During the summertimes of my formative years, my sister and I and our three brothers were regularly required to go on Sunday drives with my stepfather. In these early morning, jaunts, just as the sun had come, Dad would tumble us all into the back of the station wagon: we, mumbling and groaning all the while, he, looking forward to the drive from Ocean City to the “country” I now recognize as Galloway Township. All this for Jersey tomatoes that were bursting off of their vines, corn on the cob that was still nestled into the husks that contained its pearly sweetness, and the melons that were ripe for thumping.
None of this would seem out of the ordinary, except that I was 10 years old at the time, out in public, and still in my jammies. While it may be stylish for our present generation to go out with their pajamas and yes, even their bedroom slippers on, for this author in her dorky ‘70’s upbringing, it was considered tacky. Really embarrassingly-tacky. “Dad-doesn’t-care-how-you-look,-we-need-produce” tacky.
If these outings weren’t discomforting enough, when Mom took me to the store, even though I was properly dressed at the time, I would suffer as a passenger in her Gremlin. The car itself looked like a bubble, but what’s worse was the fact that its interior was Levi-Straus denim material. I am unsure if we had fuzzy dice hanging from the rear-view mirror, but I am almost 100% certain there were no stuffed animals lined up on the back dash, nor was there any hula girl bobble-head on the front dash. There is the off-chance that I’ve repressed these memories and will end up on a therapist’s couch paying $175 per hour to help purge it all from the recesses of my mind. Regardless, it would be a painful process to explore any further, so why not save my money?
Our house was nice enough, I guess. For a family that had five children, I would like to imagine my parents were more concerned about food and shelter than they were with their (lack of) decorating abilities.
We lived in a rancher on a quaint street named “Apple Tree Lane.” The exterior had brick and clapboard shingles and the landscaping was relatively normal with boxwood shrubs and mimosa trees. The interior, however, was another story entirely: it consisted of a Spanish-style-cum-nautical-motif, with your average carving of a Buddha on the coffee table at the entryway.
If the orange shag carpeting didn’t frighten off visitors, the trip on the well-worn path to the kitchen would have made them think twice about touring the rest of the house.
Inside the kitchen, avocado-green appliances and mustard-yellow dishware were accompanied by drinking glasses that boasted of large-petaled orange and yellow flowers and, even though I felt, at the time that they were tacky, I believe they would now be deemed “retro” and had wisdom been used at the time of purchase and they had remained boxed up, we could now sell them on eBay for a reserve price to be met of at least $20/glass.
I am quite confident there was no fur – faux or otherwise – on the floors or our walls; leopard print was no where to be seen in the décor. My mother was big into ceramics and you couldn’t walk more than 10 paces without noticing *yet another* homemade ashtray (just in case any of our parents’ friends were over and they felt like lighting up). The brash oil painting over our fake black leather couch was purchased at an art show close-out sale that was held in a conference center of a run-down motel and was positively garish, especially in light of its being flanked on either side by the harlequin paintings of girls with those big eyes that seemed to stare at you in an eerie, nausea-producing way, making Precious Moments figurines look like posers.
The holidays were especially mortifying as we were the “throw-back to the early 60’s” family in the neighborhood. While I know I should have been happy it wasn’t metallic, I had difficulty reconciling the fact that we had the only flocked tree at Christmastime. I remember my dad and his friend, Don, having drinks while unclogging “the flocking machine” and laughing hysterically over their wittiness and expert diction in utilizing euphemisms while intoxicated.
The outside of the home, however, carried over my parents’ unusual penchant for all things shoddy regarding Christmas decorations: Who wouldn’t be thrilled to have a glowing Holy Family on their front lawn? It gave off enough light to serve as a beacon, a guiding light to lost space shuttles or the wayward personal plane in case the landing lights at the local puddle-jumper airport a short mile away proved ineffective. We would often wake up in the middle of the night, thinking it was time to get up for the day because the sun was out, only to discover the nativity was still lit because Dad forgot to unplug it prior to retiring.
