This is an old Christmas picture. 2007. The latest update's not even in it. Sorry Esther. Apparently, she was napping.

The Jungle of After Christmas Shopping

Today, I experienced the miracle of after-Christmas shopping at Target. If there are men out there who have never had the pleasure, this is similar to the ancient Indian practice of forcing victims to watch themselves slowly being skinned alive. Except I’m absolutely positive that shopping at Target takes longer. So you’re at a slight advantage if you happen to be captured by Indians on your way to shopping with your wife.

I was initially lured in by promising words and expressions like cheap and fifty percent off. These struck me as joyous words to be hearing. So the thought of coming along for whatever this was seemed positive and encouraging. Now, mind you, I have been shopping with my wife before and it was a bad memory. But I think it’s a bit like giving birth- for it’s own rehabilitation and survival, the mind has a tendency to suppress certain horrific experiences as though it’s never had them.

But it all came flooding back as I found myself buried neck deep in isle after isle of all these little red and green somethings and countless women rummaging through it all with perfect concentration on their faces. And all I could do was just stand there dodging carts trying to empty my head of any negative emotions that could be rising to the surface. All the time, my sister and mom and wife seemed like they were totally comfortable joining in with the dance of all these customers maneuvering around each other and pulling things off shelves to examine them. I always begin making the same promises to myself that I will never ever let myself go through this again; these are, of course, promises which I know I won't have the wisdom to keep in the future.

Richelle would come to me with a little red and green something every once and awhile and say, “Hey, what do you think of this?” All I could do was just nod my head and say, “Sure. Whatever sounds good to you.”

I had no ability to be thinking anything at that moment. The key to male survival at times like these is to totally shut down and flip on the autopilot. No thoughts are allowed in or out.

I think it was Christmas day that Richelle was mourning to me that every one else had sent out Christmas cards and that we hadn’t done that ourselves. I foolishly added that we could also include a Christmas letter and that I’d be more than glad to write that. I honestly don’t know what possessed me. I think it was the idea that Christmas was a year away and that was such a long time that quite possibly we may never arrive to that far-off date again. So tossing out empty promises was easy.

But it all came screeching into reality when Richelle started to bring me these packages of different types of Christmassy papers like snowflakes and reindeers and forcing me to give my opinion on what we should choose for our Christmas letter next year. I realized this was going to do more to make 365 days fly by than any other decision I could’ve made this year. These are little mistakes we young people make thinking the future will never come.

I picked the snowflakes for fear of having to be shown any of the rest of the options the store had to offer.

Anxiety

Spending’s become a little bit of an issue for me lately. Our budget has become extremely tight so that even the tiny purchases are starting to haunt me. We were going to a Christmas party tonight and Richelle sent me to the Filipino store to pick up egg rolls. I asked how much and she shouted the amount over the news and her hair dryer blasting.

“Fifty dollars plus tax,” she said.

“Okay,” I said. Many times, this is my response to things without having totally registered the answers. Autonomic answering. It sometimes takes a few seconds to replay the message in my head. Once I have processed the information, my mind goes into survival mode.

“Wait. You said, ‘Fifty?’”

My mind immediately began subdividing contingency plans. Okay. Okay. That’s no problem. We can do this. We just won’t eat for a week. We’ll cancel the electricity and tear out the floor boards for firewood. Sell our kidneys.

“No!” she said, “Fifteen! One five!”

More Boring Than Usual- Don't Read This Unless You Have Absolutely Nothing Else To Do With Your Life

I’m writing through a barrage of Christmas music that Richelle is demanding that we play every available free minute of the Christmas season. It’s times like these that I realize how I used to take silence for granted. It was a thing to avoid. Such a mistake. I could’ve used that time. I could’ve read books and written things endlessly! Now my thoughts are wading through pools of “Silent Night” and “Joy to the World”. I am learning to tune things out though. Ahhhh!! The CD just ended. Hoping she doesn’t notice.

Wishful thinking. She just announced that she’s going to finish watching the movie Hancock. She has a tendency to list to me the things she’s going to be doing in the next hour or so with frequent updates if changes ever need to be made.

“I’m going to watch finish the movie now while I’m folding the laundry, okay?”

I nod. Very good mum.

We got to clean today. The house was in shambles after the four months of neglect we sent it through while we faithfully applied ourselves to our teaching jobs. What are shambles? Does any one know? I’m assuming it’s not a good thing since people only use it in a negative context.

