Working Hard or Hardly Working?

For those of us involved in the education system, the school year grows increasingly and unrelentingly busy right about now. Spring sports are drawing to a close, TAKS testing is about to begin again, AP testing after that, and end of year exams after that. Basically, our schedule is *messed* up and our education for the year dwindles into termination.

For these various reasons, along with mounds of last minute homework dumped on us by teachers, I have been away from Microsoft Word, but here I am to get a sentence or two in before I pull out my Precal.

I feel compelled to waste some time tonight, to add on to the time wasted tomorrow during my morning spent at the school. I may regret this later. The juniors are taking no TAKS, but are still required to attend the first half of school, during which we will perform rigorous learning activities such as learning how to play Mao or Monopoly or being inducted into The Game.

By the way, you just lost.

But for the most part, I’m ready to get over this hump and relax for the summer. The end of the year strains me to breaking point every spring, and I can’t wait for it to be over already. Would you like some stress with that stress? It seems like I have too much to do; I sat down to write a list the other day of all the things I had to do and it wouldn’t come out in coherent thoughts.

So this is a minor form of therapy as I sit on my bed with pizza rolls, trying not to think about Prom Drama or NHS hours or AP Exams or the History Project or catching the Swine Flu…

For now, I’ll just have to take it one day at a time. I sure as heck can’t swallow all my stress in one bite. Now, pizza rolls are another story entirely.

The Development of Spoken Languages: A Theoretical Approach to Metacognition on Parallel Degrees

Anyone who knows me knows that I have a fond obsession with anything related to language (especially ones I understand). I love to enrich my English, stretch my Spanish, and link my Latin lexicons. I just can't get enough of fun words, unique sentences, mind-boggling clauses, and useless synonyms and using them to befuddle and amaze my friends and anyone driving with me anywhere. I'm also venomously sarcastic: a deadly combination. The only time, in fact, that this obsession comes in handy is on the SAT or other English-related exams. Sometimes I find myself bouncing diction-loaded sentences off of my English teacher, her response even more eloquent than my original one. My classmates usually look on, horrified.

A classmate from the 3rd grade.

While it's no crazy feat, I remember having a 10th grade reading level in the 3rd grade. I got to check out the cool, heavy books with obscure titles. I remember checking out Plato's Republic (I have NO idea why my elementary school had that book) and reading a few pages of it before admitting that I had been defeated. At least it was by Plato, not Dr. Seuss (COUGH).

I also remember writing a story about a kid with a removable arm that was like a boomerang for my 4th grade TAKS test and making like a perfect score. I was a zany dork for words. It was the blooming of an obsession. Do you ever remember the kid in your class who would correct the teacher's usage of "burnt" and "burned" then giving a full thesis on the division of British English and American English, then asking why the heck "burned" was written on the chalkboard anyways? It was me.

To prevent this blog post from becoming some manic-depression Grammar Nazis Anonymous rehabilitation group, I'll move on. The point of this post is to make you stop and think about language. I already have you stopping, so now I got to get you thinking. Shakespeare once said, "What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet."

How I envision Shakespeare.

That one statement is enough to really get the brain fluids juicin' up the old cortex. Do we associate the "ose" in "rose" as a soft sound to correspond with the flower's petals, or is it the other way around? Does a rock sound hard because of the "ock" or because of our mental imaging of a rock? What if we called a rock a rose and a rose a rock? Would beauty be defined by the curves and crescendos of the noun's title or does the noun march to its own tune?

Language is a beautiful, mysterious thing. All ideas must be expressed through language. Language came before a lot of our greatest ideas. So who's to say that language hasn't altercated or affected our perception of the world and our capacity to learn? Why do scientists use Latin instead of English? The answer is simple: Latin was built upon the foundation of philosophy and intelligence. English and Spanish and French and the romantic languages were diverted from this root to create more function designs for the everyday working man. Did we harm our capacity to learn by breaking away from Latin?

Next time you're in a situation and just thinking about anything, break what you're thinking about down into symbols, not words. See the rose, smell the pollen, feel the dew. Don't think "rose." It'll open your mind, try it.