While the Holy Family sat and radiated their special energy, it served only as a minor distraction to the plastic Santa and his eight tiny reindeer that were a particularly garishly painted polyurethane that were only slightly losing their luster, and looking, uhm, weathered — but were still colored enough that you were able to distinguish that Santa belonged with his sleigh and not over bringing gifts to the baby Jesus. I recall the one night, after an arduous night of flocking with my parents, Don had picked up Santa and moved him over by the Magi. Funny guy.
My family’s musical preferences also, for the most part, lacked in taste. Mom would blare Stan Getz’s “The Girl from Ipanema” while dusting, and Herb Alpert & the Tiajuana Brass while vacuuming. I can’t pick up a dust cloth as an adult without singing “…tall and tan and young and lovely…” Rooming with my sister, however, led me to a totally different genre of music: Gilbert O’Sullivan and the Osmond Brothers. I am the only person I know that can identify sappy music immediately upon stepping into an elevator. One would think I’d have been doomed.
If it weren’t for questionable taste, we may have led dull and mundane lives. However, because my world was colored in kitsch, and I found myself running the opposite way as an adult, I now have a great appreciation for fine art and wonderful music. My husband and I do, however, have a difference in opinion when it comes to something being worn and weather-beaten vs. “shabby chic.” It’s all a matter of interpretation, correct?
During the holidays I find when we take our own children out on “light runs” to check out our neighbors’ decorations, I am the only one proclaiming my delight over the plastic Santas and animated reindeer – the decorations they consider to be tacky.
Oh, if they only knew.
Sunday, October 23, 2005
Tuesday, October 11, 2005
essay #3 - narrative essay - things are not always as they seem
I was standing by the Café's cash register when he walked through the front door to place what I thought would be a take-out order. I had never seen him before, but I was struck with the overwhelming sense that someday, in some fashion, this man would work for me.
So, I was a bit taken aback when he said, moments later, "You need help here?" He had a slight southern drawl to his voice. "I can do most anything."
I stared at him for a brief moment while I gathered my thoughts. "Not right now, but this is the restaurant business, so anything could happen by the end of the day."
"Okay, then. Mind if I fill out an application?" he asked.
Trying not to reveal my astonishment, I said, "Sure. As soon as something comes up, I'll call you."
He filled out his application, handed it to me, and left. Still a bit stunned from the premonition, I glanced at the paperwork. His name was Bruce and I noticed that he actually had quite a bit of experience, with some longevity, which was a good sign.
Remarkably, less than a week later, one of our cooks decided to "no call, no show" which is, unfortunately, typical in the restaurant business. After discussing it with my husband, I called Bruce, and on the other end of the line was an answering machine for a church office. I left a message and, within the hour, he was back at the restaurant, in person.
"You ready now?" he asked as he walked through the door. We both laughed.
Bruce was a born-again Christian and had "found Jesus" after having seen the error of his ways during his wild, former life. During one of our many conversations about Christianity, I told him I was Catholic. He said "I won't hold that against you," and gave me a huge grin.
He had quite a history, which he was reluctant to share. Every now and again, however, he would give me a glimpse into his past, which was mostly scandalous. He had been a drug runner to and from Mexico, had spent time in prison, and he took the fifth on any rumors that circulated about him in the State of Idaho. He also expressed a great deal of pride that he was using his actual social security number for the first time in his life.
Bruce was fiercely independent and definitely his "own man." There was nothing soft about him. His rough edges concealed a huge heart, for I found out soon that he would do anything for me. Most of the time, I didn't even need to ask.
He just did it.
He was a recovering addict – one who used to shoot heroin into his knee caps so that track marks wouldn't be obvious when he wore short-sleeved work shirts. He also had a taste for vodka; a taste that never left him. He had been homeless for reasons he never clarified, and was living in a pup tent on the property of the home of a pastor from a local church. The pastor and his family had adopted him, in a way, after his successful stint at the Atlantic City Rescue Mission's "Work Readiness Program."
