Airport Politics

September 11th was a tragedy.

People died.

It was a blatant attack not only on our country, but the ideals upon which it was built. The attack on the twin towers was much more than just poor piloting skills, it was a racially, politically and religiously driven statement to the Western world.

The real appalling part of the whole thing was that the attackers targeted civilians.

That is just wrong.

(Unless we do it. America has killed her fair share of civilians; what's up Hiroshima and Nagasaki and the 200,000 plus body count? Who knows, maybe the terrorists read into American history and her practices more than we thought. Eh- A different topic for a different time.)

Regardless of the reasons fueling the attacks, it resulted in a real boost in Airport security. What was once a fairly efficient form of travel suddenly required getting to the airport 2 hours early just to get through the lengthy security processing.

That's cool, the American public wants to be safe.

Post 9-11 they cracked down and checked carry-on bags more closely, and started banning really, really dangerous items like nail clippers, spray-on deodorant and germ-x.

Nevertheless, there were other attempts at terrorizing air travel.

The bad guys got crafty and used things outside of the personal hygiene genus.

Remember the shoe bomber?

He found a way to use an everyday item for evil, thus damning all travelers to have to put our bare feet on that disgusting airport floor with everyone else's toe jam juice.

I blame the shoe bomber for the athlete's foot problem we have in this country.

Eventually, the word "bomb" in the airport became frowned upon at all.

This was particularly difficult for me because of my love of the phrase "that's the bomb," which suddenly took on new meaning, and made strangers very nervous.

Whatever.

I thought everybody just needed to calm down.

But here we are almost a decade after the initial hijackings, and still, attempts are being made to terrorize airplanes and all the people inside them.

On Christmas day, the "underwear bomber" attempted to put to action an even more extreme version of the shoe-bombers' idea.

Some say he's nuts.

Others say he's ballsey.

Haha, okay, enough of that.

But if you are a hermit and haven't heard, Umar Farouk Abdulmutallab was arrested for an attempted bombing of an airplane while the rest of us were at home opening our Christmas presents.

The attack shocked the nation.

Just like all the other attacks.

And of course, the press jumped all over the "urgent news" because no one wants to report on anything that will make you smile.

No, no, they just want to tell you all the gruesome ways someone died today. Blah, blah natural disaster. Blah, blah political turmoil. Blah, blah war. Blah, blah Obama is a huge failure. Blah, blah economic recession. Blah, Blah Tiger Woods is a whore. Blah, blah cancer still isn't cured...

Where is the peace, and goodwill towards men?

Not on the news.

I knew that, and yet I watched it anyways.

And let me tell you I was more than disappointed in what I saw.

Fox News' Karl Rove suggested that in order to stop terrorism, airport security ought to "stay on the look out for people from the middle east or largely muslim countries."

Radio host Mike Gallagher wittingly suggested that there "should be a separate line to scrutinize anybody with the name Abdul, or Ahmed, or Mohammed."

Yet another Fox news correspondent proposed that airports need to "use profiling, and I mean be very serious and harsh about the profiling. Every Muslim man from 18-28 should be strip searched. And if we don't do that, then there is a very real probability that we're going to lose an airliner. "

Alright.

I've got some opinions about this bullshit.

Muslims aim to please and bring glory to god through their practices of the five pillars of faith (which basically boil down to: a confession of faith, a tithe or practice of giving, daily prayers, a pilgrimage to the holy city, and a month of fasting.) Also, contrary to popular belief, Muslims are not by definition terrorists.

While I personally believe it's misguided, their holy text, the Qur'an, actually presents a religion of love, charity, good deeds, and merit similar to the Christian faith.

No, it's not Christianity.

However, just because it isn't Christianity doesn't mean that Islam is by nature a violent, aggressive or hateful religion.

Al-Qaeda is a sect of Islam, and is the religion that many terrorists subscribe to.

But this sect by no means represents the 2 billion Muslims in the world.

Here's an analogy for you:

Al-Qaeda is to Islam, as the Klu Klux Klan is to Christianity.

No where in the Bible is there anything about white supremacy. No where in the Bible is violence, hatred, racism, and discrimination sanctioned.

If you were to walk into a Protestant church today and take a poll, you would find that the ideals of the KKK are NOT the majority among Christians.

Were there some jackasses who claimed the Bible as their foundation for hatred and violence?

