breeze to need his arms around me.
There was one complication though: the bridge, normally empty, was TEEMING with people. I still have no idea what they were doing. The other times we have been out there, it was empty except for the occasional late-night biker. He was pretty frustrated at the people, and so we just walked up and down the bridge a couple of times before settling at the end, where we had plenty of privacy. I had suggested we just go somewhere else, but that clearly wasn't an option in his mind. Eventually the people dissipated, and I just layed on the ground with my head in his lap, looking out over the water. We were pretty quiet and comfortable, both understanding how much the other enjoyed just resting there and being close. (We never take time with each other for granted, even after more than 1.5 years together. We soak up every second, and relish them all. This is how we plan for it to be for the rest of our lives.)
He then reminded me that he had a surprise, which ended up being the journal we write back and forth to each other in. I was excited to read it, because it had been a while since he had written.
He asked me to read out loud, and when I started I promised myself I wouldn't cry. My reasoning was that if this wasn't the proposal, I would feel like an idiot. Anyway, as I read it became more and more apparent that it was exactly what I had suspected deep down, and after I started crying, I looked up to see him eye to eye, on one knee. He then created in me a feeling I have never known before, as he slipped on the ring and asked me to marry him. It was the best moment of my life, and will remain so until the day I marry him. I sobbed an unintelligible yes and hugged him so tight that he couldn't finish getting the ring on my finger.
We went back to my car, and I called plenty of people, and cried the ENTIRE way back to San Antonio. I'm not a crier, but I was definitely a mess that night.
Now remember, we had met in Austin in separate cars and combined when we got there, but I didn't think about this fact until we were practically in San Marcos. "BRIAN?, What about your CAR!?!?!" His eyes got really wide and he looked at me with surprise. I couldn't believe we had forgotten it! He told me a couple minutes later (after watching me squirm a bit) that his best friend John had been in the parking lot, and drove his car back when we left for dinner. He had me going for a second.
On the drive home I read the rest of the journal entry that I was in the process of reading when he proposed. He had written every day for the 5 days leading up to the proposal, and he documented all his feelings and thoughts that he couldn't tell me. It was great to read-especially the day where he had to call my dad. You would think Dad were a former wrestler with a knack for hunting and boyfriend-killing or something. (My dad is probably the least- threatening person I know- and that is coming from a completely objective stance, mind you.)
Anyway, that is the story. My parents waited up that night, so we got to see them (I cried all over again), and then we went to his apartment where many of our friends were waiting with champagne and sparkling cider [they are mindful of the underaged :) ]. I was quite puffy and red from all the crying by the time we got there.

It was undoubtedly the most amazing night of my life.
I am SO blessed that I get to marry Brian Marshall- the most incredible person I have ever met or known, and the only person I have ever loved like this.