In addition to being a recovering addict and alcoholic, he was also bi-polar and had numerous health issues associated with his mental and physical conditions. I remember him telling me about the voices in his head, and how they never relented; they'd quiet down after the right combination of prescription medications, but never shut off completely.
Despite his history of mental illness and his notorious past, there was something very likeable about him. I wanted him to succeed and I intuitively knew that life was simply not easy for him. The years of abuse, while admittedly "Quite fun, Miss Penni!" were starting to take their toll.
During his employment with us, Bruce had three relapses which landed him back in rehabilitation. He'd do his best to stay clean, but without warning, something inside him would snap. Once, he decided to mix ample amounts of alcohol with his prescription medications which ultimately led to a medically-induced coma. I sat by his bedside at the hospital, holding his hand, praying over him – something I never thought I'd be doing as an employer.
I later learned that this wasn't an "accidental" overdose; he had attempted to take his life and failed. In retrospect, I recall him telling me that "God had bigger plans" for him than he had for himself. Unbeknownst to me was the truth and the weightiness of his words.
After Bruce's failed suicide attempt, he eventually admitted himself into a three-month treatment program. As soon as we learned he had returned to the area, we approached him to see if he'd be interested in returning to work, and he agreed.
He was actually on a good road and, after some encouragement, he signed up for classes at the community college to become an addictions counselor. He did very well at school, though it would take him hours to complete his homework. He once shared with me that, due to the amount of drugs previously put into his system, the toll was heavy on his ability to comprehend. What would take about an average classmate about a half-hour to complete would take Bruce at least an hour. But, he persevered, and became an "A" student.
In November of 2004, Bruce said something to me that I now recall as distinctly as if it were said to me yesterday. He was sitting at the counter on break and shared an outrageous thought:
"Sometimes, I just want to get a whole bunch of money, go to the casinos, blow it all, then blow my fucking brains out."
"Are you kidding me?" I was incredulous. "Don’t talk like that."
"Don’t you ever wake up and say 'what’s the point'?" he questioned.
It was clear to me he was agitated, and he had said some pretty outrageous things in the past, but this comment was somehow different. After I had shared this conversation with my husband, however, we decided to let it drop. As his friend, we should have conveyed his comments with the pastor he was living with, but as his employers, we felt it would be a breach in confidentiality. Had we known that his earlier hospitalization (in December of 2001) was an attempted suicide, we certainly have had a different reaction. Simply put: we didn’t know. We were as uninformed then as we would be in February. Things are not always as they seem.
In the beginning of the winter months of 2005, Bruce had been showing signs of easy aggravation and withdrawal. In February of 2005, on Ash Wednesday specifically, we received a call from the pastor he was living with. The news was not good: Bruce had taken off and left a note saying that, although they were like family to him, by the time they would be reading the note, he'd be out of the state. He had taken all of his savings, but left all of his personal belongings.
How could this be? We just worked together the previous day and he was as normal and upbeat as usual…just bought a car…two months left of schooling before he received his counseling certification...
I soon learned that Bruce spent his day off (the Monday prior to his disappearance) being very ill - vomiting all day, severe depression/mood swings - and that he attributed it to the new medication he was placed on. I know from conversations with him that the medication he was on to control his bi-polar disorder would not have necessarily given him these types of side effects. However, his liver had been so damaged from prior drug abuse that his toxicity levels may have reached a dangerous level. He may have been unable to metabolize what he was taking, which could have potentially brought on his severe reaction. His antidote to that would be to stop taking it altogether, which in turn, probably threw him into severe withdrawal symptoms.
I also learned that he had a difficult time at that Tuesday at work focusing on everything and he had described his moods as "bouncing." The nausea, however, wasn't as persistent. As I stated before, I worked with him on Tuesday and he seemed very normal to me; it was all so confusing.
On Wednesday, he was seen by someone who knows one of my servers. His attitude and demeanor were very clearly that of his "manic" phase, since by then, most of the medications would be out of his system. He was "all over the place" in his speech and behavior, and that was the last time anyone we knew personally had spoken to him.