Obviously.

But does that mean that ALL white protestant men are racist, peanut brained douchebags?

No.

I've met some non-racist white men that don't burn crosses or lynch innocent people.

And I've also met some Muslims that don't want to bomb anyone, that don't hate America, and that are NOT terrorists.

So why in the hell do these people think it is okay to treat ALL muslims like criminals?

What is the deal with these fear-driven politics?

I understand that we've seen some terror in the last decade.

But if this country continues to condone discrimination based on ethnicity, then I dare say we have not learned a single damn thing from history, and we are dangerously close to falling into the patterns of the past.

Lets take a quick look at World War II.

The way Hitler portrayed all Jews as dangerous, threatening and evil to the Nazi party eventually led to a mass genocide. Don't think that he just threw them all into concentration camps at once. Instead, he slowly desensitized everyone to his prejudices and gained support by taking away one right at a time.

The same thing happened on the homefront during WWII. Japanese Americans from sea to shining sea were rounded up and placed in internment camps because of the possibility that they were spies.

Obviously profiling is the solution.

Obviously generalizations extended to entire people groups make situations better.

(Sarcasm. See it. Be it. Just thought I'd clarify.)

C'mon America.

Stop treating people like criminals.

They might not be Christians, or white, but they have inalienable rights according to our constitution.

I'm not saying be complete morons about it, and let a dude with a bazooka climb into coach. Airport security still needs to do their jobs, but is it really necessary to strip search somebody because of their last name?

Paula Abdul is not going to be happy about this, and usually, she's pretty easy going.

But, Abbey Jo, Muslims are the ones attacking our airplanes....

Yeah, but the last guy was from Nigeria.

If we're going to properly profile, I guess that means all black people need to go to the intense-security line, too.

While we're at it, don't forget about the Oklahoma City bombing guy.

I guess all white men need to be profiled.

What about that lady who tackled the Pope?

I guess all women, and all Catholics need to be profiled.

Policies based on fear are garbage.

Discrimination is wrong.

Assuming that all muslims are terrorists is naive.

If terrorism is the use of intimidation in the pursuit of political aims, then I'd say Fox News is far more guilty of terrorism than any of the Mohammeds that I know.

I say, don't let them get on your stupid airplane.

So, anyways.

I guess it's true what they say.

[watching] no news

is good news.

Tandem Metaphor

Some people are addicted to crack.

Others can't get over their addiction to alcohol, or sex, or shopping.

For me, it's adrenaline.

I'm a junkie.

I like mountain biking, and motorcycles, I like speeding, and bungee jumping, and roller coasters, and rock climbing, and that feeling you get in your chest when you're not sure if you are gonna be okay. I like playing intense games of airsoft, or paintball, or even something as small as capture the flag or night tag hide and seek through the neighborhood or cops and robbers.

I also think that my addiction to adrenaline is why I like to do pranks so much. It's as much about the risk of getting caught as it is the childish laugh I get from decorating someone's lawn with toiletries.

Ever since I was a kid I wanted to go skydiving.

I was supposed to go with my brother on my 18th birthday, but my mom found out about it and cried until we promised we wouldn't.

We went bungee jumping 2 days later, and told her afterwards.

But Skydiving remained on my bucket list.

I really wanted to go skydiving before I kick the bucket.

So, this Christmas I bought myself and my brother tickets to go skydiving, and like our bungee jumping adventure, we decided to keep it on the down low. (I know, ironic, right.)

This morning we departed for Hillsburo, Texas somewhere off of interstate 35 where we found a little tiny airport laying near the service road.

It's encouraged that your first skydive be Tandem, meaning you're connected to someone who does all the actual work for you. I like doing things that are encouraged. Tandem skydiving it was.

This means that the training session we had was approximately a minute and a half long.

He said "We'll rock back and fourth three times, and then we'll fall out of the plane, and then you act like a banana, and put your legs back and your arms up. Any questions?"

Nope.

I'm good at acting like a Banana, thanks to the Fruit of the Spirit song I sang at Impact Camp.

No questions here.

Before I knew it I was strapped up, and looking like a banana. Actually, I really liked that jumpsuit, I thought I looked pretty awesome, and it was warm, and it was vintage.

I was getting so excited. It was all I could do to not jump up and down and look like a complete moron in front of my skydiving partner, Isaiah.