But that's also why language is so beautiful. Every rose has it's thorn, and this is no exception. Language theorists not only appreciate the beauty of words, but they push past it and transcend by looking past them. Listen past the consonants and vowels, the hard and soft sounds, the lingual clicks of your tongue ricocheting from tooth to tooth. This is where I see the beauty of language.

People ask me why I'm such an English dork, and what I really wished they asked me was, "When you think of a rose, what do you envision?" Some would answer red or beauty or love or flower, but those are still just on the physical and emotional level. You must even push past that fake tier, "what the rose feels like" and enter a new zone. This zone, sadly, is not the Twilight one. In fact, it's not even a place. It's a level of thinking. When I think of a rose, I envision a soft existence, something desired but hard to obtain. I think of how the "r" makes me feel, and how the "ose" ties it up into a perfect bundle. If someone asked me about a, "baobab," my first reaction would be to classify that symbol in my language and break it down. "Bao" sounds exotic, not of English, perhaps a rushed translation of a click or hiss in some indigenious world. "Bab" dances before me. "Bab" is concrete. "Bab" applies to something that exists and is there and is not going anywhere. This is certain to me, not because I know the language, but because I know the feeling that this sound evokes in me.

For those of you still wondering, a baobab is a type of tree that holds massive amounts of water. It's a beautiful tree in itself, and indigenious to Madagascar.

Even this blogosphere that I inhabit from time to time is just a mixture of pop culture and LEDs on my screen. But I feel entranced by it. I am in a generation of instant fact-seekers. We are a generation that can explore Asia in one click of a mouse button, then rumble along in a cyber safari in Africa the next. Our language is evolving with this pace. New texting lingo like LOL pop up everyday, along with a slew of smiley faces.

It makes me wonder, will we one day evolve (or devolve?) into a language that incorporates the worn keys on a keyboard and the emotions evoked by ASCII text?

Think about it.

Me, Myself, and Etch-a-Sketch

So, for those of you who know me pretty well, and those of you who don’t, and even complete strangers, I’ve been asked to enlighten you on my penchant for the art of etch-a-sketch. I have been asked, in short, to explain myself. (Not so much with actual requests, but more with wide open mouths and “HOW’D YOU DO THATTTT!”)

I know; I know… it’s completely nerdy and fascinating. Most people will discard this ‘magic screen’ after a few minutes of working on a box or a building. But for whatever reason, fate has deemed me ‘not most people’, and after purchasing a travel size etch-a-sketch on a recent vacation, I discovered that I am quite surprisingly drawn (pun intended) to this little screen with two knobs. I enjoy the simplicity yet complexity of such a classic toy that seems to confound even my most intelligent friends…

Well, I don’t know how to explain myself exactly. No, I didn’t start etch-a-sketch when I was six. In fact, at six, I was as confused and bewildered by those innocent little knobs as everyone else. I started etch-a-sketch about two weeks ago. No, I’m not in art class. Haven’t taken one since fifth grade. (I don’t like the idea of someone grading me on something that’s personally interpretive, opinionated expression) No, I’m not crazy. Yes, that took me a long time. No, I’m not a prodigy. Yes, I have patience. No, I’ve never entered an etch-a-sketch contest (:B) No, I can’t say I won’t in the future…Yes, I’m amazing *cough*…. And YES, I WILL KILL U IF U SHAKE IT.

I’m still waiting for someone to ask me, “How many etch-a-sketches do you have?” or “Could you sketch me?” or “Can I have that?”

Four. Probably not (I’m bad with faces). If you have five bucks.

The etch-a-sketch is a challenge to me. But really it’s a struggle between my hands and my brain. Of course, you can imagine the curser going perfectly where you want it to create an image. In my head, everything goes according to plan! But it seems once the nerve firing reaches my fingers, the message gets mixed up, and it doesn’t always come out right. But that’s the challenge- to get my hands in synch with my brain.

It usually takes an average of one to two hours to do small sketches. Really, it’s not that complicated. On an etch-a-sketch, there are straight lines and curvy lines. Straight lines are self explanatory, and curvy lines are created by moving both knobs. Of course, the problem is moving them together to create the desired line. Everything’s connected, so you have to plan your next move, always a step ahead. Going over lines several times is a common thing; they become like little roadways to your next area.

