How to be a Gringo

Two of the last three weekends I've spent as a gringo. Pale skin, light hair, clumsy espanol. Trying so hard to be inconspicuous in my quiet German whiteness. But failing miserably.

Latinos are experts in making sure everyone is included and taking part in the festivities. To sit on the sidelines observing is rather inconceivable. Who would enjoy that, when you could be the life of the party instead? No, Los Latinos make sure you enjoy yourself, even if it involves intoxicating you to the point where you have no choice but to have fun.

Now imagine quiet little me, trying to avoid the spotlight, much preferring to observe in peace in this environment. It's all a little overwhelming at times.

"Laura! You married now? You have a boyfriend? No? Why not? Come dance, who do you want, we'll set you up." In these situations I've discovered it's best to change the subject. "Quieres vino? I'll get you some!" for this reason I've mastered some key Spanish words and phrases.

Offering or asking for vino or cerveza is typically an effective way to change the subject. Or food for that matter. Hospitality is definitely a strong point in the Latino culture. "Ven, eat! Hay mucha comida." is a phrase I'm quite familiar with now.

Sometimes my gringa constitution just can't handle the amount of food and drink offered to me, though. So "un poco" or "un poquito" (a little) come in handy, along with "despues" (later).

And if all else fails, a smile and "no no no" usually gets the point across.

I have been hugged, kissed, and asked to dance by more strangers (male and female alike) in the last few weeks than any other year in my life.

And you know what? I love it.

Sure, it's a little overwhelming at times, but it's also so much fun! The Latinos I've been around, mostly Guatemalans and Peruvians, have been so open and welcoming; so happy and laid back. I've had ceviche and chicha, (raw fish and a drink made from purple corn). I've danced to salsa music and tried to understand conversations in espanol, with varying degrees of success. But mostly I've realized what a relief it is to just sit back and enjoy yourself, without worrying about making a fool of yourself or doing something wrong.

So overall I'm so happy to have these crazy Latinas in my life, teaching me how to shake my booty and down a pisco sour.

Although it still really helps to do those things in the opposite order!

Oh, One More Thing...

I have recently discovered/remembered another random thing that makes me inexplicably happy to add to my list. Being exhausted and sore after exercising. It's a weird concept...thinking that pain can make you happy, but I'm fairly certain this isn't just a weird phenomenon that only I actually enjoy. I'm pretty sure a fair number of people enjoy it. It's not necessarily that the pain itself is enjoyable--quite the opposite. I guess it's more that the pain and utter exhaustion are a tangible sign that you did something good for yourself, something that will eventually pay off if you keep at it.

I have many fond (okay, "fond" might be a bit of a stretch) memories of tryouts week for soccer. That stiff-legged burn, going home, lying on the couch, and not being able to move until about halfway through the next practice, when my muscles were warmed up again. And then repeat that every day for about a week, until I was back in shape.

Well, after about 7 years away from intense workouts like that, I'm experiencing it (albeit to a slightly lesser degree) once again. I recently made a life-changing purchase.

These are my new Vibram FiveFinger KSOs. They're super comfy, and it really does feel like you're barefoot. I bought them for a few reasons.

1. They're perfect for biking/swimming in the canyon, one of my all-time favorite summer pastimes.
2. I'm trying to be more active this summer, spending less time sitting inside and more outside getting exercise and enjoying nature. And if I had a cool new toy to play with, I might be more likely to succeed.
3. My big brother has a pair and raves about them. And I always believe everything he says. (And if you believe that...) ;)

So anyway, I bought a pair about three weeks ago, and after deciding that the first pair I bought was actually too small and exchanging them for the next size up, I've fallen in love. I also recently discovered (on the advice of the big bro) that it's so much easier to run in them than in normal sneakers. They're so much lighter and less clunky.

That being said, there is a down side. The packaging warned that you will use different muscles than you normally do. David warned me of that, too. (See? One example of how I don't always listen.) So I did my running, and then I hurt. MAN did I hurt. My calves feel like every single muscle fiber has been stretched to its breaking point. I feel muscles in my feet I never knew I even had.

But it's a good pain. A pain that says I'm doing something right. And if nothing else, I'll have killer calves when it's all said and done.

These are a Few of My Favorite Things

It occurred to me today, as I was standing in the office supply aisle of CVS, that many random little things can make me inexplicably happy. So I've decided to compile a list of some of these things for your perusal. Don't judge too harshly, okay?

• New pens -- you know, the really nice ones that write super smoothly and never gum up with ink at the tip like the cheap pens do.

• Notebooks, journals, paper in general
• Sharpies
• Cheepers on a summer night
• Books

• Puppies and kittens and babies
• When a customer says "May I please have..." instead of "I want..." or "Give me..."
• Coffee
• New clothes and shoes
• Thunderstorms
• Little kids' imaginations

• Seeing friends unexpectedly
• Blankets
• Crochet, knitting, or sewing
• Binge cleaning
• Being awake before anyone else
• Comments on my blog (ahem)
• Brothers

• Falling asleep on the couch after a big meal while watching TV with my parents
• Sisters-in-law
• New cosmetics--makeup, hair styling products, shower essentials
• Baths
• Family Guy
• Baby Susie and Pink Bear
• Bath, England

• British accents
• James Joyce

Okay, I'm getting bored, but I think that's a sufficiently random list. What strange things make you happy? I urge you to spend some time thinking about it, and then indulge in them, often.

Away from it All

Well, I turned 25. Thank goodness Mr. Camping and his cronies miscalculated. At least now I'll have 5 months to live as a member of the quarter century club. AND I lived to see my little Hermione molt for the first time! (At least I hope that's why she has buried herself in the sand.) Hermit crabs are supposed to molt on a somewhat regular basis, and neither of mine have done so since I've adopted them last fall. So I'm glad to see that Hermione, at least, is on track. Dimitri seems to be fairly active, though, so I'm not too worried about him. Can you tell I'm a proud mother?

So we've had some pretty severe weather up here in no-man's-land. We lost power from about 8 last night until sometime this morning or afternoon. And then it went out again for a couple hours tonight. Of course, it's nothing compared to Lauren's latest ordeals. But still, for northern PA, it's something out of the ordinary. We've had high winds, hail, torrential rain, and lots of thunder and lightening.

