Wasting My Degree?

As I find myself enjoying my part-time job in retail, I wonder if I am wasting my Masters Degree. This becomes an even greater question when I think of actually sticking with the job and try to someday get into management.

As Masters student in a program that focused on the importance of liberal education versus job training, I have to say me degree did not go to waste. I was never a girl who could make up her mind about what she wanted to be when she grew up. I chose my major in college because it interested me. Sure I toyed with ideas of possible jobs once I graduated, but it didn't become a major concern until my senior year. Then I chose a graduate program because it was necessary for the career choice I had decided on. Now due to the circumstances of life I am not in that career but I am enjoying my job.

Perhaps my degree may seem like a waste to the average outsider, but I wouldn't trade the learning opportunities I had in grad school. Where else can you discover yourself in relative safety but an institute of higher learning? Graduate school let me learn about myself without having to deal with the harsh realities of the full brunt of the real world. I was allowed to think and discuss those thoughts. It's funny because I'm sure many of my professors considered me a "bad" student. Not so much because of poor grades, but because I have a tendency to procrastinate, doze off in class, and skip boring readings. One professor in particular--who had the pleasure of having me in multiple classes--was probably banging her head against her desk whenever considering my academic prowess. The true comedy of the time is that I thrived on class discussions and even enjoyed writing papers. In fact the one semester I had my head on straight my professor told me I could be a good researcher. The downside to that was now that she saw my real potential, there was probably even more headbanging when the next semester I was once again procrastinating. Also, because of my joy of conversation, if I didn't participate in class, the professors knew I hadn't read. :/

I'm not a bad student, per se. I just have a short attention span. Those classes in which the professor talked at us were my worst classes. I couldn't even let fellow students borrow my notes because they were full of doodles, poem fragments, and story ideas. Those classes in which the professor let the class teach itself...well I still didn't take good notes but I retained what I learned. If I ever become a professor (another life goal if I ever save enough to get a doctorate) I am going to have some sort of assessment on the first day of class that will help me gain an understanding of how my students learn.

Wow...how far off track I have gotten. Yet another example of why some might consider me a "bad" student. My mind jumps topics faster than others can keep up! Thank goodness my professors never asked for free write! But anyway the point is I don't think my degrees are wasted. I am one of those (increasingly) rare folks who loves learning for the sake of learning. Maybe other people consider my current job proof of a wasted 6 years, but I wouldn't trade them for anything.

Rowling vs. Miles

There's something about stories that are more about the journey than the end. The reader follows the main character through the trials, the triumphs, and the revelations. No thrill can match that of the reader when the hero (or anti-hero, depending your forte) realizes his most important epiphany.

I always have a sense of sadness at the end of such novels--as long as they are well-written. The true author leaves the ending to the reader. The penman gives a gentle push in a general direction, but the ending is left incomplete. Why couldn't you just finish the book!? Perhaps because such anger is less disappointing than an author who does not trust the reader. Such a writer completes the hero's journey in some half-hearted conclusion she thinks the audience will appreciate. This is how J. K. Rowling ruined a perfect series with one awful epilogue.

A good book is one which parallels life to some degree. Hence the great disappointment of a finished read. There is nothing interesting about a life whose ending is already known. It's why the pursuit is so much more thrilling than the catch. We (I use this royally) need something of the unexpected to imagine the future. If we know how the story ends, why keep writing it. We take action in our lives because we hope it will somehow affect the future. Otherwise, what's the point of even getting out of bed?

So, a toast to you, Mr. Miles, for allowing me the pleasure of imagining the various ramifications of Bennie's reunion whit his daughter. As for you, Ms. Rowling, I reject your ending and insert my own possibilities.

*As deep as this reflection may or may not be, I must comment on the humor of a Mr. Miles writing a book about an airline.

Poetic License

What are the rules of poetry?

Meter, Rhyme, Allusion--

Oh! But what of free verse?

Toss out they rules!

But has that freedom restricted us?

Is it now childish to rhyme?

If the poem has a beat it now becomes a rap?

But they are far below our standards!

It seems there are rules to free verse,

Only decipherable by those Poets with a B.F.A.

There are counter methods, of course.

Spoken word contains more fluidity:

Rhythm versus meter; internal rhyme galore.

Breathed into a mic with undulations which reach the very soul--

how emotional!

I stand before the mic and when I'm done--

The single snap echoes in the Silence.

I forgot.

My words are not accepted unless I speak about my shackled ancestors

And deplore how their chains weigh me still...

Will you please tell me what is right?

How do I reach the Department of Poetry

To obtain my license?