And of course, if you mess up, there’s not much you can do except employ the universal etch-a-sketch joke- shake it. This is obviously where the frustrating component of etch-a-sketching drives many potential prolific etch-a-sketchers from the screen.

What can I say; I love it! I’ve tried painting, drawing, playing an instrument(s), basketball, volleyball… Who would’ve known that a little retro toy would finally be the medium I needed to find a niche in this creative world.
It’s small, cheap; you can get one with Cars on it or Disney Princesses… sparkly ones, ugly ones (if you don’t believe me look at the first one I got, turquoise with bright purple knobs), pastel ones, broken ones… but my personal favorite is the original, classic red.

Last week I went to Target, which happens to be my favorite department store, by the way, and put my reputation to the test. I was armed with a gift card and a hunger for etch-a-sketch. I travelled to the toy section, spotted the magna-doodle boards…

There, in a shining red glory all its own, stood a solitary etch-a-sketch. “Hope it works,” I muttered, glancing around. No one was in the vicinity, so I picked it up. I was about to leave when I spotted mini ones on the shelf. Pretty pastels looked, I swear- imploringly at me. Have you ever visited the pet store or pound, not intending to purchase anything, but taking home a cute kitten or ferret?... This was very similar.

A family with young children rounded the corner, and with haste I tried to look bored and on an errand. Have to pick up a gift for a cousin, I thought, about to vacate. But those travel etch-a-sketches looked so convenient, and prettier than the one I had already. Oh, alright.

“I didn’t know they made these anymore,” laughed the cashier, a girl about my age. I just smiled as she rang up my three new friends.

Green Eggs and Ham!

Every summer, the women of my family get together for a “Quilt Bee”. Before you conjure up images of old bats in long dresses laboring over a patchwork,

let me clarify our “Quilt Bee”. Yes, we quilt (a little), but mostly, it is packed full of games, laughter, skits, and themed meals, which is where the famed green eggs and ham comes into the picture.

This year, my Grandma and I are paired to do a breakfast. The theme we came up with is… you guessed it,

Dr. Seuss.

So I thought I’d include a little fun fact post, a short little biography of the man himself.

Did you know?...

-Dr. Seuss’s real name is Theodor Seuss Geisel.

-While attending Dartmouth College, Geisel and his friends were caught throwing a drinking party. (During Prohibition!)

-The “Dr.” in Geisel’s penname came about in mock of his father’s unfulfilled hopes of Geisel earning a doctorate at Oxford. (His studies bored him, so he took a trip to Europe instead)

-Geisel worked in advertising for Standard Oil for more than 15 years, and various other magazines and newspapers drawing political cartoons.

-Too old for the draft, during World War II Geisel developed animated training films featuring a trainee named Private Snafu.

-Geisel’s first book, And to Think That I Saw It on Mulberry Street, was rejected 27 times before being published.

-His most famous work, The Cat in the Hat, was developed after Houghton Mifflin asked him to write and illustrate a children’s primer that incorporated 225 vocabulary words.

-Geisel had no children. According to his widow Audrey, he was slightly afraid of children- and didn’t enjoy their company! “He couldn't just sit down on the floor and play with them,” she said.

-The book Green Eggs and Ham was written after someone bet Geisel he couldn’t write a book using only 50 words.

-In 1948 he lived in an old observatory tower!

Formal, or just Uncomfortable?

Wednesday, Andrew and I decided that we are far more comfortable in casual situations. We visited a pretty nice restaurant (we had a gift card), that wasn’t our usual favorite, and discovered through experimentation that low pressure eateries definitely fit our style more.

When we walked into this place, we were seated at a table by a hostess, and immediately greeted by this painting on the wall:

Look closely... I spy with my little eye a sheep being attacked by a leopard.

My first thought was “What the…” Then I laughed. My second thought was a quote straight from Ice Age, by Sid the sloth. “Look, the tigers are just playing tag with the antelope… with their teeth.”

Now, I don’t know who in their right mind would think that a painting like that would be suitable for a nice restaurant, or good for the atmosphere, but I can assure you it did nothing for both; in fact it was a bit detrimental to the experience. MAYBE, maybe, a conversation piece. Every time I glanced up from my food I was assaulted by the image of a bloody takedown.