I've actually kind of enjoyed it. Thank God nothing too severe has happened in my general vicinity. No injuries of deaths that I've heard about. Tonight when the power went out I was home alone. I could have figured out how to turn on the generator, I suppose. But I didn't have any overwhelming desire to do so. Instead I left my computer and the television behind and just sat out on the porch, enjoying the storm. I listened to the rain and felt the wind on my face. A couple of baby squirrels joined me under the refuge of the porch roof, not sensing that I was there. I felt at peace. My phone was out of hearing range, and the internet and computer were not calling for my attention. It was a chance to just lie back and enjoy nature and the peace it brings. I can't say that I had any major revelations or moments of enlightenment, but I guess in a way it was a recharging period that I sorely needed; especially after two hectic days at work (a boil water advisory is not a pleasant thing for the food industry, FYI).

I have to say I was a little disappointed when my parents came home and turned on the generator. It was nice not having to worry about who was trying to contact me, or what I was missing in the digital world. So I went upstairs and took a bath by candlelight. That was the most relaxed I've been in "many moons" (to recall my childhood days in Indian Guides). I guess what I'm trying to say is that it's nice to be forced to step away from the modern world for a while. To be forced to spend some time with your own thoughts, dealing with those nagging issues and dilemmas that have been pushed aside by the many demands of the digital age.

Perhaps it's something I should force myself to do every once in a while, rather than waiting for severe weather to make it necessary. Perhaps we all should attempt this now and again.

Or maybe that's just the introvert in me talking. ;)

Coffee, Coffee!

If I can't take my coffee break,
Gone is the sense of enterprise
All gone, and something within me dies. 

"Coffee Break" - How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying

 I want to tell you about my love of coffee. I used to think it was gross. Bitter, nasty, disgusting. I couldn't understand how my dad could drink it every day. I swore that I would never like it...never even drink the stuff! I would get my caffeine from soda, thank you very much. Sweet, refreshing, bubbly soda. None of that dark, bitter sludge.

I can't tell you when exactly this started to change. But sometime in college. I became a bit more educated in what exactly was in soda, and how bad it was for you. So I pretty much stopped drinking it. I'll have some every once in a while now, but generally the thought of it makes me a little queasy. I can feel my teeth enamel eroding and my stomach sizzling with acid as the sugary syrup streams out of the straw.

And suddenly coffee didn't seem so bad. With enough sugar and cream it was even tolerable. And before long, it became more than tolerable; it was desirable. I enjoyed drinking it. After that first sip, you barely even taste the bitterness. It gives me the energy to get through the day with a smile on my face and a skip in my step. It helped me clear my head at 11 p.m. as I started a 10-page paper due the next morning (okay, so I was never actually that bad...but I did have some procrastination issues). And so, against my strongest childhood assertions, I became a coffee-drinker.

And then I started working at the cafe. And I discovered a whole new side to coffee. There is a sense of power and altruism in knowing that I can prepare the perfect drink to get someone through a long day. I can make something that will cheer them up or meet a need. I don't even really need to think while I work. Muscle memory is a great thing. There isn't a 30-second period anywhere else in my life quite like the time it takes to steam milk for someone's afternoon latte. I can just stand there, knowing I'm making someone's day (and they're paying me to do it!). And I don't have to do anything else--I can't do anything else. I can't rush the steamer, and no one expects me to. They're willing to wait. Because they know it's worth it. They, too, have come to understand the power of coffee.

I wouldn't have it any other way.


(Check out my newest book post here.)

The Innocence of a Babe

Tonight I thought I was going to blog about politics. There's a lot to say about what's been going on lately--particularly regarding the major cuts in education funding. I'm angry and upset with Congress and the people who put them there, knowing full well what their plans were for cutting so many essential social programs. I'm pissed off that these men and women--arguably some of the most powerful people in the country--don't seem to have to play by the same rules as everyone else. They don't have to get along or do their jobs. They don't have to compromise or listen to others. And yes, it's a problem on both sides; I'm not just blaming Republicans. So here I was, full of anger, disappointment, and hopelessness for the direction our government is taking us.

And then I watched this video. I don't cry during sad movies. I don't cry over touching lyrics. But this little girl--she made me cry. Because she is so innocent, and so full of joy. She doesn't sing because it will make her rich and famous. She sings because she likes to. And through that innocence that only children possess, she touches so many lives, mine included. I felt like everything would be okay while watching this little girl sing, with her mispronounced "r"s and slight lisp. It took a child to pull me out of the adult world of blame and anger. We should all probably start paying closer attention to the children in our lives. In many ways, I think they're a heck of a lot smarter than we give them credit for.

De-Glob the Wad

I was told that rather than sit and fume at my computer over nonexistent problems created only by my tendency to overanalyze everything, I should write on my blog. And because this person usually gives really good advice, and she just left to take care of certain hygienic necessities, I decided to give it a go. That and I've seriously neglected blog-world as of late.

The issue is coming up with something worthwhile to ruminate over. Do you ever have those moments when your brain feels like a huge wad of chewed gum? Cause that's what I'm experiencing right now. Maybe it's brain rot, from not doing anything scholastic in the past year or so. It's like a giant lump of sticky, useless, disgusting grossness.

Sometimes I try to mentally de-glob the wad. I imagine the light of knowledge gathering in a ball in the middle of my brain, and I focus on that ball and cause it to grow bigger and bigger, until it is breaking through the gunk and shining out, like sunbeams behind a cloud. The idea is that eventually all the crust of disuse will break away and all that will be left is the sharp glint of knowledge beaming through.

It never gets there, though. Usually I end up getting distracted by Family Guy, or the dog, or my mom. And the glare of light dims until it's just a glimmer, and then *poof* it's gone--extinguished by lazy idleness. Ah well.

Something else that's been on my mind lately, is that people need to get over playing games in matters of the heart. Maybe it's just girls who do that, and then girls project that guys must be doing it too. But seriously, life would be so much simpler if we all just said what we meant. If I want to talk to someone, I should just do it, not worry about if it will make me look too forward or clingy. I shouldn't worry about what people will think.

Except that I have this issue with over-thinking things. So, I'm not very good at following my own advice. Boo. Oh well, that's part of who I am. So I suppose I should get used to it. :p

Love Thy Neighbor

Sometimes I really don't understand what God is doing. Why is it that some of the best people can't catch a break? They continually get dumped on, one back-breaking, spirit-crunching blow after another? I don't understand it, and I'm angry. I've felt my faith slipping with each bit of news I received tonight. It is so hard to know that someone you love is suffering and there isn't much you can do about it--to know that their world is dissolving around them and you can't reach in to save them...you can't even really understand their pain. The sense of helplessness brings on anger. At least that's my reaction.