I must learn to put my Words in this Box so I may be Published--

If I recall

The greatest Artists are those who broke the rules!

What is that?

Touche.

Their fame came after death.

I shall refer you now to "Snowflakes".

Ha!

I forgot you haven't read it because I am not a Real Poet.

"What happens to a dream deferred?"

If a poet writes a poem but no one reads it

Is it poetry still?

I'm sorry that my poetry is a hobby

Not a Lifestyle.

Does that mean no one gets to see it?

Back to December

This is a short (very short) story I came up with while driving to work. Lately I've been inspired by songs, as is the case with this piece of fiction. I'm not sure it's very good as my writing is rather rusty. But in any case if you decide to read it I hope you enjoy, or at least get a good laugh!

I had just started working here when I met you. We had often passed each other and I finally had a reason to talk to you. You answered my questions and then offered your email--just in case I had something more to ask. I could tell by your grin you weren't used to this sort of thing. It was kind of flattering actually.

We got to know each other over email and quick exchanges at your desk. I finally asked you to grab a cup of coffee. I picked you up at your apartment and as you got into the car I could tell you were excited. I began to wonder if you might be too young, too naive. There were almost ten years between us. But you were already in the car, and I figured any student would appreciate a free cup of coffee. You seemed surprised when I paid for it. (In hind-sight that probably was a good indication it was a date, even though I was unsure of what we were doing.) As we sat and talked, I revised my earlier judgment. You were young, but you were mature for your age. When I dropped you off, we sat in the car and talked some more. I asked if you had deleted our emails. You seemed confused. I explained that it was probably a bad idea for us to hang out since I was an administrator and you were a student. You didn't think there were any rules against it; besides, you were over eighteen. I explained that I was on probation and that I didn't need any reason to be fired, but you still seemed unsure. We said goodbye with a hug. I still wonder what you thought as you walked away from the car.

I fully intended to leave it at that. I was on probation and you were rather young. Yet there was something about you that intrigued me. And I admit, there may have been some ego involved. We began talking over the phone. I came by your apartment again. When you came down with your purse I explained that I just wanted to talk in the car. We chatted about anything and everything. As usual I ended our conversation with a warning about keeping this between the two of us. I asked if you had told anyone we were hanging out. You said no, but I knew you were lying. I also know you were hurt, but quite frankly my reputation meant more to me than your feelings. There was always the risk you wouldn't say yes the next time I asked to hang out. But the next time I pulled up to your apartment you came down and we sat in the car for over an hour. Hook, line, and sinker.

Eventually you tried to fight back. You constantly explained that there was no rule between staff-student relationships. I wouldn't relent. You were graduating soon. That didn't matter to me. Finally I switched tactics and told you that you were too good for me; that I was a bad guy. You protested and said you weren't that good. I laughed. Perhaps if you had seen my thoughts you would have believed me. I had no intention of starting a relationship. I wouldn't even give you so much as a proper date. Yet you kept coming when I beckoned. I was new in town with limited friends, and your attention was addicting. I was convinced that you weren't the drug; it was my control over you I craved.

You began trying to create "accidental" run-ins while I was at work. You would enter my building while I was outside the door on my cell phone. You found reasons to need my professional assistance. You think I didn't see you look up at my window when you passed outside; I did. I watched you watch me. I was so busy watching you I wasn't watching me. When I was asked to take photos at a graduation celebration, I didn't realize how many were of you until I sent them to you. Even then I didn't pay attention to the signs.

That summer was rather boring. We rarely emailed or talked on the phone. I missed seeing your face around the building. I was surprised at how nice it was to see you when the semester started. Though I was intent on staying away from you, we quickly fell into old habits. Your new argument was that now you were in graduate school I had no reason to fear hanging out together. You simply didn't understand my motivations. The only difference now was that our run-ins were fewer and shorter. Our conversations were primarily over email and telephone.

It was a stormy December night when I got a phone call from you. You wanted to come over to my place and talk. You had been by a few times before, so I allowed it. When I met you in the parking lot you seemed determined. I had no idea what this could possibly be about. Another attempt at arguing a relationship between the two of us? When we finally sat on the couch in my apartment you refused a glass of water. Your words still ring clear in my head.

I know that you know I like you. And I don't know what you're thinking or feeling. And I have no idea how I'm supposed to act around you.

I paused in genuine surprise. I had never heard you be so blunt. I realized it must have taken all your courage to say that to me. I knew what you were really saying though: where is this going? I knew then the charade had gone on long enough. You were no longer following the rules and I was backed into a corner. I told you I did not like you in that way. You nodded, smiled, and left. Not a single tear was shed.