The waitress came by to take our drink orders. A trend I’ve noticed at nicer restaurants is the fact that they only offer un-sweet tea. If you want sweet tea, you make it yourself. Even this has an art, to a degree: you select the right amount of either real sugar or fake sugar (white or pink packet), mix it in with the long and skinny tea spoon, and set the lemon aside after squeezing it into the tea. If done effectively, you rest the lemon and spoon on the pile of empty packets. Hah! Never thought this much into mixing tea, eh? Welcome to my brain.
After we ordered, we sat back innocently to talk. But minutes into the conversation we both realized that the underside of the table was carpeted. Yes, carpeted. Like, shag carpet. I have NEVER been to a restaurant where the tables have carpet on the other side. This could be interpreted in probably hundreds of ways, but I don’t really feel like expending any brain power thinking of them Here’s a couple: Yeah, no. I don’t see any reason to put carpet on the underside of a table.

We got our salads, a little bit bemused so far, and had eaten about half each when our dinners came out. It was one of those awkward moments- I pushed my salad away, a bit regretfully, to make way for soup. Andrew had a burger, a tad gourmet looking I’ll admit.

Okay, a great thing about nice restaurants: nice service. The waitress must’ve asked if we needed tea/anything about ten times. Everything was relatively quick (is it possible to be too quick sometimes?), and she never forgot anything. Basically, if you’re going into a nice place, expect to tip well. Another awesome thing about nice restaurants: they’re more expensive in general. You’re paying for all that great service, quality food, and those lovely paintings. How often is it that you can pay an exclusive price to be scarred for life? Come on, money doesn't grow on trees.

The meal was punctuated by awkward mishaps- when to put your napkin on your lap (when you unravel your napkin or start eating), what fork to use (outside to in, yes, but what happens when they’re folded into your napkin?), how to tell the waitress you’re finished (according to Andrew, cross the silverware or turn them upside down), when to take your napkin off of your lap (when you’re finished eating- don’t eat after you’ve lifted it onto the table)… etc.

Yes, that's a napkin :)

But hey, we got a good laugh out of the whole ordeal, and learned a little. We had so much fun, in fact, next time we’re going to Sonic… or Burger King.

Books I Need To Write

So, I pretty much say it every single day: I need to write books. I have a million topics floating around in my head, so I'm going to throw a few out there. Please realize that while these are meant to be funny, deep down inside I really do want to pen these to paper.

Resource Management & Intelligence: Twin Demons




How You Can Prevent Forest Fires: A New Age




Dude, Where's My South Pole?



Education: Fireworks-Explosion-Awesome!



Why Comic Sans & Papyrus Should Be Illegal



Deciphering xkcd: Nerd Zone



It All Makes Sense Now: A Survivalist's Guide



Why Mr. Korpi Will Rule The World



The Art of Clarification

St. Patty's Day

Let’s just say, St. Patrick’s Day warranted itself an entire post today. It was a hectic, long, and very green day. And it all started with me forgetting to wear stupid verde.

The moment I walked in the doors of the school this morning I groaned. Green shirts. Green pants. Green headbands. Green shoelaces. Green bracelets. Green socks.

Don’t get me wrong. Green happens to be my favorite color. It’s just that the conformity of it all drives me insane- it’s not voluntary either! Negative reinforcement, folks.

You don’t wear green = pain.



So when I walked into the school and looked down at my glaringly black shirt and jeans to the laughter of Andrew, I admit my heart sunk a little. A whole ‘nother day of being pinched on my sensitive flesh by people who use this one day of the year to bully others within social permission. Maybe I’m exaggerating. Maybe I’m just upset because I haven’t remembered to wear green on St. P’s day for years. It just keeps coming up before I realize it! Like it’s out to get me right on my non-green wearing butt.

So before school, the first person to pinch me was Leah. She spotted me from a mile away and swooped down with an “Aha!” –Ow…

Seconds later Andrew turns to me. –Ow… only his doesn’t really hurt because he would never hurt me, right? *angel face*

“Pinched you…” he says. He must’ve forgotten on the way into the school, I’m sure, because of my reaction to all the green-clad students.