And then people try to comfort you with stock phrases, like "It's all in God's hands." Or "He never gives you more than you can handle." And my gut response is Well why the hell doesn't he do something already if he's so dang powerful?! Maybe I'm just a bad Christian. Heck, I know I am, at least right now. And yet, I just can't shake that inner Catholic conscience squeaking away at me.

When that final news hit tonight, I found myself sending a text out to a number of close friends. Friends who I knew would pray. Because even though I'm mad right now, and I don't understand--somewhere, deep down inside of my heart, I know that (or at least have to believe that) God is there somewhere, and he will watch out for my suffering family and friends. And even though I'm really struggling to believe in him and his plan, I have to find the strength to break the vise on my heart and let that never-ending love shine through on those who need it so badly right now. I've already felt the clamp loosening with the outpouring of love and support from those friends I messaged in desperation. Some of them surprised me a bit by ending up on my SOS list. People I haven't talked to in months...and yet I know they'll be there for me. And I know they'll offer up those prayers that keep getting stuck between my heart and my head. To me, that in and of itself is a sign that God is there, somewhere, listening and caring. At least I hope so.

***Anyone who is reading this, if you're a praying person, please offer up a couple of prayers. It doesn't matter if you know who you're praying for. I think that whoever you're praying to will know what to do with them. And whether you're religious or not, please take a moment and listen to my plea:

It's so easy to judge people. And it's so tempting to talk about those judgements, especially in a small town. But all of these people have stories that you don't know. And they have people who love them. So please, try to have an open heart and do what you can to love your neighbors, no matter how hard it may seem.

Something Needs to Change.

When you see someone suffering, and know there's not a thing you can do to help them, it hurts.
When you see how hard someone works, and know they'll never make it to where you started, it hurts.
When you know you can get out and move on, but your fellows can't, it hurts.
When you know that what you have is luck, and nothing more, it hurts.

It's one thing when I see stories in the media about those affected by poverty, natural disaster, famine, and illness. There is this fantastic wall--a bubble wall that surrounds and protects me. Yes, I feel sorry for the people I read about or see on television. I hope that someone, somewhere helps them and they move on and prosper. But I can just flick off the TV or snap shut the newspaper, and their problems are gone, shut out by the wall of my own reality--a reality constructed within the confines of the blessings and luck I was born into, that I had nothing to do with. I don't have to dwell on the suffering.

And then I meet people in my own area. People I have daily interactions with. And I see their struggles; lower-class American poverty. Forty, fifty, sixty years old and just barely paying the bills each month. Or maybe not paying the bills each month. Very sick, but unable to afford the luxury of a doctor. I see that it's a cycle. These people are no less deserving than me. No worse or lesser in any way. Better in some. But they were unlucky. Their parents worked two, three jobs to pay the bills (or not). They do the same. College wasn't an option. No one cared enough to help them along. And their kids will follow suit. Innocent kids, no better or worse than me, just born into lesser circumstances.

And I see very little I can do. How do I, we, break the cycle? It's depressing to me. The people with power have more important things to worry about: making sure they get their raises and the companies who got them into office are able to push their agendas through. Where is the humanity? The compassion?

Are we really that selfish? It hurts to realize that yes, we are.

Yes, I am.

Moving Along

I am an undecided individual. And generally I'm okay with that. I'm not the kind of person who worries on a regular basis about what's coming or what I'm going to do next. I wasn't the high school junior who knew exactly where I wanted to go to school and what I wanted to study and what I wanted to do with said degree. I'm more of a stop and read the footnotes kind of person (smelling roses doesn't have much appeal to an anosmic like myself). I enjoyed high school (yes, gasp in disbelief and incredulity if you must) and when it came time to move on, I started looking at some schools, visited a few, and eventually, somehow narrowed it down to two choices. I'm still not exactly sure how I ended up at G-burg. But I did, and it ended up being the best four years of my life so far.

Eventually I decided English was the academic course I would take, mainly because I had a couple really good classes with a couple great professors. That and I love to read and write. I guess I knew in the back of my mind that it would be a difficult field in which to make an actual living. But I got lucky or fate was on my side or something, and I landed a job right out of college. That was not the best year of my life, but I learned some very important life lessons and gained some good experience.

So in the past I've been content to let life carry on and see where it takes me. Unfortunately, I haven't been so lucky in the last year. I'm beginning to wonder if maybe I should attempt to make a quantum leap and become a motivated, driven individual. Don't get me wrong, there have been good parts to the last year. I met some great people, opened a new, adult chapter in my relationship with my parents, and learned how to make yummy coffee. And I attained a new sense of gratefulness for the blessings in my life that allowed me to go to school and some day (fingers crossed) have a career that won't require me to work 50 hours a week at low-paying jobs just to pay the bills.

The problem seems to be that while I think being motivated and driven would be interesting, I can't seem to move any further in that direction. It remains a vague interest in what could be "if things were different." So how do I make things different? How do I organize the rambling, confused list of things I'd like to do into an organized list that can actually be handled and accomplished? Let's start with just getting at least part of that list out there. Here goes, in no particular order:

• Complete my lifetime reading list.
• Write a book.
• Blog more regularly.
• Buy a Wii.
• Have my own apartment.
• Have a house with a library.
• Develop a meaningful romantic relationship.
• Get a career-type job.
• Move out of Wellsboro.
• Go back to school.
• Travel abroad.
• Live abroad, for a period.
• Open a combination coffee shop/bookstore.
• Do humanitarian work that actually makes a positive influence on the world.

I just went through and listed the problems or obstacles with each of those goals, but when I read through them they made me sound extremely whiny and annoying. And since I do still have a shred of dignity and care for what the world thinks of me, I deleted the list. So let's go with a list of possible solutions, or ways to achieve said goals.

1. Buckle down, hit the job search with renewed energy and optimism and find a good job, regardless of whether or not it's a "dream job." Then I'll have some money (which was a recurring theme on my list of obstacles) to possibly achieve some of my other goals. From there I can work on following my bigger dreams.
2. Resign myself to a foreseeable future of debt and go back to school, hoping that it will end in an internship or other contact that could turn into a decent job opportunity.
3. Attempt to join the Peace Corps or some other humanitarian organization, thus putting off the whole "becoming a real adult" thing for a couple more years, and possibly just disappearing in whatever faraway place I am stationed and live out my life free of modern-world cares and worries.
4. Join a convent.
5. Find and marry a rich man who will fund everything on my list.