Isaiah was kind of an all-business guy.

I made him laugh once throughout our time together, more on that later.

The way things turned out, Micah and I went up separately, and they just so happened to call me up to the plate first. So, me and my new counterpart were on a john deere tractor putting across the field from the drop zone to the airplane hanger.

Smallest. Plane. Ever.

The pilot, Isaiah and I barely fit inside it. I sat with my back to the dashboard, next to the pilot (who just so happened to look exactly like Keith Baldridge) with my feet extended alongside the door, and my feet almost touching Isaiah's feet because he was crunched into the back, facing me.

The door opened from the top like the Back To The Future time machine car, but was rusted, and old, and used like the DART train. The propeller of the airplane was loud, so I could barely hear anything once I climbed in next to pilot-Keith.

They told me it would take 10-15 minutes for us to climb to the altitude they wanted, and so for that 10-15 minutes my heart slowly climbed up my throat and settled uncomfortably in my mouth.

From where I was sitting I could barely peer out the thick plastic window, but I slowly watched the familiar sizes of buildings shrink to insect sized dots. All the grass and trees turned into checkers of green, and yellow and brown, and the highway turned into a hairline fracture cutting through the horizon as far as I could see in any direction.

Though I loved looking out the window of the plane, it wasn't long before I realized that the way I would be returning to the patchy earth I now soared above would be to dive towards it. I came up here in this plane, but I'd be returning without it.

About that time Isaiah had me maneuver to my knees and about-face so he could strap himself to my back.

I could taste my heart beating.

He pulled on the straps, and I could feel the metal clicking us together. He told me in my right ear that he was about to open the door of the plane, and I needed to lean in left, towards the pilot.

My breathing quickened as he grabbed the handle, and I watched the door jerk upward. Immediately I felt the atmosphere sucking me out. I couldn't help but look down, out the door as the sky pulled me to the right....

"SHIT!"

Yeah.

I said it.

I said it loud.

And I felt Isaiah chuckle behind me.

I remembered my job was to lean to the left, and so I did so until instructed otherwise, all the while trying to apologize for my foul language.

"Swing your feet around and put them there," Isaiah said in my ear as he pointed out the door on a small platform over the plane's wheel, "Cross your arms, we're going to rock three times..."

I steadied myself using the door frame and stuck my feet out of the door and rested them upon the platform. My moccasins balanced on a tiny metal plate, the tassels whipping in the wind. I felt Isaiah moving into position, but all I could hear was the sound of wind rushing past my face....

The earth was squared off, semi tucks were smaller than pin dots, and I couldn't make out a single building, and there was a creamy haze that settled over the vista... I felt him start to rock behind me and then out of nowhere I wasn't scared anymore...

He rocked forward once and I catapulted us off of the tiny platform and dove into the atmosphere from 13,000 feet. I started to laugh as my body automatically flopped into a banana formation. Air was coming in easily enough, it wasn't hard to breathe, but my laughter was sucked past my face and left somewhere above me and I couldn't hear any of it.

I didn't get that sinking feeling you do when you jump from a diving board, or when you look off of the side of the canyon, it just felt like I was flying.

The wind was rushing along my jumpsuit, up my neck, across my face and into my nostrils.

The chill is almost indescribable.

If I flexed my left arm we would slide to the right.

If I tilted my body weight to the left we would barrel roll.

The patches of land were getting bigger.

I kept trying to look at them, but Isaiah would grab my forehead and force it back onto its resting place on his right shoulder.

The wind still felt cold.

I was still laughing.

I still couldn't hear my laughing and then all of a sudden my body stopped falling as quickly as it began.

It was like someone put the brakes on in midair.

And it hurt.

He'd pulled the parachute, and it jerked our bodies from free fall to slow fall.

All of a sudden sound was with me again and I could hear my laughter floating with us.

Downtown Dallas was in clear sight at the end of the yarn-sized highway, and her buildings stood like legos overlooking the blotchy clusters of colors that expanded in every direction.

It was during this calm after the storm that Isaiah told me I didn't actually have to dive head first out of the plane.

I said that his sport was probably misnamed.

He told me I was supposed to wait until the 3rd rock, and then he'd have taken care of it.

I apologized and explained that I was too excited. I could almost feel him appreciating my enthusiasm, because then he asked if I would be okay if we did some spirals in the air on our way down. Of course my response was "Spin my head right round, Isaiah, right round!"

