Bittersweet, smell my feet.

Someone once told me, "If you ever get the chance to take a class from Sexton, do it." It took me three years to heed that advice, just in the nick of time. 

I've never learned so much in such a laid back class, but really, it was because of the people I shared it with. 

There are things I won't forget about some of you. Today, two yanked on my heart strings. Your journeys are not over, and I'm glad I could be a small part of them.

To Dr. Sexton:

Thank you.

A. Poem.

The saying,

"You learn something new everyday,"

is true. We all know this.

This semester,

"How did it all begin?"

Mythology's first kiss.

Creation,

the diver, division,

dismemberment.

This class certainly started with wonderment.

I've gained

understanding and

insight.

For instance, I now know,

on days as this one,

we all get a little stage fright.

Who knew that a tree

is more than wood,

our axis mundi.

Or that rants,

tangents,

might not be so inopportune-di.

I told you a story,

an "initiation"

of The Sweet Sixteen.

A uninteresting tale

of young girls and dad's money...

hold on. I need caffeine.

Morning after morning

I listened,

heard this ol' bloke.

Telling stories

like they were of his own life,

hanging off every word he spoke.

A few of you,

I've seen around,

some in my store.

Hopefully I'll never see our bartender Scott, while drunk and on the floor.

That girl there,

her birthday

I'll never forget.

And this gentleman here,

the one blogging encryptions, 

still I found you an asset.

There is such a variety,

all kinds of kinds,

none stranger than the other.

Like the story of the sunburn,

the peeling of skin,

was there one about butter?

A few mornings I overslept,

skipping our time,

but my friends, I experienced a first.

Missing this class was always the worst.

We all make that one friend,

the one who always helps out,

are my eyes getting misty?

That friend we hardly know,

and may never see again,

yes, that's you, my dear Kristy.

Last week, more than one

spoke of a flame,

a sparking of the soul.

I like that phrase,

makes me feel

as if someday I'll be whole.

The Doc once said,

"Myth says,

'It isn't about you."

I've found that

makes complete sense;

its entirely true.

Our time here

was less about me,

but more about you and myth.

Who you tell the stories to, who you're with.

Know that they've heard it all before,

nothing is new,

as far as I'm concerned.

That, anyway, is what I have learned.

The end is near,

mere minutes

before we fail or pass.

I hope I've done my job,

in the ways of Suess,

rhyming like a total jackass. 

Lordy, where does the time go?

It's been 11 days since I've blogged last. Eleven.
I've certainly been busy.
But not only with school, although I'm feeling close to burnt out.
My measly little job is potentially turning into something bigger--
        --I'm in the running for a promotion!

I know! Please, hold your applause!







So, between all of that, my mind has been on a million and three other things. Crappy excuse, I know, but I'm intending on this post to be a long compilation of what I have slacked on for 11+ days. Bear with me. This could be a bumpy ride.

First on the agenda is The Storyteller.

Admittedly, I didn't finish it. Trust me, I wanted to. I tried for weeks and wEEks to work through that thing and I just. could. not. Anthropology is most definitely not one of my interests and no matter what I did, I couldn't get through the second half. I tried reading a little everyday, I tried withholding social media and giving myself Facebook privileges if I read, I even tried rewarding myself with beer. Ultimately, I stared at the page until I fell asleep, almost every time. (The roommate found me at the kitchen table once, sawing logs, nose literally in book.) My apologies, Dr. Sexton. I did my best, promise!

Agenda Item Two: Air Quotes.

This was fun. Reeeeal fun.
A few of my close friends and I made dinner last Saturday night. About half of the attending group of nine identify as homosexual, the rest of us as heterosexual. The thing I love the most about my friends is 1) they are very accepting of one another, under any circumstance, and 2) they all have incredible senses of humor. There were plenty of stereotypical gay jokes, as well has hetero- jokes, flying around, all said in good fun. I had kind of forgotten about the air quote assignment until well into the evening, after we had killed a couple bottles of wine, but once remembered, I began air quoting words at random:
"gay" "heterosexual" "drag" "joking" "manly" "queen"
The list is much longer, but my memory is failing me now. Some of the jesters played along without realizing it, adding phrases following my air quotes.