Bruce committed suicide that night. He left a note in his hotel room which simply stated, "May God accept my soul and I pray all forgive me." It was a drug overdose, again combined with alcohol. We learned a lot about his final hours due to the casino surveillance tapes. Interestingly enough, the man who held things in so closely had his last day preserved on film in what could best be described as a "documentary." I know he’d probably laugh at the irony of it himself.
Looking back, I remember how Bruce took great pains to work through Step #8 of Alcoholics Anonymous' 12-Step program and "made a list of all persons [he] had harmed, and became willing to make amends to them all." He tried so hard to make amends for past hurts done at his hand, by his own admission; sadly, he never saw fit to forgive himself.
Suicide has far-reaching affects on those left behind. We've been told not to try to figure out what went wrong with Bruce or what we could have done further, because there is no way to do that. One of Bruce's friends, an Associate Pastor who worked with him at the Rescue Mission, told us that Bruce had the susceptibility to snap at any minute: he could have been completely fine and then, out of nowhere, could have developed a thought in his head to commit suicide, and that thought alone would have been enough of a trigger.
Since I knew the voices never shut off completely for him and one of those thoughts passed through his head as recently as the previous November, it wasn't a matter of where or how. It was just a matter of when.
I have a hunch that the reason why he didn't reach out or say anything to us is because we were like family to him, too. The last people he would want to hurt would be those who meant the most to him.
Bruce's exit from my life was more abrupt than his entrance. After all was said and done, he did things in his own unique way and continued to be his own person.
Even to his death.
So, I was a bit taken aback when he said, moments later, "You need help here?" He had a slight southern drawl to his voice. "I can do most anything."
I stared at him for a brief moment while I gathered my thoughts. "Not right now, but this is the restaurant business, so anything could happen by the end of the day."
"Okay, then. Mind if I fill out an application?" he asked.
Trying not to reveal my astonishment, I said, "Sure. As soon as something comes up, I'll call you."
He filled out his application, handed it to me, and left. Still a bit stunned from the premonition, I glanced at the paperwork. His name was Bruce and I noticed that he actually had quite a bit of experience, with some longevity, which was a good sign.
Remarkably, less than a week later, one of our cooks decided to "no call, no show" which is, unfortunately, typical in the restaurant business. After discussing it with my husband, I called Bruce, and on the other end of the line was an answering machine for a church office. I left a message and, within the hour, he was back at the restaurant, in person.
"You ready now?" he asked as he walked through the door. We both laughed.
Bruce was a born-again Christian and had "found Jesus" after having seen the error of his ways during his wild, former life. During one of our many conversations about Christianity, I told him I was Catholic. He said "I won't hold that against you," and gave me a huge grin.
He had quite a history, which he was reluctant to share. Every now and again, however, he would give me a glimpse into his past, which was mostly scandalous. He had been a drug runner to and from Mexico, had spent time in prison, and he took the fifth on any rumors that circulated about him in the State of Idaho. He also expressed a great deal of pride that he was using his actual social security number for the first time in his life.
Bruce was fiercely independent and definitely his "own man." There was nothing soft about him. His rough edges concealed a huge heart, for I found out soon that he would do anything for me. Most of the time, I didn't even need to ask.
He just did it.
He was a recovering addict – one who used to shoot heroin into his knee caps so that track marks wouldn't be obvious when he wore short-sleeved work shirts. He also had a taste for vodka; a taste that never left him. He had been homeless for reasons he never clarified, and was living in a pup tent on the property of the home of a pastor from a local church. The pastor and his family had adopted him, in a way, after his successful stint at the Atlantic City Rescue Mission's "Work Readiness Program."
In addition to being a recovering addict and alcoholic, he was also bi-polar and had numerous health issues associated with his mental and physical conditions. I remember him telling me about the voices in his head, and how they never relented; they'd quiet down after the right combination of prescription medications, but never shut off completely.
