The Hard Questions

College is mind-blowing.

On several fronts.

1. Classes

At least in my field, history, I am constantly taken aback by new perspectives, twists on reality, and new understandings of our fathers and their fathers. The worlds they lived in, the frustrations they faced. History is absolutely fascinating, and I often find myself pursing out my bottom lip, scratching my chin and thinking "hmmm" whenever my professors lecture.

2. Personal Experiences

There is something about living on your own with maximum freedoms and minimum responsibility that lends you to new experiences and almost forced self-discovery. I've walked through many new situations, some fun, some serious, and I've learned a lot about what I can and cannot handle, how relationships and friendships are supposed to work, and my constantly maturing, (yeah, I said it,) perspective on things. These new experiences require that I dig to the deepest levels of consciousness and try to grasp mildly ambiguous concepts like "right and wrong," "tolerance," and "faith."

3. The Hard Questions

There are a lot of big questions that I've asked myself in college, too. If I'm having this much trouble even finding a boy that is datable, exactly how slim are the chances that I find one that is mcradical enough to marry? What career should I pursuse, and what path should I take to get there? What is the process of redemption? And the big question I asked myself tonight, "HOW CAN YOU GET HICCUPS WHEN YOU HAVEN'T EVEN EATEN?"

Let me back up.

A certain best friend of mine accompanied me to Amarillo this afternoon to lend me her moral support while I picked out some new spectacles. (They're black. And rectangular. And Cute. And Cliche. In case you were wondering. But I like them.)

When we were done gracing Eye Mart Express with our presence, we realized that neither of us had eaten lunch and it was nearing two o'clock in the afternoon. But rather than lunch, my best friend, (and though this is not why we are best friends, it certainly is a factor,) suggested that we go to Marble Slab Creamery for ice cream instead.

YEUHHHHH!

So into Marble Slab we go, and we walk out, after a ten minute conversation with the ice cream boy, with "big dipper" bowls filled with sweet creamy goodness.

We got in my car and began our departure from the great oasis of the panhandle, Amarillo, but because Soncy is like the only busy road in that town, we left Marble Slab using the scenic route that wraps around Westgate Mall and would've sent us back to Canyon via Coulter Road.

I say would've.

Before we were to Coulter and 34th both of our "big dipper" bowls were empty, and our hearts a little sad.

"I want another one," my bestie said as she sighed and looked out the passenger side window.

"On a scale of one to ten how serious are you?" I asked as I whirled to look at her.

Because I was wearing sunglasses I must've been hard to read, and because she didn't know whether I'd go into mocking or agreement she said, "Seven?" with her head cocked a little to the side.

I was hoping she'd say that.

Anything above five is a go.

Long story short, we changed lanes, turned right on 34th and looped back around to Marble Slab Creamery, the same Marble Slab Creamery, no less than 15 minutes after we'd left.

Ice-cream-guy probably judged us a little, but ultimately just smiled as he handed us each single scoop ice cream cones and shook his head at our decision.

Needless to say, there is such a thing as too much of a good thing.

I should've learned my lesson last year when three friends and I attempted to conquer the notorious Vince's Pizza Challenge and failed miserably.

We'd tried to finish a 30 inch pizza, four cokes, and four baclava (whatever that is? We never made it to dessert,) in under an hour. What we didn't know was that the pizza was two inches thick and just so happened to be buried under meat lovers toppings and extra cheese.

By the fourty-third minute of our hour, the cooks were filming our team as they puked all over the parking lot and in the dumpster behind the restaurant. I say "they" when I refer to my team, because I did not puke.

Nay.

Quite the contrary.

Nothing went in or out of me for two weeks after Vince's Pizza challenge.

I should've known that eating $12 worth of Marble Slab ice cream was going to be a poor decision.

I guess, on some level, I did know. But knowledge was suppressed, once again, by my greedy belly.

So, that was this afternoon.

And obviously, I got an atrocious tummy ache and I've sworn off ice cream forever, or until the next time I see some, (whichever comes first,) and I've been writhing all day in regret.

When dinnertime rolled around, I was not ready for food.

Also, it just so happened that it was "Lumberjack Night" this evening in my dorm. A fellow R.A. and I put on a program where everyone wears plaid and eats pancakes.

It was a great success.

And while I cooked many pancakes (and eggs, bacon, biscuits and cinnamon rolls, as well as set out yogurt and fruit), I couldn't bear the thought of anymore yuck inside my body. "Just juice for me."