There comes a time when a man is burned by his own game. I had dangled you on a thread for the sake of my own ego, or so I thought. The truth was that I had kept you at arm's length because I was afraid. I was afraid of the repercussions of dating you, professionally and personally. You were too good for me, and I knew if I let you in you would see that. Not only that, but I would see it. When I said I was bad, I didn't mean it to convey a "bad boy" image. I meant that I was not good enough for you. You had the purest of hearts; I was selfish.

It turns out letting you go was the best thing I could have done for you. I was genuinely happy when a year later you came running into my office to show me your diamond ring. I didn't know who the guy was and I didn't ask. He was obviously worthier than I. I was never invited to the wedding, and I'm not sure I would have gone if I was. You left town soon after, and we haven't spoken since. I'm not even sure you think of me.

I do, think of you that is. I think back to the grief I caused you for far too long. I underestimated the power of a young woman's infatuation. I never meant to cause you the pain that I did. At the time I couldn't see beyond myself. My last gift to you was my most generous. If I had know what it would do to me, I might have done it differently. I didn't know that when I let you go, I would lose a piece of myself. On that December night, I broke my own heart so that you could be free.

So, there's that little Swift-inspired beauty. I'm actually quite fond of it, even if it is a little too short to even be called a short story. Still, it's better than being lost in limbo like most of my inspirations. Well, that's my opinion anyway!

Of Dogs and Cats

I've always liked (most) animals pretty equally, though I admit certain species make better pets than others. The first pet I remember loving was a small fish named Pinky. Though we kept many fish when I was growing up, Pinky was the only fish I ever really considered "mine". Her death affected me more than any other fish (and when you keep an aquarium as long as we did, there are a lot of fish-deaths). My next exposure to pets was through a friend who kept birds. The budgies were to be loved from afar (I've never met a budgie who enjoyed being handled). Charlie was a parrot(?) who was pretty antisocial until near the end of his life. Then he began climbing on my siblings' and my shoulders and letting us pet him. Nina, also a parrot(?), was friendly from the start. I enjoyed the birds but didn't connect with them in any special way. The friend's friend had a boa named Leon (Noel in December). Through Leon I fell in love with snakes, especially the Red-Tailed Boa Constrictor. (Sadly I will never have a pet snake as Matt thinks they are inappropriate pets). Next--and this is wear the order of appearance gets murky--was Malachite, a green iguana. We only had him for a short time as his final attempt to dash out the front door was successful. I did love Malachite and his disappearance was agonizing. I would have liked to walk him around the neighborhood when he reached adulthood. At one point we had a rabbit, although he was more a tenant then a pet. He had been rescued by my brother and sister from the street, and my mother couldn't say no to our request to give him a home. Big Foot was large for a bunny, but his hoppity trails kept him in his bunny habitat most of the time. We also had Lefty, a bearded dragon whose right hand had been bitten off by his siblings as a baby. Since Lefty eventually took up residence in my bedroom, I grew quite close to the lizard. He died while I was away, and I was sorry I missed my chance to say goodbye.

But what of those furry creatures everyone thinks of when they hear "pet". Our first cats came when my mother rescued a litter of kittens that were scheduled for euthanasia. She found home four of them and we kept two: Drac (now referred to as Big Drac by Matt and me) and Runt, who later became Rani. Drac and Rani were my first pets who I could tell loved me as much as I loved them. Rani was really shy and skittish, but she would come to me if I happened to be in the bedroom by myself. Drac was the opposite and when he was older (and fatter) he would let me use his head as a pillow. Rani once filled my shoe with cat toys--the house cat equivalent to bringing home a dead critter. Around the same time Drac and Rani entered the picture, my dad allowed us to get a puppy. Dot was a basset hound with a lot of energy. As a puppy she slept in the same room as my sister and me. Once she was older she spent her time outside. Eventually my father made us surrender her to a shelter because as a family we couldn't devote our time to her. I bawled as we drove away from the shelter, her howls echoing behind us. I had been so close to teaching her sit, and I missed her crazy antics around the house. Mango is a bombay who entered the picture later. Mango is a little devil who is hell-bent on dominating the world, one human at a time. He had drawn blood on numerous occasions. There is something about Mango that has me convinced that some domestic cats never have the wild bred out of them. Still, I do love him and he keeps my mom and Mary company now that Big Drac and Rani are gone.