"If you know what I mean."





It was perfect.

Thirdly, Cougars.
I've referred to my notes, because I sometimes do take my own and occasionally enjoying reliving my own account of our experiences in class. (Also, I jot down blog ideas. Why? Not sure. I apparently have a hard time writing blogs anyway.)
The last notes I took must have been from before our Displaced Myth presentations.
Under "22 Points of Mythological Heroes," I wrote:

(I spelt governor wrong!)

I'm not totally sure why I wrote this or what we could've been discussing during class that made me think of this. BUT. Have you seen this show? Its on A&E and it is shocking. S-H-O-C-K-I-N-G.
In the photo below, the Governor's actual wedded wife stands on your right, her two step daughters on the left.

What?

That concludes my blog-o-thon. Or blog-a-thon. Whichever. 

This has been fun, recapping some of my thoughts that I should have been writing about for the last fourhundredmillion days.

But there's more homework to be done, and a presentation to prep for tomorrow.

I brewed a pot of coffee about 30 minutes ago. Its still hot, and damn. Its strong.

That moment when you have so much to do, you...bake...instead?

You know that feeling you get when you have so much to do, you don't know where to begin? Today, I took a good look at my calendar and realized it is that time in the semester, the time when the rubber meets the road, the time when my coffee pot brews non-stop, the time when I feel overwhelmed.

So how am I spending my Thursday evening?
With baking cookies and TLC's "Say Yes to the Dress" of course.

Yes, I'm scheduling some time for myself, with the theory that I will later be much more productive and focused.



I was just in the kitchen, dropping cookies onto the pan, when I heard the narrator of my show announce the next bride trying on dresses. This woman's name was Afrodite. Guess what her soon-to-be-husband's name was?

Achilleas.

Clearly, with names like that, they're meant for each other.

Myth. Its everywhere.

Percy. Truthfully, I don't know one.

I always get super nervous speaking in class, which means I miss details. So was the case today! Here's my story, with every detail I fully intended on sharing, but regrettably missed. (I'm much better at writing than storytelling.)

Last week was an eventful one for my friend, Percy. 

Percy's mom has been seein' this guy. They've been hangin' out for a few months, but this guy--Paul is his name--is a real jerk to Percy. Whenever he's over, he makes Percy feel like he isn't wanted, encourages him to go to friend's houses and such. On Wednesday, Paul told Danny--that's Percy's mom--he had a great plan for the weekend. 

Turns out, that great plan was to send Percy hunting. Not take him hunting, send him hunting. And all that jerk gave Percy was a shiny, sharp knife and a raincoat. That's it. He told him to drive to the highest peak of the Bridgers and not to come back empty handed.

Percy left early, early Saturday morning. He drove until the road ended, and even a little more. It began to sprinkle. When his old truck could go no further, Percy got out and sat on the hood. The rain came down harder now; Percy threw his raincoat over his shoulders to shield his torso from the moisture. Dawn was just breaking when he saw her: the doe.

She walked right in front of him, as if she was blinded from his presence. Percy slid off his truck quietly, pulled the knife from his pocket, and began to walk. As he stalked his animal, Percy called it Maddie, and thought about the luck of finding her so quickly. Maddie moved kind of slow and appeared well-fed; lots of meat to take back to his mom and Paul. It wouldn't be a chore to slaughter her with his knife, clean across the throat. Hauling Maddie back to the truck might prove to be difficult, but he was up for the challenge.

Suddenly, Maddie the doe fell over. Percy circled around and crept up on the animal from behind. He pulled his knife from his belt, held it out, moved closer. The glint from the sun hitting the blade reflected perfectly into Maddie's eyes. Percy struck from the front; sliced the animal down the throat, all along its stomach. Unexpectedly, two young fawns spilled from Maddie's gut.