So these actually ended up being more or less in order of feasibility and practicality. Number 5 would be great, but I've yet to come across any guys that fit the bill. If any rich, pleasant, down-to-earth, charitable, genuinely nice guys read this however, do leave a message and we can talk. Oh, and I totally lied about the whole joining a convent thing. That definitely wouldn't work out for me. While going back to school or joining the Peace Corps definitely appeal to my inner idealist, I'm afraid I've inherited too much of my mother's practicality to actually follow through on either of those options.

Well, I'm really no further along than I was before I posted this. In fact, I'm reminded of a song from one of my favorite Broadway soundtracks, Avenue Q, "I Wish I Could Go Back to College." Particularly one line: "I need an academic advisor to point the way." (See the whole song here.)

I wish someone would tell me what to do.

Lauraland

Ten little words in black and white typeface. Words I wasn't expecting. At least not yet. Words that twisted my stomach and dried my mouth. Made my hands shake and fingertips go cold. As they danced before my eyes, the crystalline palace I had erected about myself shattered.

I had one of those heart-stopping moments today, where you realize something about yourself that you probably always knew, but never really acknowledged. You know the feeling...a sudden squeeze at your heart, a physical reaction to a mental realization. A tingly-frozen feeling in the pit of your stomach, akin to panic or the stomach-drop sensation when you know someone is on the verge of telling you some very bad news.

Was the news I received really that earth-shattering? No. I knew it would come some day. I suppose I just wasn't expecting to have to face it in the stone-cold, no ifs ands or buts about it, reality of facebook. "In a relationship with." It implies intimacy and a sense of forever. "Dating" would be so much easier to accept. 

And I realized how self-centered I am. How self-centered we all are. I can try my hardest to see things from other people's perspectives, to step outside the box, take a walk in their shoes. But in the end, it's from my own unique--and utterly self-centered--vantage point from which I view the world. I am still, at base, the infant who doesn't understand that the world outside of me doesn't freeze when I'm not directly involved--that people move on in their own directions and forget about me and my world.

The thing about us egotistical humans (or perhaps it's just me...who knows) is that we never expect to be replaced. Even if I have already replaced the person in question. In my own little world of pink ponies and butterflies, no one will ever get over the loss of moi, the one and only. I reign as queen of Lauraland, and outside of that, nothing ever happens or changes.

The weird thing, the thing that led to the sudden panic and twisting in my stomach, is that I never realized I had created Lauraland in the first place. It just kind of cropped up. And I only realized it was there when it shattered into a million little pieces of rose-tinted glass. And all because of those stupid ten words. And that stupider social networking system. (By the way, this is only part of the reason I deactivated my account tonight. But that's another post for another day.)

The more I pondered this broken fortress, the more its presence spread before my eyes, until it overshadowed much more than just this one long-ended relationship. It covered all relationships, not just those of a romantic nature. Friends I've grown apart from, people I was once so close to but didn't make enough of an effort to maintain the relationship--they've all moved on. I don't really matter anymore.

Of course, I did realize all of this in one part of my brain. The rational, practical portion. You know, the deathly boring place I tend to avoid. Anyone who knows me at all probably suspects that that one corner of my brain is far overpowered by the emotional, mostly-if-not-completely irrational part. And they would be correct. It's so much easier to face difficult and painful truths once they've been diluted in some way. For me, it's through writing--fiction or non. It creates a barrier you don't get when forced to deal with things face-to-face with no warning or time for preparation. I need the time to figure out how I'm going to react, what's reasonable. Can I scream and cry and demand to be made the center of attention once more? Probably not. Can I accept that my irrational feelings of betrayal and replacement are inevitable and painful, but perfectly normal? Yeah, I think I can handle that.

And so I take a moment, call a friend, and let that vice-grip on my heart slowly begin to melt. "That's life," she says. And I know she's right. "Just be strong and brave, and show the world who you are. Because that's what matters." And then the three words. The words that get us into so many troubles in the first place. But also, miraculously, the only words that can get us back out. 


"I love you."

What Do You Do With a BA in English?

I had a conversation the other night with a friend. It went something like this:

Him: I've never understood liberal arts degrees.
Me: What do you mean?
Him: Well, I just don't understand why someone would want to major in writing or history or something like that.
Me: Why not?
Him: There just doesn't seem to be anywhere to rise to, no higher levels to achieve.
Me: You can teach.
Him: Do you want to teach?
Me: No.
Him: Case in point. I mean, I majored in nursing, will further hone my nursing degree with a masters in anesthesiology, and then I will be a nurse anesthetist. Simple, logical, surefire. I will climb the steps until I achieve my ultimate goal; a goal I knew all along. I guess that's why I'm a Republican. (That comment fit in with an earlier part of the conversation, although it sounds somewhat random here.)
Me: Well, for me it's not about money or success. I'd rather be doing something I love.
Him: I get both.
Me: Well aren't you lucky.

The two of us are very good friends, although we disagree on just about everything political and professional. Opposites attract? I don't know. We drive each other nuts sometimes, I think. But anyway, this post isn't about politics or anything like that. (Thank God! I've had enough of that in the last week.) It's about why I'm an English major.

In true "Laura" fashion, I had absolutely no rebuttal ready for my friend's challenge. However, I got to thinking about it and have now had time to formulate an answer for him and anyone else who wonders why some of us would pick a career path that almost undeniably leads to a life in a cardboard box. Or at least a roach-infested apartment.

... Or our parents' house ...

So, why was I an English major? Well, the easy, totally honest, practical answer is that I love to read, and I always have. I'm a decent writer. I hate memorizing facts. Science and math make my head spin uncomfortably fast. And while I was interested in psychology, I didn't want to do labs. So I figured I could just apply simple psych to literature and call it a day.

The more analytical, English-major answer is more complicated. I like to think. Let me qualify that: I like to think creatively. Now, this is not an acceptance of the common misunderstanding of liberal arts students to be a bunch of egotistical elitists who sit around making up BS all day and calling it knowledge or fact. 1) It's more complex than that. 2) I, at least, have never claimed that the theories I came up with about Moby Dick's incapacity for humanoid intentions or Dr. Jeckyll's relation to the Ego or Id are fact. Not even that it was the author's intention.

You see, the liberal arts are about creative thinking--critical thinking. Saying, "Bakhtin had some interesting thoughts on the grotesque. How could his theory be applied to Tristram Shandy?" (Yes, I'm aware that I just outed myself as a complete lit. theory nerd.) The way you learn to think and analyze is completely different than memorizing facts and regurgitating them in a little blue book twice a semester. In fact, I would argue (completely biased, of course) that it's actually more practical in real life than a lot of other disciplines might be. Or at least that it is more practical and valuable than commonly given credit for.