Thus, today's hard question is: How the heck do I have these hiccups who's timbre and aftershock penetrate souls and make babies cry on the other side of the world, when I haven't really eaten anything since this afternoon?

I had them for at least twenty minutes just now.

I was to the point where my body aches at every 'cup.

But the best way to get rid of hiccups is to get scared.

So, I just thought about the prospect of getting married to someone, about my future and about Vince's Pizza, and I was so terrified that I'm all better now.

But yeah, college is mind-blowing.

And asking hard questions is good.

The experiences that cause questioning are necessary, and arguably good.

It's important to get your mind blown and it's important to

Ask the Hard Questions

Person of the Year 2010

I've decided I'm starting a tradition.

I'm going to pick a "Person of the Year," starting now, and henceforth every March, and I will honor them with a blog entry telling their story.

My criteria for what it takes to earn this award is entirely in flux.

But, this year it must be a person with an inspiring story of the underdog variety, and it must involve baked goods making a difference in people's lives.

So, without further ado, I give you the "Person of the Year 2010" as chosen by Abbey Jo Martinkus, Allison Post.

Allison Post is the sweetest girl ever.

She sort of epitomizes what I would think of a West Texas born and raised Baptist. She's got a small frame, and dark hair, and a sweet little voice. I'd imagine her to spend her afternoons catching butterflies with a tiny net, or helping old ladies retrieve kittens from their trees, spooning out soup at a shelter or diligently doing her homework. I think in ten years she'll be brewing up some fresh squeezed lemonade for all the neighborhood kids. No one has an ill word to describe Allison Post.

She's not a smart ass, like say, I am.

She's full of compliments instead of sarcasm, and authentic sweetness instead of snippy remarks.

She's really, really a sweet girl.

Which is what makes this story so excellent.

Allison Post is a student at WT and lives in the dorm where I am an RA. I see her every so often, just smiling as she walks past the desk to go inevitably spread joy to wherever she goes on campus. Little did I know that on this particular day, what she spread would not be joy...

Allison was walking through the JBK (which is basically the hub of student life on campus during the day) around lunch time last month. There are always a bajillion, (yes, a bajillion) students filtering in and out and all around the JBK between 11:30 and 1:00 as they frantically decide between chick-fil-a and quiznos.

It's the perfect spot for fundraisers, bake sales, mid-day talent shows, student government promotions, or even the occasional flash mob dance.

Well, on this fateful day, just as Allison finished her lunch, something startling caught her eye.

A male student had pushed his girlfriend, rather violently, up against a wall and was yelling down at her and throwing his arms all about and acting like, for lack of a better word, a total jackass.

It just so happened that that very same week Allison had attended a seminar, put on by WT, that discussed the importance of recognizing, intervening, and stopping domestic violence.

Most anyone else, including myself, probably would've noticed the fight between the couple, but done nothing about it except shoot a stink-eye at the clown who was being rude.

But Allison recognized his behavior as much more than just rude.

She saw that this was abusive, and that he was being a tool-bag.

So, she went over and slipped in between them, placed a hand on the girls' shoulder and earnestly asked if she was alright.

Immediately, the boy bowed up, stepped forward and said, "I don't think it's any of your business..."

Pause.

Remember I mentioned the events that happen in the JBK on a regular basis?

Well, that day happened to be a bake sale.

And a few minutes before this interaction Allison happened to buy a cupcake for a dollar to support the WT dance team.

And Allison Post happened to have that cupcake in her hand as she stood there looking up into that mean boy's eyes.

Unpause.

Allison Post's voice thickened when she exclaimed, "Domestic Violence IS my business!" and with that she shoved the cupcake in that boy's face.

When she let go the snack just hung off of his nose, chocolate and frosting smeared all over.

The girlfriend made a break for it, and Allison Post smoothly whirled around and quickly walked away.

He didn't chase her.

As far as I know, they haven't met again.

But then, if I was a big douche, and a little girl shoved a cupcake in my face in front of God and everybody in the JBK at lunchtime, I too might keep it on the down low.

Allison Post is the Person of the year 2010 because she intervened in time of trouble, she stood up to someone bigger than her for a cause that was just, and she totally owned that guy with a baked good!

I hope that all of us find the courage to stand up for ourselves and others by the example of Allison Post and her cupcake of justice.

Don't Stand Idly By.

Stop Abuse.

Please Pull Forward

They always call me "Sir" in drive thrus.