Enter the Waldron pets. If you ask me to choose between (little) Drac, Jenkins, and Booboo I couldn't do it. I love all of them equally for different reasons. I have often asked myself if I am more a cat person or a dog person. My innate laziness lends me to the cat side. They require much less energy. All they need from me is a clean litter box and a constant supply of food. I few tummy rubs and head pets and they're good to go. Dogs require walks, playtime, petting...dogs are reliant on their owners in ways cats will never be. My personality also is more catlike. I love laying in the sunlight streaming through a window. I value my independence. As much as I see myself in cats, there is something about the unconditional loyalty of a dog. "I love my cat, he does not care"; but my dog loves me and needs me no matter what I do. Yes he will often go to the person he knows will give him what he wants at the moment, but at the end of the day it is Mommy and Daddy's feet he chooses to sleep by.

"I'm not sure how much I believe in the idea of being a "dog person" or a "cat person." Both species offer real pleasures, just of a different kind; you don't really have to choose." -Mark Doty, author and poet

And there in lies the real answer. Some people are "cat people", some are "dog people". I'm both. I love Booboo as much as I love Jenkins and Drac. So as I consider this honest answer, I will leave you with the end of Mr. Doty's quote:

"...you don't really have to choose. Well, maybe you do temporarily, to avoid domestic violence."

Not Cool, Frank

Matt has never been a huge fan of California. I never understood his dislike of my home state. Now that we are living in New York, I don't understand his love for this state. Let's just say the Capital District has not endeared itself for me.

Sure, the Midwest was difficult because of the weather and lack of things to do, but at least people were nice! Even my cross-cultural training cannot help me have anything but tolerance for the region. The people here are just so angry! There is a bitterness about Albany that I cannot pinpoint. Perhaps it is the weather? I mean, if I were in California right now I'd be going to be the beach regularly, even if it was just to walk along the Santa Monica Pier or the Venice Beach sidewalk shops. The weather here is much less uplifting. I miss the beach. Not much to do here except stare at a tree and freeze.

I am being a little unfair. I'm sure this area is much lovelier when it's warm for more than two days straight. And perhaps people are friendlier after they've soaked up some much needed Vitamin D, of the non-Jersey Shore variety. I know my constant slight grumpiness has to do with lack of sunshine (and the fact that I'm starting to blend in with the locals. When in Rome, right?) But it's not that much work to fake a smile. After all it takes more facial muscles to frown than it does to smile, or so the motivational poster goes. Even if you are bitter, there's no need to be rude. Even I can smile through a migraine, and do it quite often. Case in point: Matt and I were leaving Buffalo Wild Wings as an older woman was walking in. Matt held the door open for her and she was literally taken aback. How are you surprised when somebody holds the door for you? Happens to me all the time at work. Like there's some law about not using basic manners. (Granted I'd be surprised if Matt held the door open for me. Zing! LOL)

Here's the funny part. Matt would be ecstatic to spend the rest of our days here in his old childhood home. I have no problem with that, as long as I can become accustomed to this foreign land. Because it is becoming clear to me that upstate New York is no place for a California Girl.

For the Love of Pets

*Warning: This post talks about animal deposits. Don't read if that grosses you out. ;)

Animals are funny creatures.

Here's an example:

Booboo, like most dogs, has a fascination for poo that is not his own. Add that to the fact that cats don't fully digest their food and a litter box with no fencing around it, and you have one frustrating situation. Booboo knows he is not supposed to go searching the litter box through truffles. As long as we catch him in the act, it only takes a stern command for him to leave the box alone. Despite the fact that he knows the litter box is forbidden, he tries to sneak "snacks" when we're no looking. Such was the case this morning, but I caught him and he dropped his "treat" on the floor and left it alone. Enter Drac.

If you have ever read my Facebook statuses concerning animal antics, you have some notion of how neurotic Drac is. One of his neuroses is that he prefers cleanliness. He also has a very strong instinct to bury his business. The two of these combined lead to some entertaining habits. For one, if the litter box is deemed too full, he will scratch at the wall in an attempt to cover his business without dirtying his paws (as opposed to Jenkins who will stare at the litter box and meow until you have stopped whatever it is you're doing and clean it). Perhaps cat owners where this is going? As I was sitting on the couch with my bowl of cereal when Booboo went treasure hunting, I was not immediately able to to pick up the dropped poo. This was not good enough for Drac as he began scratching at the floor, attempting to cover the clump with the loose litter that had fallen on the floor (because cats are incapable of keeping their litter in the box). After laughing at his antics I shook my head and picked up the clump. This must have satisfied him for he looked at me and walked away. I entertained the notion of recording the act and posting it, but then I realized that not everyone finds animal potty antics amusing.