He didn't laugh.

But he did spin us right round, right round.

The harness proved to be kinda painful, and my heart was still beating in my throat, but the way the wind ran through my hair and rustled the parachute suit I was wearing and was awesome. I could feel the G-forces across my chest and shoulders as we spun, and the realities of the vastness of the view was unbelievable.

We had a smooth landing and I was greeted by my older brother jumping up and down, right where I left him in the drop zone.

Seriously.

That is probably the most fun I've ever had.

In my life.

I think, also, it was the perfect way for me to end 2009. It's been a year of a lot of change for me. There were many mini events, and quite frankly, I'm just ready for a new decade and new chapter in my life.

I could probably easily turn this into a "Leap of Faith" bit about giving up control, or a Tandem metaphor about how God does the work in our lives and we get to simply enjoy the ride, but it just seems too obvious. I think instead I might just say:

Go Skydiving.

Jesus Ascended into heaven

We should fall from it.

Orange Hands

It never snows in Dallas.

And when it does, its not real snow. It's more like the inside of a snowcone machine exploded and left bits of icy residue all over the streets and rooftops.

One time in high school it was supposed to snow one morning but I woke up and looked out the window only to find a disappointing view of clear skies and brown grass. I begrudgingly pulled on my sweat pants, got in my ghetto red truck, and drove to Creekview.

It was closed.

No snow to be found, but just the idea of snow scared the school board administration so badly that they locked up and canceled.

I stood in the parking lot with half of the student body pulling on the doors, before somebody received a call that we were all morons and we should watch the news and eventually we all returned home and to bed.

To this day, the school board claims that "driving conditions were poor." But not only had I gotten to school okay, I turned around and got home okay too.

Whatever.

But anyways.

It's super rare that it snows.

Much less on the only holiday where people actually want it to snow.

There are countless songs about it.

Everyone wants it to be a white Christmas.

But in Dallas, its just not going to happen.

At 5 o'clock pm, just as my family was leaving for the aforementioned Candlelight services at church, we happened to see this weather update....

Carrollton, for those of you who don't know, is in between Plano and Lewisville, right on the edge of the Eastbound Snowstorm pictured.

It had already been snowing since noon, and starting to stick, so by the time we got out of church there were inches of white beauty in the front yard, and more importantly on the giant hill behind Creekview High School.

Best.

Christmas.

Eve.

Ever.

It was a weird year, what with Matt being all married and absent, but it turned out to be freaking fun despite.

Philip, Hannah, Micah and I took some sheets of tin bubble wrap stuff from the garage, a boogie board, and a tin cake pan to the hill and spent an hour and a half running full blast and diving down the hill.

Of course, I didn't expect any snow to hit during my two weeks in Dallas, so I left most of my winter-appropriate clothing in Canyon. We were all fairly ill-dressed, actually.

I had those cloth gloves that are only useful when you don't actually want to touch snow, so my hands quickly turned into icy, useless blocks.

My fingers stopped working.

Eventually, I took the gloves off and just tried to bear the weather without them, and succeeded.

We were out there for more than an hour, diving down the hill face first, rolling like rolly-pollies and then like burritos, attempting the two-man summer salt, and sledding like yankees.

I mean, ghetto sledding, but sledding all the same.

It was a heap of fun.

After other snow-activities, and a ride back to the house in the bed of Micah's truck...we arrived home and I looked down and my hands were orange.

Orange.

I'm talking Community-service vest orange.

Bozo wig Orange.

Traffic cone orange.

Orange starburst Orange.

No, but really, my brother's sweatshirt was from Hooters and was the most obnoxious color of orange available, and my hands matched them perfectly.

Naturally, I chose to warm them up by the fire.

But I was overwhelmed by an uncontrollable itch....

At first I thought this was the work of my unruly addiction to yogurt-land. Then I realized, this itch was not the same as the one I suffered from this summer from the live-cultures in the frozen yogurt, but was instead because of the frozen weather outside.

Oy.

My hands hurt, and itched or something.

My brother laughed and said he couldn't wait for my hands to turn black and fall off from Frost Bite.

Suddenly it was like we were both kids again.

He tricked me.

Inside I knew he was lying, but on the surface I couldn't help but believe my big brother and whatever bullcrap he said....Frostbite, what should I do?