I even cleaned off my computer keyboard which had somehow collected a whole smorgasborg of sticky flavorful somethings; don’t ask me what. And I cleaned off the desk which had collected a massive pile of books and papers and bills. There are times when I think about just taking the entire pile of bills and just dumping them in the trash. See what'll happen.

Little Civil Wars

Richelle and I have opposing views of our Saturdays. She looks at Saturday as the perfect chance to get things done. I look at Saturday as a day to not get things done. You can see how this may lead to conflict.

I woke up this morning, very pleased with myself for having somehow miraculously made myself sleep till 11:00. Richelle was standing by my bedside like an Olympic track star after a steroid injection. I was hoping she would say something pleasant like “Good morning, you want some breakfast?” or “How did you sleep?”

“We need to go to Costco,” she said. She was serious. I knew what she meant, but already my mind was rejecting any thought of the type of day she was wanting to have.

“Don’t do that,” I said and she laughed. “I want coffee. That’s all I’m thinking about, right now.”

I wanted my day to be filled with little exciting accomplishments. Get out of bed. Put sweats on. Make coffee. Read the newspaper (okay- I never read the newspaper but it’s one of those cliché lazy things people always mention).

But she can’t help herself. For the last two hours, I’ve been enduring these verbal missiles of “Let’s go!” and “Hurry up! Get ready! We gotta’ goooooo!”

She was pleasant about it. She had the little girl sound to her voice which I was appreciating. It meant she wasn’t on the verge of attacking me with something heavy and metallic. But I could tell when the little girl started to dissipate and the sad, disappointed tone was starting to develop. I was the only one available to be the cause of this. The sound of her movements were slow and deliberate as though she was running out of things to accomplish in the house and she was in desperate need to broaden her horizons toward cleaning up other parts of the world.

“I guess I’ll just go then,” she said in a defeated tone.

What she wanted was for me to go with her. I, of course, was very willing to go with her but I was fighting at every level the idea of having to rush out of the door like we need as much time as possible to avoid confusion between the red and yellow wires while dismantling the bomb.

So she’s gone, but I no longer have any possibility of the peaceful Saturday feeling. Because she’s coming back. She’s going to accomplish three of the errands. Or maybe four. She listed them off for me, but I don’t know if I can name them exactly. I just got the message that those things were definitely needing to get done.

I’ll join her for round two. My brain is sending threatening messages to my body that it will need to be prematurely forcing my legs into jeans very soon. But, of course, my body is not taking the news well at all. In fact, not much progress has been made toward the jeans as of yet. It’s a bit of a civil war going on in here.

The Pain of Losing Something Meaningless

I had my planner stolen from me tonight. At least, I think I may have had my planner stolen from me tonight. It was a little bit confusing. My planner is full of information that’s only useful to myself- like dates and schedules and meaningless stuff.
So I didn’t feel that it was very necessary to guard it with my life.

I was at the freezer section in Walmart wanting to hunt down one single Stouffers Philly Cheese Steak and I realized walking with a cart was a little bit more laborious than I needed it to be at that moment; some people seem to have a professional gift at taking forever making their choice and standing in people’s way as they’re doing it. So I thought I’d just go solo for a couple minutes and see if I could complete my mission a lot faster that way- maybe fake left and roll right like a football play.

But when I got back to where my cart was, the whole thing was gone. I was speechless. I was a bit dumbfounded looking down every aisle as though I were a parent who had just lost a problematic child to kidnapping but wasn’t quite sure why any one would actually want that child.

This has nothing to do with the next blog. I just liked the picture. We're at the Will Roger's Estate in the Santa Monica Mountains.

Saturday Morning

Lazy mornings with nothing to do is the greatest. The house is a bit chilly but my body feels like it’s floating right at this moment. And I’m waiting for Che Che to wake up. She has somehow taught herself how to sleep through anything that makes a lot of noise including nuclear holocausts and angry lawn mowers.

I’m sitting with my back turned to the door leading to the backyard. I can feel Jack’s eyes staring at me through the snot-spotted glass. He seems to have mastered certain methods of Jedi mind control where all he has to do is just stare at me long enough and I’ll end up taking him on a walk. He’s really a brilliant dog.

I just got done cleaning up the lawn which he’s transformed into his personal bathroom. It’s been about a week and a half since I’ve picked anything up so I was having to tread very carefully as though I was working my way across a mine field. Jack just watched me from the patio wagging his tail and dancing around in circles knowing that the walk is somehow coming soon.