Two down, more to go. And throughout the whole day I begin to acquire so called ‘rules’ of St. Patrick’s day. The first I learned after I attempted to pinch someone who wasn’t wearing green in what might’ve…possibly…maybe been a slightly vengeful act.

1. You’re not allowed to pinch someone if you’re not wearing green yourself.

Well, this puts me out of the running for the entire day. Thanks. A lot. This puts anyone not wearing green at the mercy of those who are- this could be comparable to discrimination. Who wants to be colorist?

First period was psychology. Of course, as soon as I sit down I’m pinched. This time by Kira. –Ow…Stupid, stupid, stupid… Mara says she would pinch me but she doesn’t want to pinch Kirby! Yay! But Andrew seems to either like pinching me or already forgot that he pinched me before school and pinches me again. –Hmm…By now I’ve decided that I’m going to chronicle my day, and as I sit there considering my fate I realize that on Shamrock Day there are five different types of people.

1. People who wear green to be obnoxious. They choose this fad. These are the fanatics who scan the halls and classrooms for those not wearing green, and attack them viciously with pincers. Under this category falls anyone wearing a shirt that contains the word “Irish”, anyone decked out with an entire green outfit complete with green pants (where do you get those?) and a neon headband, and anyone who has to call their parents because their shirt has an overflowing mug on it.

2. People who wear green in order to avoid being pinched. This is where the conformity and negative reinforcement come into play. These poor people don’t choose to wear green, but must remember that morning to pull on a green shirt in order to steer away people from category one.

3. People who forget to wear green but are lucky ducks enough to have worn something green anyways. These people just got lucky, that’s all. They go through the day thanking whoever their god is for letting them put on a green shirt or green socks, and in every conversation concerning the matter say “I forgot (insert laugh here) but I happened to be wearing green (insert clothing item here) (insert another laugh here)”. Fun.

4. People who forget to wear green, but either A, scrounge their environment for anything green and tack it to their body, or B, lie about it. (What’re you talking about, I’m wearing green underwear!). Under this category falls those hapless souls who scribble a star on their hand in green highlighter, those who tape a green piece of paper to their shirt, and those who tie a green ribbon they got from a friend to their arm.

5. People who forget to wear green period. This group doesn’t attempt to fix the error of their ways. This would be where I fell in. This category doesn’t give a darn about the fact that they’re not wearing green, and usually pass through the day resenting St. Patrick. ‘Nough said.

In psychology Andrew had a fiasco with his water bottle. I thought it merited a mention. Kira and I wanted to try his ‘cranberry’ powder, which one pours inside one’s water to create a cranberry mixture that tastes nothing like a cranberry. But that’s another story…

Andrew gave us each some of the powder, and we each go to shake our waters to mix the powder in completely. A fraction of a second later I screamed right in the middle of psych.

Andrew, the brilliant one that he is, forgot to screw on his cap all the way before vigorously shaking his water bottle… water shot out at the seat in front of me and went all over the floor.

Fail, Andy.

Theatre was uneventful except that I learned another ‘rule’.

2. If you’re Irish you don’t have to wear green.

Well, I don’t know if I’m Irish! Neither does anyone else, for that matter, so I could just say. Oh, I’m Irish, you can’t pinch me. What?... no.

I got pinched again in yearbook, by a category one fanatic, Kasey. She’s standing outside the classroom door, looking at all of us lucky enough to be going through the door.

“You got green? You? No, no green?” –Ow…

Another pinch in yearbook came from Hillary. Thanks Hil Baby! –Ow…

At lunch I nearly went insane. In the cafeteria for one lunch alone, just casually waiting with a friend, we spotted NINE girls with green bows in their hair. NINE. IN ONE LUNCH PERIOD. Be original, people.

In German I was spared another pinch by Alissa, who also didn’t want to pinch anyone. Yay for compassionate category ones! (She was one of two girls I saw wearing a green clover tie).

Afterschool I was pinched again by Andrew, who took advantage of the fact that I could do nothing but glare (until tomorrow hehehe) and learned yet another rule:

3. Only people who are Irish can pinch people.

Just another thing I have to worry about, eh? St. P’s day is not my pot of gold. I need to find another four leaf clover.