Turns out, that if you run boiling hot water over your hands you'll still get burned even if you can't feel it initially.

Still though.

Awesome Christmas eve.

You gotta go down a snow hill.

It might not always work out, and your hands will freeze or burn.

But it's going to be an awesome memory.

Of course, that last part was a metaphor about life.

About breaking out of your regular traditions, even if you love them (see Christmas Eve Blog) and trying new things.

Things that might not always work out.

Things you don't feel prepared for.

Things that might lead to you getting burned.

But it'll be awesome.

Do it.

Do things you don't feel prepared for.

Christmas Eve

Christmas eve is awesome.

I like its traditions as much, if not more than Christmas day.

In our family every year, we go to the five o'clock candlelight service at First United Methodist Church in Carrollton. Every year we bicker about whether to all cram into one car, or to take two different cars. The results of this bickering vary. So, some years we all sing the "That 70s Show" song on the way to the church in Moson's SUV, and other years it's Christmas music and in whichever car I climb into.

We get there and we join forces with the Green family. Michael, Annette and my mom usually sit in a cluster. Gage and Hannah pair off, and the rest of us sit down in whatever order happens to happen. Whoever is next to Micah usually gets fingers snapped at them by one of the three parental units to be quiet. Ironically, its usually never Micah who gets snapped at for initiating shinnanigans. You'd think they'd figure out he's the common denominator. But, parents usually don't care who causes bad behavior.

Every year I use my thumbnail to carve designs in the side of the candle, subsequently getting wax shavings all over the floor, the seat and myself. No one notices this until we're already filing out of the rows and down to the front for communion, and Moson will find a way to catch my eye and give me the don't-you-ruin-christmas look with fire burning in her eyes.

Also, somehow, we manage to be within earshot of the worst singer ever.

They're usually in the pew RIGHT behind us.

The person who that happens to be changes every year, but the fact that they can't carry a tune never does. And I'm not sure what it is about awful singers, but they constantly feel the need to really project in a crowd, making their song to the Lord really resonate over the congregation.

Whenever the worst singer ever, whoever it may be, hits really, really wrong notes I usually make eye contact with Philip, Micah, Matt or Nicole and we immitate them with our faces. If they're too low, we scrunch our faces together, and if they're too high we raise our eyebrows.

We're very good face actors.

If this whole college thing doesn't work out, I think I have a future in it.

This service is specifically for children. Our pastor sits in the front, on the stage and reads the Christmas story, and all the children dress up in costumes to be apart of the nativity scene.

The kids get to pick their costume on the way in the door, a star, an animal, mary, joseph, or a wiseman. So, as the pastor is reading along, he'll get to the part where the star was over the stable, and all the little stars will come up on stage and sit with him. And then the wise men will arrive and so on...

It usually took coaching to get Gage to go up there, but I think this year is the year.

He's excited about dressing up and going up there.

And every year they pass me the camera so I can take pictures of him on the stage.

I'll raise my arms up and try to snap a picture without all the other parents' arms in it, and then periodically show my mom, and my sister the results until they're satisfied.

Throughout the entire service, it is also fun to count how many times you hear the "tink" of candle holders hitting the hard floors of the sanctuary. They should probably hand out the candles at the end, because year after year there is a symphony of fallen plastic and babies crying.

Whenever we get to the part of the service where the lights go out, and everyone sings silent night I actually try to tune out the obnoxious music-killer in the row behind us instead of single them out, because I love this part of Christmas eve most of all.

It really is beautiful.

After all the hoopla is finished, everyone trys to leave the sanctuary all at once. Church members squeeze into the atrium like sardines, standing shoulder to shoulder. I pass the people I grew up with in this church: other college students, children and adults who've grown taller or fatter in the last year, some I only know by face and smile, and some that I still consider my best friends. I exchange "Merry Christmas"es with them all and then make a break for the car, so I can get to wherever we may eat before the Baptists get out of church.

Christmas eve really is as much fun as Christmas morning for me.

I love to laugh my way through church, and partake in my various traditions.

So I decided that all awesome days should also have "eves."

Seriously, some holidays should be two-part like Christmas is.

My birthday eve, and then my birthday.

People will set out milk and cookies by my fireplace, for me. I'll eat them like Santa.

Thanksgiving Eve.