Basketball with My Students

Today, I played an exciting, little pickup game during homeroom between students and faculty. It was fun, despite the fact that it looked something like old people trying out for American Gladiators. Slaughter is not a strong enough word for what we went through.

I was running up and down the court gasping for breath eventually forgetting about the ball and simply trying to tackle the students that were shooting the best.

To add to our humiliation, the teachers somehow talked themselves into wearing shorts in order to be better prepared for the game. When they started to decide on this in yesterday’s meeting, I immediately objected saying it might not look good for all of the teachers to be wearing shorts to school like that. But what I was really thinking was that my legs haven’t actually seen sun for several months. They’ve been like two polar bears that I’ve been letting hibernate for the winter. I didn’t know how they would react to being ripped out of their caves and paraded around in front of four hundred slightly-insane teenagers.

But I did make one shot. It was from the three-point line and I had no one around me. I think most of the students assumed that the white guy with the frightened, confused look on his face didn’t really need to be defended all that closely. So I’m glad to prove them wrong even though I was probably more shocked than any one in the gym that the ball went in.

Badly in Need of a Shower

I am badly in need of a shower. I was hoping that I could make it about a 36-hour stay with my family where I’ll be able to return before my body starts to reveal a stench. No need for travel shower. But this did not work out. The 36 hour stay turned into a 54-hour stay where Richelle began to make comments that my hair was beginning to take on smells ranging any where from sour milk to rancid fish sauce. Either way, I was not in a good place. It was stressful to be hugging people. By Sunday morning, I could feel that camping sensation where you can feel the cultures climbing over the build of dirt and oils that you’ve left piling up over the last few days. I tried drenching myself with my father’s aftershave but I don’t think this did anything more than just confuse people. Like they were detecting an ocean breeze Aqua Velvet flavor of rancid fish sauce.

But I had a great time with my family. I love just talking and eating and hanging out with them. We sit around in a circle and talk sometimes and I’m amazed at how therapeutic that is to me. Sometimes, I’ll find myself getting derailed from the actual full group discussion and simply appreciating what a great thing it is that we’re all taking the time to just talk to each other. It feels like conversation is a lost art these days. The more we get removed from it, the more we tend to struggle.

Sleepless Torture

12:23 A.M. I would normally be sleeping right now, but after a day of constant eating, drinking and social stimulation, my body has suddenly become confused.

It started to beg me for sleep around 9 or 10 P.M. But I wasn’t through with chatting people up and/or watching movies. And now my body is daring itself to try to stay awake far into the night.

This makes me wonder how I might respond to this form of torture if I were ever caught by enemy combatants and they forced me to stay awake for a long time. Not that they would have to bother. I think I would cave much easier than that. Just the suggestion of torture would make me spill my guts- I’d be pointing at the other prisoners and trying to get them in trouble. “He was the one. Yeah him. The guy with the slightly panicked look there.”

Hiding Out

Good ol’ Thanksgiving eve. And presently I’m thankful for my own little dark corner of the house where I’m hiding out from a massive amount of activity going on. I can hear Richelle and her Mom juggling the Thanksgiving preparations like they’re planning for an attack from the Russians. They’re rattling off a frenzy of English and Tagalog phrases- all of which my brain no longer has the capacity to register. It's funny that it sounds so much like they're right on the verge of throwing pans at each other when I know they're really just trying to figure out something simple- like do the plates with the fruit-basket designs match the mustard yellow napkins. I'd like to tell them that it really doesn't matter enough to stress about it, but I've realize long ago that each person must achieve enlightenment at their own pace. Then again, they could be discussing how to best go about boiling a white person. In which case, I'd rather not know anything about it until it's too late.

I resort to ear plugs and my happy place. Like Wesley Snipes playing a prisoner in Rising Sun. Someone asks him how he keeps his sanity with everything that is going on around him in the prison. He simply taps his forefinger to his temple and says,

“I live up here.”

This does sound appealing except I run into the obvious problem of having to live inside my head with all of the other personalities that are trying to crowd in there as well. It’s not much more peaceful than the things that are going on around me.

Japanese Food at Kinokawa's with My Parents

Needing a Shower

It’s late so this should be a short one. I’ve gone 48 hours without a shower and Richelle is complaining that I’m beginning to smell faintly like sour milk. I think she’s making this up.

But a shower would feel so good about now. It doesn’t take long before clothes start to feel they’re able to walk around on their own.