Liberal Arts students are constantly bombarded by professors or classmates saying, "Well, that's one way to look at it, but think about this. Isn't it just as likely? Or maybe even more so?" Professors constantly urged us to "Think harder!" To really dig in and not just gloss over the obvious points.

Now, forgive me, but I feel a spurt of politics coming on. I'll try to keep it tame.

For me, at least, I feel that learning to think in this way gave me an incredibly valuable tool when it comes to dealing with the people and situations we encounter every day. Yes, to me this particular situation might come off in one light. But if I stop and consider the circumstances, I can come to realize that the other person's point of view is equally valid. Or at least I can understand where they are coming from and how to better communicate my thoughts and ideas with them, without coming off as a hard-headed egotistical jerk.

So, if any of that made sense, and you made it through my obnoxious literary allusions (sorry, I'm going through a spurt of learning-withdrawal at the moment), then you have my answer as to why I was an English major. Or at least, that's what I got out of being an English major. And if you're still skeptical, then let me leave you with this:

At least I wasn't a philosopher major*!


(*Sorry Kate and Eric, couldn't resist it!)

A Walk in the Woods

I went for a walk in the woods today. It wasn't a long walk, but it was nice. Sometimes I get too caught up in my mind. It's a dangerous place to be, I tell you. Today was one of those days, unfortunately. Election day was getting me thinking about the innate greed and self-centeredness that corrupts the political world. The ignorance and basic racism I find even here in Wellsboro (perhaps especially here, in Wellsboro?) was getting to me. The fact that the average, good-hearted American doesn't have the ability to get people to listen to reason and the truth, unscarred by political agendas was eating at me. And then there are personal issues that don't really need to be discussed. My brain was being tugged at in all directions, and there didn't seem to be a single answer in sight. No solutions, very little hope.

When I get like this, little things set me off. So naturally, I got unnecessarily upset that we weren't having pizza for dinner like I had thought. And when Dad wanted me to help research recipes for this non-pizza dinner, well, I was about in tears. Don't get me wrong: I know it's stupid. I knew then that it was stupid. And of course it had nothing to do with pizza. But the tears were threatening, and at that point there's no turning back. So I took a walk in the woods.

I wanted to feel my nose run in the cold, the numb, leathery sensation of the wind on my face. The slight burning in my legs as I climb the hill, and the jelly-leg weakness as the leaf-strewn ground evens out. I wanted to see my no-longer-a-puppy dog frolic through the leaves and in the creek like he hadn't a care in the world (he probably doesn't).

And so I walked. I passed the old treehouse my brothers and I built ten years ago, with it's plywood floors now green with mossy age. I came upon the creek we used to have leaf-boat races on, and listened to it's tired gurgle for a while. I was cold.

It wasn't any sort of novel-worthy spiritual experience. I spent most of the time watching the ground and trying not to fall over. Making sure the dog didn't get too excited and run out of my sight. And did I mention it was cold?

But when I came back up once again, I felt glad that I had taken the walk. I didn't have any illusions about being at peace with the world, but I was grateful for the physical sensation of the walk itself. It was something other than thinking. I started at the top of the hill, and when I was finished, I may have ended up in the same place, but I had been somewhere; I had seen something new along the way. My runny nose and jelly legs gave testament to that. So maybe the circuitous journey was worth it in the end, even if I can't put my finger on why or how it helped. And that is strangely comforting, in a way.

Sister from Another Mister

I was thinking earlier that I knew what I wanted to write about tonight. I wanted to share my thoughts on music, and how certain songs or artists are forever connected in my mind to certain people and times in my life. And I still do want to write about that.

But then, I read my sister(not-in-law-but-close-enough)'s latest blog post. It stirred my heart and got me thinking about the really important things in my life, and in society as a whole. It got me thinking in so many different directions that I can hardly formulate my own post. I don't know where to start. Let's say it's a matter of heart, politics, religion, and so much more. But let's start with the heart, because that, to me is purest and most important.

My "sister," we'll call her K, is one of the sweetest people I know. I met her for the first time a little over a year ago, when she accompanied my older brother to my twin brother and sister-in-law's wedding reception. I could tell she was nervous (can't blame her, either), but my first impression was that she was very sweet and eager to get to know us and befriend us. And since then, we have become very close, sisters at heart, if not legally. Looking back, it was really impossible not to become fast friends. We are similar in many ways, and she, being more outgoing than me, reached out to me constantly, sending funny messages and sharing little girly, sisterly secrets with me. (Don't worry David, nothing about you, of course! :p) I don't see how anyone could dislike this sweet, loving young woman.

But one thing about her tends to stick out to people. Something that's not her fault and shouldn't really matter, but does anyway, in this country and at this time. She's not white. And she speaks with an accent. A latino accent. K was born in Peru, and has only lived in the States and spoken English for three years. Personally, I am constantly amazed how well she speaks English--it's fifty times better than my Spanish. And I think she is absolutely gorgeous. I frequently tell her she looks like a supermodel. But for some reason, in this country, having dark skin and imperfect English immediately demotes one to a second-class citizen, or even worse, an illegal alien. (And yes, she and her family are here legally.) She was looked down upon, assumed ignorant and unworthy. It didn't matter that she had completed college in Peru. Strangers told her to her face to "go home", that she didn't have a place here. She was unwanted.

These things took a toll on K, but thankfully she is a strong person, and decided it wasn't worth listening to the ignorant people degrading her. She decided to get an American degree, so she worked two full-time jobs to earn enough money for tuition. She succeeded, and now works in a management position, impressing her superiors with her work-ethic and drive to succeed.

And she is still the sweetest, most loving person. We talk multiple times a week, even if it's just a text or silly e-mail forward. She's going to teach me how to flirt, because she says I'm too shy. She makes me smile on rough days, and I hope I do the same for her. I, for one, am infinitely glad she came here to the U.S. and had the guts to stick it out, ignore the jerks, and maintain her beautiful smile and silly sense of humor.

But learning more in depth what she went through when she first came here (and what she still goes through, to some extent), hurts me to the core. Because she came here for opportunity and a better life--the American Dream. And she was met with self-righteous, self-centered jerks. What kind of a society are we, that this happens? We all know she's not the only one. And she's lucky in that she's in a relatively tolerable part of the States. I imagine the Americans of Mexican or Central or South American descent living in Arizona and other border states are harassed ten times the amount she is.