We'll await the arrival of the turkey, and sing songs about it in big groups with candles.

Easter eve, and then Easter.

We'll have children act out the historical events, and dress in costumes as roman soldiers, scoffers, and Pontius Pilot.

Fourth of July Eve.

Where we'll think about what life would've been like if we were all English. We'll have tea and crumpets while we anticipate the following day's Americanism.

You're right, its probably a bad idea to stretch other holiday festivities into two days.

Except the Santa cookies on April 16th.

Cookies are always a good idea.

Merry Christmas.

Mischief Managed

There is something magical about the holidays.

I think its spending time with my nephew.

He's a cute little nugget.

I told him today that I'm a spy.

I said that I work for President Obama, and I don't go to college, I go to

spy school. My friends are spies, and I told him I'd teach him how to

be one too.

So, this is a short video clip of our afternoon....

Maybe someday I'll tell him the truth.

I'll tell him that I'm not a spy.

I'll tell him my friends aren't spies.

I'll tell him he's not an honorary spy.

Maybe not.

Sometimes its okay to live in a fantasy world.

Amarillo by Morning

The temperatures have plummeted.

Its freezing outside, or at least it could be if there was any sort of precipitation that needed freezing. Puffy jackets have been removed from hangers and scarves, gloves, hats and boots are being utilized throughout the panhandle, no longer for their cuteness but for their intended purpose of warmth.

It was an unfortunate day to have to be productive.

I rolled out of bed, got ready and was in route to Amarillo by eight o'clock this morning.

I had a few pending errands, and because my car's battery has kicked the can, so to speak, my cruiser has fallen into disuse. So, instead of rolling in my PT this morning, I was officially borrowing Robbie's little jellybean Chevy Aveo.

Her car rides nice, and the automatic transmission made me feel like a grown up, because if I was adult enough to afford a different car, I'd choose a car with only two pedals.

My favorite thing though, is that she has one of those ipod accessories in her car, so for most of the forty five minute ride I was jamming to "Bossy," on repeat.

...thats right I brought all the boys to the yard, thats right i'm the one that's tattooed on his arm... cause i'm the bossy....

(Trust me, its a step up from the guilty pleasure music I chose last week when I borrowed the bean.)

The first errand I had was to stop by the bank, and deposit a few checks. But, I think I get too much joy out of the noise that the sucky-machine makes when it slurps my money up the tube like Agustus from Willy Wonka, because I said "oooh, neat!," and then made awkward eye contact with the un-amused clerk behind the window, who apparently heard me through the speaker.

Check that off the list.

My other errand was at Connie's Alterations and Dry Cleaners.

I've been needing to get my dress altered for matt's wedding for some time now, and though I tried to avoid this through eating like its a sport, in the end I was unsuccessful, because my thighs get bigger but my boobies never do.

Connie's is a shady little joint across from Tascosa High School.

It kinda smells like the inside of a shoe, and every worker I encountered spoke broken english. But, everyone I know who is dress-literate swears by them, so there I stood in line between the man in a camoflauge jumpsuit and the elderly lady rocking a Christmas sweater vest.

Classy town, Amarillo.

I was shivering as I stood there, even though I was wrapped up in a black peacoat, a houndstooth scarf, a hat, and gloves.

It was as if the wind was cutting right through the walls.

When I looked around, I realized there wasn't really any insulation, and the wind WAS cutting through the walls.

Then I noticed that everyone working in Connies was wearing a giant overcoat. Inside.

One lady had earmuffs.

"Puh on yo dress." the lady behind the counter said to me when it was my turn, and she pointed me to a makeshift dressing room.

I stepped in, and changed into my dress and soon realized how much of a difference my coat had been making.

I stepped up onto the stand thing, and a young vietnameese lady started pinning my dress to my sides.

Unfortunately, I had the shivers bad, so I was just shaking and shaking, so I kept getting nicked whenever she'd try to pin the seam.

And she'd say "Holl steeul."

And I'd say, "I'm trying I'm really sorry."

And she'd say, "You get prickt when no holl steeul."

And I'd say, "I know, I'm just cold."

She callled out something in her native tongue to her coworker behind the counter, who looked at me disapprovingly.

And I tried to stop shaking but it was like 10 degrees in there...

And she jabbed me one last time, and said loudly, (probably louder than necessary,) "HOLL STEEUL!"