Ardis

I was just lured like Hansel and Gretel across the street by my 85-year-old neighbor Ardis. She’s the sweetest thing in the world but the conversations with her tend to recycle themselves every five minutes. She’s got almost no short-term memory so this leads to a lot of awkward silent moments because I’m afraid to ask a question or respond to any point that she’s making for fear of haviing a rerun of the very same talk we just had. Either way, I’ve got the script memorized but it’s hard to know which portion of the script will surface at any given moment.
“Do you know what happened to me not long ago?” she said today.
“No. What?”
Of course, I’m immediately regretting saying this because I know I will have heard what she’s going to bring up. But because I don’t know which specific story I’ve already heard, she somehow traps me into answering no. These are very delicate tightropes we sometimes walk down in life.
“Somebody,” she says, “and I don’t know who, but somebody wired $90,000 into my bank account not long ago.”
“Wow!” I say as though this was the first time she told me.
“Isn’t that amazing?”
She’s always very animated in telling me.
“Yeah, wow.” Very little emotion left in me to apply to the recycled versions of these conversations. I mostly just throw in head nods and try to occupy myself with looking for something to eat in the kitchen while I’m listening to her.
“And I have no idea who it could be!” she says.
And, of course, I start to finish the story for her because I remember more of it.
“I think it might be the friend of yours who died not long ago.”
“Yes, maybe,” she says shaking her head, perplexed, “I really don’t know. There’s no way to know.”
We both shake our heads at this as another long silence ensues.

So I walked her across the street and she fixed me a drink which I'm still having trouble saying no to every time she offers. Then she started talking about her driving test which she's so worried about passing.
"I've been studying and studying but this stuff won't stay in my head."
She started reading me the sample test question.
"You're driving next to a double-yellow line. When is it okay to cross over the double yellow? A. When the line closest to you is a solid yellow line. B. When the line closest to you is a broken yellow line. C. When the line closest to the lane next to you turns to a broken yellow line. D. Never"
I didn't know the answer the first time through mostly because I was having the hardest time paying attention. So she read me the answer- "B. When the line closest to you is a broken yellow line." Within five minutes she'd forgotten that she'd asked me that same question and she started reading it to me again.
"You're driving next to a double-yellow line. When is it okay to cross over..."
I immediately cut her off because I knew how long it took to get through the question.
"When the line next to you is broken," I said.
She looked at me and then the paper and seemed thoroughly impressed.
"Wow!" she said, "You really know this stuff!"
I felt so good about myself that I didn't want to point out that she'd already read me that question. I actually did finally tell her this but it didn't take her long to forget that she'd already told me. And so I didn't bother telling her again. For the next 10 questions, I just miraculously finished answering everything even without her reading me the options. Every time, she was so impressed with my extensive knowledge of the material.
It did feel good. I gotta' get over there more often.

Day Off

I get the day off tomorrow. This is magical, to say the least. It’s Monday. I just started the week. I had a long, not-incredibly-successful, tiresome day and now I get a day off and I’m trying to imagine myself waking up late in the morning to a bathtub-sized cup of coffee while maintaining a long internal debate over whether its worth it to change out of my pajamas to walk down to the local donut shop and buy myself a donut- glazed or jelly-filled. It really doesn’t get much better than that.

My dog Jack will inevitably talk me into letting him come along. Jack is my high-strung golden retriever-white German shepherd mix who makes ADD children look like lazy, sleepy slugs. I keep imagining myself throwing a saddle on his back and riding him around for several blocks like Seabiscuit.

He gets endless numbers of compliments from people in the neighborhood (when he’s been groomed- which sadly has not been for a little while) but he doesn’t seem to care about any of that sort of attention. He only seems to care about petting which I’m sure would be high on my list if I were a dog so I do not blame him for this.

By the way, I finally got the McCain Palin bumper sticker off my car. And that is all I want to say about that.

Marine Day

I just wanted to say that I love Filipinos. Not because I think my wife is going to read this because I'm assuming she won't- she's not really into reading for pleasure. But I just love to watch Philippinos when they party. I went to my Father-in-Law's Marine Day party where he gets together with all of his friends from the Philippine Marines and their families. The way they dance and interact is like watching poetry in motion. It's like I'm seeing an entire culture of people who realize that they're fallen and goofy and mistake-ridden, but they stop caring because they finally get the joke that so many people don't get. That we're all fallen and goofy and mistake-ridden and if they really pay attention to the details it gets funny after awhile. And they stop stressing about it all so much.