This is racism, pure and simple. It's been fifty years since the Civil Rights Movement. Things have improved, but there is still such a long way to go. And the people affected by racism are growing to include latinos and, more recently, those of Middle Eastern descent. I saw a skit on The Colbert Report the other night, in which a black correspondent and a Muslim correspondent discussed the gradual changeover from whites fearing blacks to whites fearing Muslims. They compared notes on their favorite ways to scare whites. Of course, in true Colbert fashion, they were hyperbolic and sarcastic, but the trend is so very real. And in the long run, it's America as a whole that's losing out. Just think of all the smart, talented, incredible people we miss out on because we fear their differences. What if we had sent Einstein back to Germany in the 40s? Where would the world be now? It seems to me, that those making arguments about abortion potentially destroying the next Einstein or Mozart should consider sending Muslim, African, or latino people back to certain death and destruction just as deplorable. But that's just my opinion, and I'm sure many people have comebacks ready and waiting for me.

After all, they had the audacity to be born something other than American. So they don't deserve the same rights as us, right?

Discouraging Words

I'm beginning to wonder if college ruined (or at least maimed) my capacity for enjoying literature. I have heard music majors say school destroyed their ability to just enjoy music, because now all they can do is analyze and critique, judge as they listen. Music became mechanical and fundamental, no longer really about art and indulgence. I don't think this is quite the case with me, but I do wonder sometimes. Am I being too judgmental, too critical? Am I allowing my own preferences and opinions to masquerade as some artificial and unsubstantiated apex of literary perfection? In other words, am I becoming an insufferable literary snob?

I do my best to "not judge a book by its cover." And I mean that literally, as well as in the time-old, tired metaphoric sense. When I was young I came to realize that the best books weren't always the ones with the most colorful, appealing covers. Some of my favorites turned out to be the cloth-bound volumes tucked away in the back of the library's reading room. (A particularly large, red, cloth-bound copy of The Secret Garden comes to mind, especially, with its simple gold script.) And throughout my reading career, I have always been driven to finish every book I've started, no matter how bad it seems at first, or how long it takes to get through. (The one notable exception to this being Charles Dickens. I've tried to enjoy him, but every single book of his that I've started, I have been unable to finish, including but not limited to Great Expectations, Oliver Twist, Bleak House, A Tale of Two Cities, and Nicholas Nickleby.) Even if someone "ruins" the ending for me by telling me what happens in the end, I can't help but finish it for myself, partly because I think I've always known that a book is not just about finding out what happens. The truly exciting part is discovering the characters and worlds created by the author.

Lately, however, it seems this no longer applies to the books I read. The only thing that keeps me reading is to see how it ends. The last three books I read have been disappointingly...well, disappointing. The characters were dull and unchanging, the setting was tired and boring (and in some cases blatantly copied from earlier, better books), and the writing itself was downright painful at times. Let me tell you, reading just to see what happens is tiring and not very enjoyable, especially when the tiny spark of hope that it will get better flickers harder with each dry sentence and predictable plot device.

I guess I'm thinking about this more than usual, mainly because I've been thinking I should start a second blog, solely dedicated to reviews of the books I read. Not because I think everyone should listen to my opinions and take them as their own, but because my brain is desperately begging to be challenged and do some critical thinking. I've actually already created this blog; I've just yet to post anything. I'd like to start with a good review, but at the rate I'm going, it seems that everything I post will be negative and critical. That doesn't sound fun to me. That's just not the kind of blogger I want to be. It makes me feel like a snobbish, "better than thou," jerk.

But at the same time, I guess blogging is sort of intrinsically self-centered and egotistical. So maybe I should just push forward and spread my opinions to the far ends of the worlds. After all, in the words of the ever-wise Dr. Seuss, "Those who matter don't mind, and those who mind don't matter."

A Colorblind Society, Revisited

I have received a number of comments about my post "A Colorblind Society" from 10 August 2010. People disagreeing with me, saying it's important to keep a sense various ethnicities and backgrounds. And they're right. I'm not sure if it's a matter of me not saying what I meant to say in the first post, or if I just hadn't thought of it that way before, but I agree with you all. "Colorblind" maybe isn't the word I should have used. I wasn't trying to say that everyone should be the same, or assume that everyone is the same as them. What a boring world that would lead to. We should be aware of the differences in who we are and where we come from. It is what makes the world the rich tapestry of human lives it should be. To use a terribly elementary and cliche metaphor, we should aim to be a salad bowl, rather than a melting pot; a place where different ingredients come together to create a well-complemented whole, rather than melting into one big glob of unidentified mush. It's okay if the carrots stain the radishes a little orange, or the dressing soaks into the croutons a bit along the way. But if it becomes one big, wilted, soggy mess, and no one knows who they are or what they started out as, well, that doesn't create a very satisfactory meal, now does it?

I don't want my godson to think that black people or asians should be exactly like him, at least not in the way they act or talk or any sort of physical or outward manifestation of who they are. I just want him to know that inside, they are the same as him, in that they dream and love and think and feel. And if that Mexican immigrant's English isn't perfect, or that Brit's teeth are a little crooked, it doesn't mean they're any less of a person. I want him to be able to see things from outside his own point of view, so he can understand that his way isn't the only right way, and just because someone does something differently, it doesn't mean they're a worse or less sophisticated person.

I guess I just want him to transcend the ignorance that causes so many misunderstandings and so much unnecessary pain in this world: the ignorance that all of us fall prey to on occasion, myself included. Sometimes it just seems like we have so far to go. Will we ever make it? But at the same time, I have to believe we will. It gives me hope and the will to live, trying to make the world a little bit better every day. (I just realized what a Jewish concept that is...making heaven (perfection) on earth. Interesting.) I like to think there's a heaven, but the truth is I have no idea what awaits me after death. So for now, it seems to me that the best use of my time is trying to make things better here in this world. And if there is something after this, then I hope whoever is in charge up there will approve of my humble attempts at improvement, both of the self and the world.

Remembrances of Christmas Past

Christmas with the Reindls

Packing into the family van for a two hour drive to Dayton from Lancaster. Pulling into the steep blacktopped driveway, past the huge tree surrounded by the flower box we liked to use as a balance beam, looking to see if Aunt Susie's van was there yet; it usually wasn't. Pouring out of the car, climbing over the slower sibling by the door, following Dad into the covered back porch, knocking at the door and walking into the kitchen, greeted by a blast of warmth. Grandpa greeting us with hugs: "There's my little Tweety Bird!" (So my voice was a bit high and squeaky as a small child...) Feeling the warmth from the brown double decker oven right next to the door, hugging Great Aunt Rose because I was supposed to, but resenting her a little for taking Grandma's place; knowing that something wasn't right there, but never being told what (until she died last Christmas).