I tried to think warm thoughts.

But every time I focused my thoughts on the incredible heat I endured while riding my bike through Carrollton in the dead of July, I would get attacked by Santa Clauses' own North Pole Wind through the rickety boards masquerading as a legitimate "wall."

It seemed like an eternity, but she eventually pointed me back into the dressing room where my jeans, tee shirt, jacket, scarf, fuzzy socks, and hat awaited me.

I rebundled as best I knew how, but I emerged from the changing closet still unable to shake the cold off of me. I shivered, and shook, rubbed my hands together, and breathed into my fists, and tried to think about nothing but Hot Cocoa.

I discussed when the dress would be ready with the frustrated lady, and I apologetically smiled and wished her a happy day before returning the parking lot.

The second I was outside, in the shadow of Tascosa, a giant burst of artic wind engulfed the entire area. The old lady in the Christmas vest was out there, trying to walk in a straight line to her car, but her tiny bones were just so fickle against the formidable winter weather and she was being pushed ever so slightly to the left. Loose pages of Newspapers, tumbleweeds and small children were whirling through the air, tossed about by the cold wind.

The winter went right through my clothing.

I had visions of frost bite claiming my fingers and toes.

The shivers and shakes turned into violent convulsions.

Then I saw it.

The Jellybean.

My place of refuge from this cold land of winter misery.

So I started a quick jog, ducking awkwardly against the wind and literally hanging onto my hat as I fought to get to that tiny red car.

The keys slid around in my gloved fingers, making the unlocking process particularly unenjoyable and difficult, all the while winter still assailing me with its hostile temperatures and bone crushing gales.

A few moments later I heard the life-saving "click" and I dove into the drivers seat and slammed the door shut behind me.

Now, I'm not sure if this next part of the story qualifies me for insanity or not, but I'm going to go out on a limb here and say that I might not be the only person who does this.

I mean, I know that my brother does it too, but I don't think I've met anyone outside of the Martinkus gene pool who has ever fessed up to this abnormal behavior.

I was so relieved by the refuge from the wind, but still so overwhelmed by the cold....

I started screaming to stay warm.

I wiggled in my seat rubbing my hands together aggressively, and I let out a high pitched squeel. I punched my hands into the air, and shimmied uncontrollably in the chair, and made "Brrrrrr" noises with my lips pursed out, and then quickly went to screaming some more, and rocking in an autism-esque manner.

It was like I had a conniption fit in the front seat of the car for a solid five or six seconds.

My hand accidently hit the horn, which like the buzzer to a basketball game, marked the end of the action.

I sat back for half a second, feeling much better, exhaled and started the car.

But I felt someone watching me.

I looked out of the passenger side window and there was the man in the camoflague jumpsuit staring at me, shocked, from the driver's seat of his Ford Ranger.

His eyes were wide, and his facial expression was nothing short of concerned.

I could see his uvula because his mouth was hanging so far open with disbelief.

There is no recovery from that.

I knew I shouldn't have run errands when it was this cold.

So I held eye contact with him for a moment, and then simply put the bean into reverse, cranked the heater and drove away listening to my real guilty pleasure, Miley Cyrus.

On the bright side, I learned an important lesson:

"Holl Steeul" or the skin on your seam-line will be more tore up than your tummy after a 3am Taco Bell Run.

And Maybe,

don't fake seizures to try and regain and maintain warmth.

People think its weird.

Syllabi-bye Night Class

At the beginning of each semester, professors squander an entire class day on handing each of their students a syllabus that usually details all of the assignments, due dates, materials and examinations that required. Also, they list course expectations that are obvious to anyone who wasn't home schooled. "Respect others," "Be On Time" "No Phone Calls During Class."
(Really? That had to be included?)

As if the syllabus itself is not insulting enough, sometimes Professors assume that students cannot read the document on their own, and proceed to "walk through it" step by step.
(Honestly, if you don't know how to read, you're going to have to be a really fast learner to master english linguistics well enough to produce a 10 page historiographical essay by the end of 3 months, so you should probably drop while you can still get your money back, and start with children's books, or baby einstein.)

The first time I stepped foot into my night class with Dr. De La Trinidad I was mistakingly excited about it. Its a tall order to disinterest a classroom full of history majors in a course dedicated to one of the most thrilling times in the United States. (1914-1945.) She rose to the challenge by dragging us through endless generalizations and powerpoints bulleted with information more affordably obtainable on wikipedia.
I managed to learn nothing in the hours upon hours I listened to her "ums."