Despite his history of mental illness and his notorious past, there was something very likeable about him. I wanted him to succeed and I intuitively knew that life was simply not easy for him. The years of abuse, while admittedly "Quite fun, Miss Penni!" were starting to take their toll.
During his employment with us, Bruce had three relapses which landed him back in rehabilitation. He'd do his best to stay clean, but without warning, something inside him would snap. Once, he decided to mix ample amounts of alcohol with his prescription medications which ultimately led to a medically-induced coma. I sat by his bedside at the hospital, holding his hand, praying over him – something I never thought I'd be doing as an employer.
I later learned that this wasn't an "accidental" overdose; he had attempted to take his life and failed. In retrospect, I recall him telling me that "God had bigger plans" for him than he had for himself. Unbeknownst to me was the truth and the weightiness of his words.
After Bruce's failed suicide attempt, he eventually admitted himself into a three-month treatment program. As soon as we learned he had returned to the area, we approached him to see if he'd be interested in returning to work, and he agreed.
He was actually on a good road and, after some encouragement, he signed up for classes at the community college to become an addictions counselor. He did very well at school, though it would take him hours to complete his homework. He once shared with me that, due to the amount of drugs previously put into his system, the toll was heavy on his ability to comprehend. What would take about an average classmate about a half-hour to complete would take Bruce at least an hour. But, he persevered, and became an "A" student.
In November of 2004, Bruce said something to me that I now recall as distinctly as if it were said to me yesterday. He was sitting at the counter on break and shared an outrageous thought:
"Sometimes, I just want to get a whole bunch of money, go to the casinos, blow it all, then blow my fucking brains out."
"Are you kidding me?" I was incredulous. "Don’t talk like that."
"Don’t you ever wake up and say 'what’s the point'?" he questioned.
It was clear to me he was agitated, and he had said some pretty outrageous things in the past, but this comment was somehow different. After I had shared this conversation with my husband, however, we decided to let it drop. As his friend, we should have conveyed his comments with the pastor he was living with, but as his employers, we felt it would be a breach in confidentiality. Had we known that his earlier hospitalization (in December of 2001) was an attempted suicide, we certainly have had a different reaction. Simply put: we didn’t know. We were as uninformed then as we would be in February. Things are not always as they seem.
In the beginning of the winter months of 2005, Bruce had been showing signs of easy aggravation and withdrawal. In February of 2005, on Ash Wednesday specifically, we received a call from the pastor he was living with. The news was not good: Bruce had taken off and left a note saying that, although they were like family to him, by the time they would be reading the note, he'd be out of the state. He had taken all of his savings, but left all of his personal belongings.
How could this be? We just worked together the previous day and he was as normal and upbeat as usual…just bought a car…two months left of schooling before he received his counseling certification...
I soon learned that Bruce spent his day off (the Monday prior to his disappearance) being very ill - vomiting all day, severe depression/mood swings - and that he attributed it to the new medication he was placed on. I know from conversations with him that the medication he was on to control his bi-polar disorder would not have necessarily given him these types of side effects. However, his liver had been so damaged from prior drug abuse that his toxicity levels may have reached a dangerous level. He may have been unable to metabolize what he was taking, which could have potentially brought on his severe reaction. His antidote to that would be to stop taking it altogether, which in turn, probably threw him into severe withdrawal symptoms.
I also learned that he had a difficult time at that Tuesday at work focusing on everything and he had described his moods as "bouncing." The nausea, however, wasn't as persistent. As I stated before, I worked with him on Tuesday and he seemed very normal to me; it was all so confusing.
On Wednesday, he was seen by someone who knows one of my servers. His attitude and demeanor were very clearly that of his "manic" phase, since by then, most of the medications would be out of his system. He was "all over the place" in his speech and behavior, and that was the last time anyone we knew personally had spoken to him.
Bruce committed suicide that night. He left a note in his hotel room which simply stated, "May God accept my soul and I pray all forgive me." It was a drug overdose, again combined with alcohol. We learned a lot about his final hours due to the casino surveillance tapes. Interestingly enough, the man who held things in so closely had his last day preserved on film in what could best be described as a "documentary." I know he’d probably laugh at the irony of it himself.