Now, I know they're people with problems just like every one else. But I was watching them dance on the dance floor tonight along with their kids and grandkids. No one had to talk any one into getting out there. Every age of person in the room was crowding the dance floor so that there was very little room left on the wood portions. Some definitely knew how to dance; some looked like they were having seizures. But no one was worried about it. And they just danced and smiled and laughed at themselves. It was a beautiful image. Almost like a little picture of heaven that I could see.

Whale Watching/ Victoria, Canada- Whales Swimming All Around and Underneath our Boat

Richelle and Cheryl/ Seattle's Puget Sound

Car trouble

I’m at the mechanic’s right now. Happily spending my Friday waiting for my car to get back from the doctor. The little “check engine” light came on so I have no idea what that means. It was nerve racking. I could feel my palms beginning to sweat taking glances at it as I’m flying down the freeway this morning. My hope and prayer whenever it’s a car issue is that it be something cheap to fix. I guess that’s everyone. But I’m at the mechanic’s mercy. I have no clue. Like Seinfeld says, to people who have no idea how to fix cars, we look at the engine itself as though we’re hoping to see a giant “on and off” switch turned off.

I found a great mechanic though. He’s almost too nice. I don’t quite know how to tell him though. Whenever I picture myself saying it to him, I also picture an awkward moment of silence where he’s nodding his head to thank me and I’m breaking into a long, nervous speech to explain to him why I said such a random thing. These are the some of the insecurities I deal with. I’m letting you into the inner circle; little photographs of the mad hatter running the booth upstairs.

Well, there’s good news and bad news, I just found out. Whenever people ask me which one of these I want to hear first, I sometimes wonder if it’s possible to just hear the good news and not ever really know about the bad news- maybe just be surprised when I get there.

But I found out it’ll be about $150. Good news, not nearly as much as I’ve paid for car issues before. Bad news, it’s still a lot. And he said it was a smog issue which really made me regret bringing it in. I just passed smog and I won’t need to get that taken care of for another 2 years. I guess it's for the peace of mind. There's a delicate balance there between keeping money in my account and keeping the world spinning around me. But I don't have anything to worry about. The Lord takes care of us.

Poor Che Che's on the verge of chucking here.

The New Heart Sugar Creek Gang

Bumper Sticker

So I was pulling for McCain but I seem to be taking the election results much better than I thought. I assumed I may have to be dragging my body around school; on the brink of tears from simple hellos as people were passing by. But it’s a load off just to not have to think about elections for awhile.
I’m like Humpty Dumpty after the big tumble from the wall. But just leave me in pieces on the ground. I’m enjoying the rest.
My car still bears a McCain Palin sticker on its bumper like a tattered, defeated flag left on a battlefield after the surrender’s been called. I was initially worried that my car was going to have to suffer some sort of attacks because I made it carry that sticker. I imagined people gouging their keys along the side panel or worse yet, maybe a crazed Obama fan might fly off the handle and take a sledge hammer to my back windshield. As much as I love my car, I made sure I envisioned that I was not present when this vandalism was occurring. My imagination started turning out bits and pieces of possible major motion pictures after I started thinking more and more about what I might have to endure.
Sadly, nothing happened to me or my car although I have suspected that other drivers might have been a little more reluctant to let me cut in their lane during traffic. But there’s no way to tell what their motives might have been.
But now the stress over the McCain Palin sticker has turned to more of a practical nature. Like how do I get it off? I’m not needing to appear as though I’m holding desperately on to the past. I’ll go socialist along with the rest of the country. Solidarity forever. I just need to get this thing off my bumper.

Didn't quite make the flip. E for effort though.

I’ve had an anger issue since as far back as I can remember. The brunt of my anger usually comes out on inanimate objects. But not just any inanimate objects- I tend to come after disobedient inanimate objects that seem to need someone’s anger unleashed on them. Like last night, I was showering when a rogue shampoo bottle of Pert Plus took a deliberate head dive off the walls of the shower. I was patient with it the first time it did that. I thought to myself, okay settle, it is pretty annoying. It seems like this little thing is purposely doing it, but this happens in wet places, things slip and fall, so no problem. And so I calmly and gently but firmly picked the little shampoo bottle off the ground and placed it in the same place again letting it balance in place for a moment before I let go.
But then, immediately, this little thing went and deliberately dropped its head toward the edge and went diving off the top like Talking Tina from the Twilight Zone. Now, my patience can handle a certain level of insubordination but this just could not be tolerated. I lost it. I picked up the little Pert Plus and slammed it down again in place.
“You like that!? Huh?! You wanna take thrill rides off high things?! I’ll take you really really high and take you to places you never dreamed!”
Okay. I didn’t say any of this. In fact, I felt ashamed after I picked up the bottle and slammed it down again because I noticed a little piece of the top looked a little weak around its top.
I thought, it’s not the bottle’s fault it went diving off the walls, it’s your fault for setting it on the walls in such a way that it’ll inevitably fall off the walls. Then I’ll settle with ashamedly with this thought which always makes me angry at myself and this is where the tantrums tend to lead. Me being angry at me for pulling the cork on my anger and showing the outside physical world my rage for a while. Lord, help me to let it go some day. Help me to let it go soon.

