Once there was a snowman.

Today in nursery I got puked on. A lot. And all the kids were screaming. It was gross.

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As an English major, there aren't exactly loads of internships or job opportunities. Not a lot of companies are begging you to come and analyze literature for them. Strange, I know. Why wouldn't someone hire me to give my interpretation of King Lear? No idea. Anyway. As an editing minor, there are lots of job and internship possibilities. I get at least a couple emails a week about some place that's looking for a student editor to intern with or work for them.

Since I only recently added the editing minor, this world of possibilities is new to me. Quite novel, really. And so, I have gone a little--shall we say--berserk. Every time I get an email with the words "internship" or "job opportunity for editors" in the subject line, I gasp, clutch at my throat (this isn't always literal, but it often is) and say, "I can do that!" until I either a) realize I have no time, b) realize I'm underqualified, or c) sit before my monitor in breathless anticipation as I update my resumé (yet AGAIN) and send it off with a demure but (hopefully) intelligent sounding email.

Today was no exception to the above scenario. Except I haven't sent out my resumé yet. I decided to wait until I get home to look through some resumé-help book that Kegan has to see if there's anything in there that I can use. I am filled with anticipation. I really am. Every moment my resumé isn't sent out is a moment gone by without my genius discovered! This one internship could be my big break! My foot into the door of the publishing world! Viva France!... or something.

So... wish me luck. And if you hear of anything, send it my way. Even if I don't apply to it, I'll definitely clutch at my throat and gasp.

Let's just be honest here...

... if I had any kind of voice and fame, I'd probably sing folk music.

If you were looking for the weather report...

...then I'm very sorry.

Channel 5 breaking news stories:

Today I am tired. I can feel my forehead getting tight and my eyelids feel itchy and irritable, like when you put your contacts in wrong (I don't wear contacts).

Tonight I will be going to a night class. I was so excited about this class before I got in it. I've been scheming to get into it for at least a year. But now... well... If nothing else, this class is teaching me to not be intimidated and to not act as a reaction--as in, don't force trying to sound smart, be funny, etc. Which is a good thing. But it would be an even better thing if a nap was the order of the day instead of analyzing.

I'm pretty sure editing is the right place for me. I got excited about studying semicolons. If that's not a clear sign, I don't know what is.

Nancy's organic blackberry kefir is delicious. It might be the best kefir I've had thus far. I could really go for some kefir right now. And some watermelon.

Lars and the Real Girl --part II

Tonight I watched the whole movie. I loved it. LOVED IT. There are so many things I love about this movie. The normality. The strangeness. The beauty. The people. The insight into people's hearts/minds/whatever. I feel a pull around my heart and lungs.

So, so good.

Turn it up

I love that there is almost always a song for the way that I feel. In a class I took my freshman year, this guy said, "...and you're waiting for the soundtrack of your life to swell at this particular moment." Yes, yes I am.

P.S. So I was reading a while ago about how some people think that the Fray is copying Coldplay by having a piano be their principal instrument instead of a guitar. Okay... really? Coldplay and the Fray sound COMPLETELY different. I like both sounds, but there is no way I would mistake one for the other.

Mmmm... 40 degrees....

Some genius (or perhaps Californian/Arizonan/Warm-state-ian) must have put the thermostat in my office at 78 degrees or something--which is a conservative guess, believe me. It must be stuck there. Somebody should've sent out a memo to wear a bathing suit, or (for-the-love-of-all-that's-holy) at least cotton. Something that BREATHES.

Yesterday people kept asking me if I was sick. No, my internal organs were just being baked from the outside. Today my face is totally flushed. I suppose I should be thankful. My face hasn't gone dead and devoid of pigment (per usual in the late afternoons) because of the heat. Since I'm a firm believer in never re-applying makeup after the morning push (read: I just don't carry my makeup with me and don't really think about it), this is like looking alive without having to do anything. Other than perspire.

Side Dish

Jojo has a new album coming out. Confession: I am excited about this. I am a Jojo fan. It's true! I know this seems ridiculous, but I cannot deny it. My music taste could be called... kindly... "eclectic." I've got a little soft spot in my heart for pop. I may even purchase this album. It'll sit nicely in a stack along with Miles Davis, Rachael Yamagata, Ray Lamontagne, Imogen Heap, Mary Chapin Carpenter, the Rat Pack, and various (unrelated) others. Like I said, eclectic.

In other news: I used my vegetable steamer tonight for the first time. It was the best broccoli I've had in a while. Success.

When life gives you lemons... bust a move.

Tonight while I was gathering things for tomorrow (the first day of winter semester), a scene popped into my head. It was one of those flying fishes that land in your mind without warning, invitation or seemingly any origin. Which does not mean they are bad. This particular flying fish was from My Name is Asher Lev by Chaim Potok. It was one of my favorite books in high school. Now I like The Chosen better. I read Chosen before Asher Lev—but I think I matured into it (C) more. Anyway, the scene is a small one. It takes up just one paragraph, but it has stayed with me. Now that I reflect, I guess it did have origin and reason for popping into my head after all. I was thinking about joy.

The scene from the book is one in which the narrator (Asher) describes how on Simchas Torah he danced with a Torah scroll in his hands. His teacher, an artist named Jacob Kahn, watches him. Jacob is a conflicted, non-observant Jew. But Jacob and Asher hold the Torah together and they dance. Jacob is awkward and his skullcap is falling off—but they are dancing with joy.

I’m not sure why this image is so infused with joy to me, but it seems like a perfect expression of it. I wish our culture danced a little more. Not like ballet (though I do love that) and not like clubbing (thank you, Paris Hilton). But dancing as celebration. I wish we danced every time a baby was born or somebody got married or someone with cancer went into remission or somebody was forgiven or there was a sale on strawberries.

We could all link hands and dance around in one huge, living circle—hair flying.