All sitting in the living room, with the marble side tables, Rose's very floral couch with fringey pillows-braiding the fringes-Grandpa's gray recliner with the towel over the head rest, Rose's brown recliner, the Christmas tree in the corner by the rarely-used front door and the grandfather clock, the brass goose on the gray polished stone hearth, the built-in bookcases with Grandpa's carved wooden birds, many of his carved Santas all around the wooden mini grandfather clock he made with the fancy face.

Getting bundled up in snow clothes, Dad and Grandpa wearing old suits; one bright orange, one gray. Getting the sleds from Grandpa's back shed. Wondering at the old-fashioned wooden slat sled with red runners and the metal disc sled. Sledding on the front hill, seeing Mom and Aunt Rose watching from the front bay window. Sitting on the sled with Dad or Grandpa, or one of them pulling Michael and I on the sled. David hogging the good sleds. Grandpa bringing out his tractor mower and attaching the cart to the back and taking us for a ride around the yard. Finally tramping into the warm kitchen again and getting dried off and warmed up.

Kneeling backwards on the couch, looking out the bay window waiting for Aunt Susie's blue minivan to drive down the street, finally seeing it and jumping up and running to the back door, opening it and waiting impatiently for Susie and the boys to get out of the car and come in. Willy and Thomas running up, Susie carrying baby Charlie, Uncle Joe following them all up. Suddenly becoming shy and hiding behind Mom a little bit, coming out to hug Aunt Susie and the boys, hugging Uncle Joe but being a little wary of him because he likes to tease a lot. Listening to Thomas's never-ending and semi-pointless stories, playing fireman with Willy, trying to teach Charlie to walk; being unsuccessful.

Watching Mom and Susie pull the dining table out from the wall and opening the wings to make it big enough for everyone. Helping set the table with the good silverware from the china cabinet, waiting for all the food to be brought in, finally sitting down to dinner with all twelve of us. Saying grace, and remembering that Dad used to have to fold his hands together flat and point the tips of his fingers to the sky because if he pointed them down the prayer would go to hell and if he interlocked the fingers it wouldn't go anywhere. Wondering why Aunt Cindy and John never came anymore; not realizing what MS was. Watching Grandpa's hands shake as he lifted up his glass of water and imitating him out of curiosity as to how he didn't spill; not realizing what Parkinson's Disease was. Eating the roast, potatoes, carrots, rolls, gravy. Listening to Grandpa rant about politics and hearing his say "Damn" and giggling to myself. Feeling too full.

Playing with the cousins some more, waiting impatiently for it to be time to open presents, Grandpa watching us with a twinkle in his eye I didn't notice until years later. Finally bothering the parents enough that they agreed it was time to open presents. Digging under the Christmas tree and reading the names on the tags and handing them out with only a few mix-ups. Begging Grandpa and Dad for the olives in their martinis and sometimes being successful. Ripping the paper off the presents and years later having no clue what I got, but remembering the warmth and happiness pervading it all.

Going down to the basement and singing Christmas carols while Aunt Susie played the old upright piano. Thinking I'll never be as good as she is. Following the grown-ups back upstairs into the living room. Sitting on the couch next to Dad or Grandpa and falling asleep on him while listening to the adults talk about distant family and politics and old family stories. Feeling happy and warm. Finally being put to bed in the back room on the couch, with the furry blanket Grandma used to get out especially for me. Looking up at the stained glass in the little window above the couch. Being a little bit afraid of sleeping in the room alone, but hearing the adults talking in the living room and hearing the grandfather clock chiming every quarter of an hour and finally falling asleep, feeling safe and warm and happy, never expecting anything to change.

A Colorblind Society

I was swimming today at a lake in a state park near me with my godson and goddaughter and their aunt, one of my best friends. There were two busloads of kids from a YMCA swimming as well. I'm not sure where they were from, but probably a bigger city somewhere near here. The kids were being quite rowdy, and my six-year-old godson--we'll call him Ned--had a few pails of water dumped on him and a couple narrow misses with various limbs coming close to his head. So my friend called him and the other kids with us over to where we were and told them they had to stay near us until the rowdy kids left. And Ned, with the innocence of a small-town six-year-old, asked, "You mean until the brown kids leave?"

A majority of the kids from the YMCA were African American, which in our small town is uncommon, so I guess he knew they were different somehow. His question wasn't malicious or angry. He had probably heard himself referred to as "white," so in his head it made sense to call them brown. Of course we told him that wasn't what we called them; they're just kids like you. But, while his innocence was sort of amusing at first, the more I watched him and thought about it, the more it saddened me. Ned is a smart kid, and I could see him processing this new information in his head, where it would surely leave an indelible mark: "Dark-skinned people are different from me. They're rowdy and I shouldn't play with them."

Now I'm not saying that I think he'll turn into a malicious racist or anything like that; his family will raise him better than that. But it does make me wonder if we'll ever live in a color-blind world. It seems like a pretty far reach to hope so. Sure, it's gotten better since the fifties and sixties, but there are still cultural and ethnic differences that are apparent even to a six-year-old. I don't know if it's better or worse in bigger cities where there may or may not be more integration. But in small towns, it seems pretty universal: there is a stigma attached to being different from everyone else.  In my high school class there was one African American. And he was adopted by a white mother. People keep their distance when someone different comes to town. They're wary and uncomfortable. 

And it makes me sad. "A person's a person, no matter how small," says Dr. Seuss, probably one of the wisest men of my childhood. Of course "small" is interchangeable with any number of words, including "color" or "race" or "religion" or "wealth." In society's eyes, I'm lucky that I was born into a Caucasian, middle-class family. And to me, that's all it is, is luck. I'm no better or worse than anyone else. But despite my efforts to look past race, I'm not always successful. Like Ned, there are certain stereotypes that are so ingrained in me, I don't even realize they exist until something brings it up, and I'm forced to confront that little bit of ugliness in me. To bring up another of America's wisest men, Stephen Colbert frequently claims he can't see race. "They're all just people."

If only that was possible for all of us.

Why I'm Not Ready for Marriage

This post is inspired by the five or six friends of mine who have gotten hitched this summer. I'm very happy for all of them, however it has made me acutely aware of how much the thought of marriage at this point in my life is completely alien and disconcerting.