Surfing in Hawaii

I just had to share a few highlight days from my vacation last summer. I was really proud of myself for going out and surfing. Even though it killed me. Metaphorically speaking. And I still have the accompanying journal entry I gave along with it. If it looks like I'm concentrating really hard on a relatively gentle wave, it's just because I am concentrating really hard on a relatively gentle wave.

Saturday, 8-2-08

I do believe now that age is not just in the mind. There’s something about adulthood that eventually makes you have to own up to things. Work becomes a lot more necessary than it was when you were a kid. In childhood, work was something adults made you do and your goal was to do it until the adults were satisfied that the work had been adequately done and then you were able to stop. After that, everything else was play.
But now work is necessary to survive. And the muscles in my body forget how to perform the way they once did- or possibly the way they never did.
This was how I felt as I was getting surf lessons the other day. The wave would be coming and the instructor would be telling me to paddle but my arms were not cooperating. Somewhere, over the course of the 2-hour lesson, those little guys were not able to perform the commands that my teacher or myself were giving them.
He would say, “Paddle hard. Paddle! Paddle harder! Harder!!!”
And I would be saying the same things to my arms in my head, but my brain had the disadvantage of knowing exactly what my arms were feeling at that moment. Those poor lanky white poles sticking out of the sides of my body had spent every ounce of energy they could muster just in the first few pushes into shore.
I’ve had enough experience with exercise to know that burning feeling means red zone for muscles- that they’re reaching capacity.
I explained to my surfing instructor that I just wasn’t in good enough shape for catching the wave that quickly every time, but what I was really thinking was that I had an hour and a half left to my lesson and all I really wanted to do was to lie motionless on the long board like a life raft and float gently out to sea.
I felt like Keanu Reeves after his body had just been pulled out of The Matrix.
“Why do my arms hurt?”
“Because you’ve never used them before.”
The instructor just looked at me expressionless and nodded. Surfers don’t really understand this kind of mindset, I don’t think. I realized how “in shape” their upper bodies must be. Not that I couldn’t have gleaned that information from simply looking at their upper bodies. But it helps to learn it firsthand.
Somehow, I was able to survive the 2 hours and stand up several times. And the real elation began after the lesson was over. I felt like I’d really conquered the dragon that had always been hiding in the cave somewhere. Or the dragon who sent me hiding in the cave.
Either way, I have finally and officially surfed. If the phone rings endlessly, it’s because I’m going to be too sore to pick it up.

Okay. Same day. Same Starbucks. 10 minutes has transpired. I thought I would do something a little more productive but the push to do it just drove me back to the arms of this blogsite. I could lesson plan but the thought of doing something that I've been stressing about all week just throws my mind into revolt. I pretend like I'm weighing the prospects in my mind, "Lesson planning or any thing else... including life-threatening situations."
Richelle just came back to me and has informed me that she has not found any articles yet. This is discouraging because I am wanting to leave this place and I'm starting to realize that the only way I will be able to leave this place is for her to either finish finding the articles or for the library to close and I don't think the library will close because the university cares too much about the welfare of their students for them to close the library on a Saturday night just because I don't want to be here any more. But it doesn't hurt to ask.

Starbucks

I'm currently sitting in a Starbucks at Long Beach State Library waiting for Richelle to finish her search for articles on I'm-afraid-to-ask. She's in an Education master's program right now and she's been asking me to do her favors like reading the articles out loud to her while she drives. Every time, I have to fight the same compulsion to throw myself from the car while it's still moving at low speeds. I guess I have the same reaction to all scholarly journals. The voices in my head start interrupting me within the first few sentences and asking me how it's possible that people can spend the amounts of time they do completing works such as these. This, of course, makes it impossible for me to finish reading even the first paragraph because I start trying to answer those voices and the engaging conversation keeps me from moving on.

Joel and Richelle -- Victoria