Looking back, I remember how Bruce took great pains to work through Step #8 of Alcoholics Anonymous' 12-Step program and "made a list of all persons [he] had harmed, and became willing to make amends to them all." He tried so hard to make amends for past hurts done at his hand, by his own admission; sadly, he never saw fit to forgive himself.
Suicide has far-reaching affects on those left behind. We've been told not to try to figure out what went wrong with Bruce or what we could have done further, because there is no way to do that. One of Bruce's friends, an Associate Pastor who worked with him at the Rescue Mission, told us that Bruce had the susceptibility to snap at any minute: he could have been completely fine and then, out of nowhere, could have developed a thought in his head to commit suicide, and that thought alone would have been enough of a trigger.
Since I knew the voices never shut off completely for him and one of those thoughts passed through his head as recently as the previous November, it wasn't a matter of where or how. It was just a matter of when.
I have a hunch that the reason why he didn't reach out or say anything to us is because we were like family to him, too. The last people he would want to hurt would be those who meant the most to him.
Bruce's exit from my life was more abrupt than his entrance. After all was said and done, he did things in his own unique way and continued to be his own person.
Even to his death.
Tuesday, October 04, 2005
my first essay grade
was an "A." only minor changes, grammatical ones at that, i have a thing for semicolons. i am now wondering if there is a 12-step program for folks like me?
husband posted paper on the fridge for all to see. stop by and look on the fridge but not in it. am uncertain if there is a science experiment starting up...
next assignment due on tuesday. it'll be here maybe by monday night :)
husband posted paper on the fridge for all to see. stop by and look on the fridge but not in it. am uncertain if there is a science experiment starting up...
next assignment due on tuesday. it'll be here maybe by monday night :)
Thursday, September 08, 2005
essay #2 - details
lesson on being descriptive (beginnings of...) - it's in the details
instructions: go outside, study something (anything) for ten minutes and come back in and write a paragraph. total time: 20 minutes.
start/
my subject wheeled himself out of the building to take a break from his studies. i watched as he carefully made his way to the recycling container with his empty poland spring water bottle - straight in -- he shoots, he scores. he thereafter looked around and pushed his chair manually to a sunny spot, opting to be in the warmth as opposed to seeking shelter from the sun under the shade made available by the cover to the walkway.
he was wearing all green, save for the sport stripe on his shorts and his white ankle socks and tennis shoes. the lanyard which hung about his neck was purple and i would venture a guess that his many keys were of great value to him; out of what appeared to be a nervous habit, he repeatedly examined them on several occasions during my 10-minute observation period, his concentration only interrupted by the rubbing together of his hands or the touching of his sparsely-bearded chin for new growth.
it was apparent to me that he was desirous of contact -- he smiled amiably at passersby who failed to make eye contact with him: they were either chatting with their companions or on their cell phones for all within earshot to hear. he would scratch his head and look at the ground if his *greeting* went unacknowledged. nobody spoke to him as they strode by so all of his greetings went unacknowledged.
he sat in his cushioned and stickered wheelchair, tapping his hands on his lap and momentarily smiling to himself on occasion, as if remembering something that had made him happy. there were six other students sitting on the nearby benches surrounding him, but it was apparent he was all alone.
he pushed his glasses up his nose, and with a small sigh reached down, lifted the brake off the wheel of his chair and swung himself around. it was time to go back to class.
for both of us.