He's actually kind of creepy...

Reason 1: I don't have a man.

Duh. I suppose if I was desperately in love with someone, and they completed me and made me whole and I couldn't imagine life without them things would be different. As it is, this is not the case. In fact, that whole concept strikes me as odd, because I feel quite whole as I am, thank you very much. Even if I did have a man, though, I would not necessarily be ready for marriage. It's probably best that I'm not committed to anyone at the moment. It takes away any pressure that might possibly be there from the guy himself, parents, grandparents, etc. (Not that I think my family would pressure me, just the assumption that this might be THE ONE would be enough to make me reconsider doing things that I might otherwise just go ahead with.)

Reason 2: I may just jet off to England someday soon.

Especially if Sarah Palin even comes close to inhabiting the White House again. But seriously, I want the ability travel and do whatever I want right now. I've been dealing with a traveler's bug like no other the last few weeks, probably exacerbated by living in middle-of-nowhere-PA for so long. Don't get me wrong, I love this place in its own way, but I'm not ready to settle down here for the long haul. I want to get out and explore a bit. (Mom - Don't worry, I'll at least wait until Michael comes home. :p)

Um, no.

Reason 3: I am only mildly domestic.

I told my mom today that she and Dad have probably spoiled my expectations for marriage. I come from a home in which men can and like to cook. My dad is a great cook, as are both of my brothers. It only struck me a couple weeks ago that not all homes are like this. Now, I don't consider myself overly feministic, but I also don't plan to revert to the 40s and 50s either. A man can and should help out around the house. Gender roles be damned. I don't buy into the idea that God created woman to serve man. Sorry, but no. Ours will be an equal-opportunity household. I.e. the Mr. will have plenty of opportunities to change diapers and wash dishes. Especially if I'm working outside the home as well, which seems to be more and more the norm these days.

Don't get me wrong, I like to cook and have no problem doing that. I even like to clean (in intense and random bursts of what I call binge-cleaning). Living with male roommates for a year taught me that I have a latent clean freak hidden in me somewhere.

And what if it turned out to be evil??

Reason 4: I want kids in my life, just not my own.

Someday I definitely want children. No question about it. I can already feel the biological clock beginning to whir and stir. BUT right now I'm content to hold them, play with them, then give them back after a couple hours. Children are fascinating and adorable and wonderful...and exhausting. I guess getting married doesn't necessarily mean the babies start coming immediately, but that's the next step; one I'm nowhere near ready to take.

Reason 5: I have a lot of ME to discover still.

This is probably the biggest factor in my marital immaturity. I have a lot to discover and find out about myself still. Lots of questions to ask, opinions to form, beliefs to iron out. College turned over a whole new leaf for me, and I'm still trying to figure out where exactly that's leading me. It seems rather risky to commit my life to someone, when I'm not even sure where I'm headed or how I'm going to go about getting there.


Alright, I think five reasons are enough for now. Besides, I keep getting distracted by a beautiful yellow butterfly flitting about under the clear blue sky of a summer afternoon. See I do love this place...sometimes.

Toy Story 3

I've gotten a lot accomplished so far today, so I'm pushing on and including a long-overdue blog post in my spurt of productivity. The question is, what do I want to write about? I have a number of topics saved up that I just never seemed to get around to. I'm feel in the mood for something happy and nostalgic at the moment, though, so I'll go with what I deem the best movie I've seen in a very long time. Toy Story 3.

*SPOILER ALERT*

I am fully aware that some of you may be very skeptical about my taste in movies at this point. But this is my own personal opinion and based solely on my emotions and whims. So I'm not interested in arguing about plot or anything like that. I went to see Toy Story 3 a few weeks ago with my mom. I figured that it would be cute and fun, as I had always enjoyed the first two films. In fact I even went back and watched the first two with friends the night before, just to get in the spirit and remind myself what happened in them. What I forgot about was how the Toy Story movies are every bit as enjoyable for adults as they are for kids. There are a number of jokes that are definitely aimed at the parents in the crowd--jokes that I didn't get or even recognize as jokes when I was ten or eleven.

Toy Story 3 did not disappoint in this department. In fact, I think that of the three, the third movie is most geared toward adults. Sure, kids will enjoy the adventures Woody and Buzz have as they try to escape from Lotso, the pink, strawberry-scented bear. But the brunt of the movie, the real core is about growing up. Andy is going to college and leaving behind his toys, his childhood best friends. It's heart-wrenching to watch the abandonment Buzz and the others feel when they think Andy is throwing them out, disregarding all of their history together for something newer and more exciting. We've all been left behind before, whether it be by siblings or friends or significant others.

The thing that makes the Toy Story movies so successful is that they are universal. The premise behind the movies, that your toys come alive when you leave the room, is something I think every little kid believes is true for some amount of time. I know I did. My toys were alive to me. They had stories, backgrounds, likes and dislikes. They loved me, and I loved them. Watching this fantasy come to life on screen draws you in; it takes you back to your own childhood.

There is one scene in particular, where Andy's playtime is illustrated as a child would see it while playing. Everything becomes real. Evil Mr. Porkchop is trying to take over the world with his Barrel O' Monkeys minions and Sheriff Woody and Ranger Buzz have to save the day. It is so perfectly imaginative. I can't get over it. One of my goals in writing is to recapture the child's imagination, because  to me it is one of the most incredible, fascinating things ever. Toy Story has done that. Three times. And it's gotten better every time, in my opinion.

So all of this combined makes the final scene in Toy Story 3 one of the most emotional scenes in a movie I have ever experienced. It had me in tears. And I don't cry during movies. I honestly cannot think of another movie that I've actually cried in. Teared up, maybe, but no rolling tears. It ends with Andy finding the toys that his mother accidentally donated just as he is about to leave for college. And there is a note (written by Woody) telling him about a little girl who lives around the block. So he takes his toys and makes the little girl promise to take good care of them for him. And he has one last playtime session. You can feel the love and reconnection well up in every single heart in the theater, watching Andy play with his toys one last time. It's not something I can get across in words. I strongly recommend that you go and see it for yourself if you haven't already.

It may not have been made for 3D or visually amazing, but it was emotionally outstanding. And I know I'm not alone. A 99% score on rottentomatoes.com is not something to be scoffed at.  All I know for sure is that when I got home that night, I went into my closet and checked on my old friends--Baby Susie, Pink Bear, Samantha and Megan, and all the rest. And I reassured them that I still loved them. And I always would.