And Percy just sat there, shocked. They were clean, not a drop of blood on their bodies. He watched them struggle to walk, and when they finally did, they sauntered off as if they weren't new animals at all. Percy thought to name the fawns Peter and Christopher, since he named their mother, to commemorate their very unusual birth.

Certainly, this animal wasn't the fine, fat piece of meat Percy had once thought…she was simply pregnant. Exhaustion overcame him and Percy decided to simply cut the head of Maddie as a trophy for Paul. It was lighter than he expected.

Percy returned late that evening, well past dark, to a block filled with vehicles that seemed to belong to the group of people in Percy's house. Despite the party and Paul's need for attention, Danny was waiting impatiently. After pulling into the drive, Percy sat in the driver's seat until his mother came to greet him. Paul came also, along with a group of his friends. They stayed on the porch as Percy got out of his truck and began to recount the events I've just told. 

Right there, in the yard, Percy served up the head of Maddie.
Paul turned stone-gray, shocked at his achievements and hasn't harassed him since.

See? Last week was an eventful one for my friend, Percy. 

I Have A Wooden Giraffe Named Henry...

...but this is Maddie.

William Williams. His parents were creative.

I was cruising Ian's notes blog just now, again reviewing what I missed last week. I reread the poem by William Carlos Williams and was overcome with an intense feeling of deja vu.
I've read this before. Like really read this.

It took me a solid five minutes, but then I remembered. A couple years ago, I took the 200 level Intro to Lit class, as I'm sure some of you have taken. The last third of the semester was dedicated to poetry, as was our final paper. There's a lovely website, of which the name escapes me, that is similar to a database but filled with only poetry. I had this ingenious idea to find a poem and write the back-story; the situation in which the poem was inspired, as if I was the author. In this lovely website/database, I typed 'red' into the search bar and guess what was the first hit?

"The Red Wheelbarrow"

I've found my paper, in an archive on my email account.
Here's the first few lines:

"I open my eyes to just slivers. Sunlight floods my bedroom as I shift to my side and flop my arm across the bed. He’s gone, again. 

Breathe deep. 

Arm retracts to its usual position in front of my chest, hand-under-face. There’s still an indent in his pillow, sheets aren’t yet cold. 

Sigh. 

I’m not that surprised, but I find myself pissed off all the same."

It may be difficult to picture where this story leads, but I assure you, in the end it all works out.

Happy Birthday, Happy Birthday baby...

*While reading, for the full effect, play this.*

When I was assigned #7 on the List of 25 Crazy Rites of Passage, I was insanely surprised the Western tradition of celebrating (more often than not) a girl's 16th birthday made the list, especially in the top ten.

What in the world?!

I can hardly remember how I celebrated my 16th, other than I didn't attend school and went to breakfast with my mother, like I do every year. I've always enjoyed birthdays with my longstanding group of friends, but the years have blurred with age. But, I can tell you, with an incredible utmost certainty, that that particular October 22nd was in no way, shape, or form painful.

An un-altered photo of my 16 year old self in my high school yearbook.

In my research, I discovered that there are three ceremonies that are performed at a typical Sweet 16 birthday party.
1. Candle-lighting ceremony: each of the candles placed on the cake represents, and is lit by, various people that have been influences in the life of the honored.
2. Shoe ceremony: a father, uncle, grandfather presents the birthday girl (who is wearing flats) with a pair of heels and helps her change into them. This symbolizes moving into womanhood.
3. Tiara ceremony: the mother brings a tiara to place on the noggin of the birthday girl. Sometimes this is paired with the shoe ceremony.

Please, if you would like your mind-blown by financial obscenities, check out full episodes of My Super Sweet 16. I was stunned, shocked, how much money these girls spent--and not of their own cash, but their parents. In.sanity.