I should've known it was going to be brutal on that first day when she "walked us through" the syllabus for just under an hour and a half.
(Not only did she assume we couldn't read it on our own, she thought that we needed to have every single point expanded upon.)
She reworded and repeated herself more times than I could count, and I'm not talking about when she accidently said "do do." (at which point Dallas lost all composure, his face turned pinker than usual, and his eyes watered with immaturity and I thought to myself, "that is why that guy is one of my best friends.")

For the first few Wednesdays Dallas, Chris and I showed up expecting our professor to redeem herself and produce some sort of insight.
But by week 3 we knew that it was not going to get better.
Instead, it got worse.

But unfortunately, horrible teachers almost always implement strict attendance policies, because otherwise their classrooms would be ghost towns.

So each Wednesday there we sat, in a sad line, in the second to last row, near the left, but not positioned well enough to see out the window.

By mid September everyone had stopped taking notes.
The information was so commonplace that we didn't have pay attention to a single word, or stutter she muttered.
Even if we were called on to answer a question, her knowledge base was so shallow, that anyone who sat through a high school American History course could pull an answer out of their butt.

During the break I would converse with my peers about their survival strategies.
The WT athletes who sat on my row watched an entire soccer match on their iphone.
Some students showed up to class smelling of alcohol and took to passing the time in slight drunkenness.
A few times I even noticed the stench of sweet, stinky weed rising from the back of the classroom.
I drew pictures and comic strips sardonically portraying my teacher, classmates and friends.
Unfortunately, whenever Professor De La Trinidad caught a glimpse of my notebook it was obvious I wasn't "participating," so I had to reroute my game plan.

We started playing organized games.

At first, it was creating crossword puzzles for one another.
Before break, I thought of clues about pop-culture, or what have you, and pieced together a maze of letters, and after break we would switch and solve.
It still appeared we were taking notes, but occasionally, between ramblings, De La Professor would pause at the sound of our rustle and look at us all disapprovingly.

It was time to reassess.

Our next game was birthed through Chris' boredom.
I was sitting immediately to his left and had taken to doodling tiny in the margins, and every time I glanced over at him he was feverishly taking notes. Or so I thought. Whenever De La Trinidad turned to write on the white board, I glanced at his page and was surprised to find that he had listed every Harry Potter character he could think of.
189 characters by the time we were dismissed from class. The obvious names expired in the first forty or fifty, but homeboy recalled, from memory, characters like Florean Fortescue (who owned a shop in Diagon Ally,) and Bathsheda Babbling (the ancient runes teacher at Hogwarts.)

I was ready to ask for his hand in marriage right then and there.
but I didn't.

The next class I monopolized on his genius.
We had a competition, and both of us frantically listed every T.V. show we could think of, while we masqueraded as note taking enthusiasts. Every once in a while I would glance up, make eye contact with the Professor and nod, as if I agreed with whatever vague point she happened to be overemphasizing right then.
But really I was filling line after line of college ruled paper with....Dr. Quinn Medicine Woman, Angry Beavers, Degrassi, Whale Wars, If Walls Could Talk, Lost,Teen Hunger Force, When Animals Attack, PepperAnn....
I left that class room with an achy hand, and 460 some-odd television shows listed in my notebook.

I'd surprised myself with my vast knowledge of Disney Channel and HGTV shows, and though I put up a good fight the King of Trivia left with a marginal victory.

This survival tactic proved to be the most rewarding, and look most convincingly like actual note-taking. Creating these lists passed the time quickly, and soon became habitual.
In the two subsequent class periods I produced a list of 593 movies, and 404 bands/single artists, which gauges my collaborative night class lists to include approximately 1,485 items.

Tonight is the last class time I have with Dr. De La Trinidad.
With December brings sweet redemption.
Good-bye Dr. De La Trinidad.
Good-bye forever.

Think of this as a saga of hope for those of you still stuck in an awful class.

I pray that you too find a way to cope, and ultimately succeed.

And I'd like to leave you with the words of the punk band Good Charlotte:

Hold On, when you feel like letting Go

Hold On...blah blah blah you know.

Oh, YES, I can add Good Charlotte to my list!