I'm not a sir. I am a girl.

I consider this photo of me adequate proof of that fact:

I have two theories of why this always happens to me:

1. I order an impressive amount of food.
The only way I could throw that much back, is if I was a man.

2. Electronic devices deepen my already considerably manly voice. Cell phones, answering machines, videos and apparently drive-thru speakers drop me like four octives, and I start to tread dangerously close to a bass range.

So, I get where they're getting the "Sir" from, I do.

I've even been in their position. When I've confused the gender of others before I assumed that protocol is to just pretend it didn't happen. Don't correct it. Just go on with life.

The high school sophomore who works at the Canyon Taco Bell thought that complete panic was the best approach to rectifying the situation. "Uhh... Ma'am...Uhh.."

My mom used to always say that you can laugh or you can cry.

I choose to laugh.

I just wiped tears out of my eyes as the sophomore's eyebrows furrowed with apology. "Don't worry young one," my laughter implied, "It's funny that I sound like a man, or an 80 year old smoker. Because I can't change it. I will laugh about this and move on with my life so I can enjoy my five layer beefy burrito. (Which may or may not be the best thing that has happened in the fast food industry EVER. mmm and only 89 cents.) "

"Have a good night MA'AM." his shaky voice called through the window.

But I could barely hear him between gasps for air as I drove away maintaining my dignity through humor and my nutrition through burrito.

Torn Between Two Worlds

The last few months, my life has seemingly become torn between two worlds.

On the one side, I'm growing up.

Fortunately, I'm not getting any taller because I already tower over too many nice and otherwise totally datable boys. So, when I say "growing up," I do not mean my heighth, but rather I mean that my life is somehow becoming more adult-esque.

My best friend is graduated from college, and so she's all adulty and in search of a job.

My schoolwork has become very intesne and I find myself captivated by scholarly conversations with my professors and discussing things like grad school options and future routes.
Four o'clock in the morning comes much harder than it did freshmen year.

A large portion of my best friends have paired off into couples, which totally changes the carefree dynamic of the group-hang into a much more civilized and conciencious time.

My guy best friends are walking the stage this summer, and the infamous whore island where I did all my hanging is going to meet its demise at the hands of they boys' graduation and in May.

My childhood best friend is married and thus a ghost.

I am the last of my friends to turn 21, so whenever we cook dinner at the house they all enjoy a nice glass of wine legally.

Our discussions have fallen largely to careers, and futures, and plans, and fears, and finances.

But, at the same time, in the midst of growing up, it seems that we're all trying desperately to hang onto the ridiculousness that dominated our first years together. Despite the future hanging over our group, taunting us like student loans, we're still overwelmingly addicted to laughter and good times.

So even though I'm growing up, It's like I'm not growing up at all.

Last night, I was hanging out with the two girls that make Canyon a livable place for me, Tab and Robbie. And we were playing Wii and cooking dinner, and listening to rap music, and spelling funny sentences on the fridge with word magnets, when all of a sudden, Tab pulls out the single greatest thing ever from behind her couch.

A midget.

Just kidding.

(But remind me to tell you the midget story if I ever see you in person.)

She pulled out one of those triangular prisms that attatch to the top of a delivery car.
Apparently she'd stolen it from a Pizza Hut Delivery guy on Halloween night and totally forgotten about it.

Yes! Small town Saturday night just got a lot more fun.

It was always a mystery to me how these delivery prisms stayed attatched to cars. I found out that there are four hockey puck sized magnets on the bottom corners and so it'll stay stuck pretty good.

After sticking the prism to the fridge while deciding what to do with it, we put in a call to whore island and went to beckoned my red-headed partner in all things mischevious, Dallas Bass.

So, despite the fact that my world has gotten increasingly more mature, between researching the political, spiritual and social influence of St. Augustine and the barbarianism, brute military force, and unprescendented networking of Genghis Khan, discussing grad school and plans, and watching relationships develop and change all around me, I still find time to stick a pizza hut delivery prism on a cop car every once in a while.

Canyon PD:
a church van:the mayor of Canyon's car:a CAT:

University Police Department Cop Car:

There's no rush in growing up.
But it's also foolish to resist change.

I'm torn between the two.
Sort of wanting both.

But really,
I think that no matter how old I get,
no matter how my situation changes,

no matter the circumstance,
the problem, the issue, the needs,

there's always room for a laugh.

No matter what worlds I am in,
I pray that I am always sort of a child.