/end
instructions: go outside, study something (anything) for ten minutes and come back in and write a paragraph. total time: 20 minutes.
start/
my subject wheeled himself out of the building to take a break from his studies. i watched as he carefully made his way to the recycling container with his empty poland spring water bottle - straight in -- he shoots, he scores. he thereafter looked around and pushed his chair manually to a sunny spot, opting to be in the warmth as opposed to seeking shelter from the sun under the shade made available by the cover to the walkway.
he was wearing all green, save for the sport stripe on his shorts and his white ankle socks and tennis shoes. the lanyard which hung about his neck was purple and i would venture a guess that his many keys were of great value to him; out of what appeared to be a nervous habit, he repeatedly examined them on several occasions during my 10-minute observation period, his concentration only interrupted by the rubbing together of his hands or the touching of his sparsely-bearded chin for new growth.
it was apparent to me that he was desirous of contact -- he smiled amiably at passersby who failed to make eye contact with him: they were either chatting with their companions or on their cell phones for all within earshot to hear. he would scratch his head and look at the ground if his *greeting* went unacknowledged. nobody spoke to him as they strode by so all of his greetings went unacknowledged.
he sat in his cushioned and stickered wheelchair, tapping his hands on his lap and momentarily smiling to himself on occasion, as if remembering something that had made him happy. there were six other students sitting on the nearby benches surrounding him, but it was apparent he was all alone.
he pushed his glasses up his nose, and with a small sigh reached down, lifted the brake off the wheel of his chair and swung himself around. it was time to go back to class.
for both of us.
/end
essay #1 - diagnostic
this was to see where we *were* as writers...
question: why are you attending this college? 15-minute time frame
start/
with eager anticipation in the fall of 2004, i signed up for and attended two college-level courses -- one was english composition 101 and the other, algebra I. it had been several years since i had taken any formal math course, but it was a class i was actually looking forward to. i went to classes for about six weeks before i had to (sadly) withdraw. leaving algebra wasn't very difficult, but leaving my english class? that had me tearful.
i initially wanted to be a nursing major...what little girl didn't want to be a nurse? all the excitement i felt about my decision quickly dissipated with my "not-so-silent-partner-in-my-business" of a father-in-law declared it an "unsound judgment" and vowed to make me miserable the balance of my days (not really) should i decide to stay in school. i reluctantly opted out, but later discovered it was actually the right thing to do after all because it enabled me to focus on my business and determine whether nursing actually was my true calling.
when the topic of school came up again this past spring, it was decided that i would attempt school once again. i changed my major to literature (my "true" love) and entered into a pinky-swear that i'd see things through this time, regardless of outside forces.
over-bearing but well-meaning inlaws aside, one knows that all pinky-swears are ever-solemn, so i am afraid you are stuck with me, at least this semester.
/end
question: why are you attending this college? 15-minute time frame
start/
with eager anticipation in the fall of 2004, i signed up for and attended two college-level courses -- one was english composition 101 and the other, algebra I. it had been several years since i had taken any formal math course, but it was a class i was actually looking forward to. i went to classes for about six weeks before i had to (sadly) withdraw. leaving algebra wasn't very difficult, but leaving my english class? that had me tearful.
i initially wanted to be a nursing major...what little girl didn't want to be a nurse? all the excitement i felt about my decision quickly dissipated with my "not-so-silent-partner-in-my-business" of a father-in-law declared it an "unsound judgment" and vowed to make me miserable the balance of my days (not really) should i decide to stay in school. i reluctantly opted out, but later discovered it was actually the right thing to do after all because it enabled me to focus on my business and determine whether nursing actually was my true calling.
when the topic of school came up again this past spring, it was decided that i would attempt school once again. i changed my major to literature (my "true" love) and entered into a pinky-swear that i'd see things through this time, regardless of outside forces.
over-bearing but well-meaning inlaws aside, one knows that all pinky-swears are ever-solemn, so i am afraid you are stuck with me, at least this semester.
/end
why another blog?
this is my blog to put my essays i have to write for the college course i am taking. i don't want to add these to my martha blog because of their length. it's really just my journal for school writings.
this is entry #1 so i can alter my blog look, i probably won't be posting pictures alongside like i do with my other blogs. reason behind that is i want the words to speak for themselves.
peace.
this is entry #1 so i can alter my blog look, i probably won't be posting pictures alongside like i do with my other blogs. reason behind that is i want the words to speak for themselves.
peace.
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