I went to The Hobbit on Thursday night and the nerd in me has several things to say:
1. If you are on a quest and have a wizard at your disposal, A. listen to said wizard and B. everything you do kind of becomes irrelevant because the wizard will just overrule you or the wizard will have to save you and fix your mistake.
2. I'm of the opinion that you should thank creatures that help you (in this case eagles) even if they don't  speak your language (although I do question the eagles' choice in this movie to deposit the dwarves, Bilbo and Gandalf on top of a large rock/small mountain thing).
3. I have boots like the dwarves wear. Well, I have snow boots that go up to my knees and have awesome fur at the top. I would never survive all the walking, and definitely not running, in those things. When I go on my quest, I'll be wearing tennis shoes.
4. Of the creatures in Middle Earth, it seems to either A. be good luck to be a dwarf or B. be that dwarves are the most sturdy race ever because they can survive all kinds of falls, slips and bashings even from enormous heights and of grand weights.
5. The general dirtiness, bad teeth and creepy growths on some of those in Middle Earth might help me to slay the crap out of the bad guys.
6. My weapon of choice would never be a slingshot. I would argue that anyone who's is, is probably an idiot. David and Goliath was a one-time fluke.
7. If you're on a quest, take your pony with you so you don't lose it. Walking sucks.
8. Rain ponchos.
9. I need to study up on riddles.

Quick free write today in a lecture entitled: Utilizing Sports in Our Narrative

It’s an itch, a shiver in my bones, an ache through my muscles. Water hits face, stroke, full extension, rotate, roll, kick, pull, one, two three, breathe.

A burning desire to feel that stretch through my legs of a complete pedal stroke. Feet parallel to the ground, one circle of ankles at a time, pull back with the heels, push with the quads, pull with the hammies, breathe.

The need to stride out, pound the pavement cries in my heart. Mid-sole strike, keep hands loose, shoulders soft, breathe.

I love Modern Family and second to Amy Farrah Fowler, Phil Dunphy might be one of the greatest things to happen to my TV life. Philsosophies make me very happy. I decided while I'm not a funny as Phil, I probably have some gems to share with the world.

My philosophies:
1. Anything can be fun if you do it with the right people. Sleeping on the ground, being cold and wet and tired and hungry, watching women's basketball, going to church, going to lunch with my dad's mom--all these things can be fun if you surround yourself with the right kind of people.
2. No one can fall in love with you until you love yourself.
3. Life would sometimes be better if somethings were socially acceptable. Like running everywhere or not having to wear a bra (or pants if that's more your thing). But these, and other things, are not socially acceptable. Always be true to yourself, but know that social convention makes friends and makes others feel comfortable around you.
4. If you're a terrible dancer, learn all the words to all the songs. Singing takes the focus off dancing. If you're a bad singer too, sing loudly. The volume takes the focus off the tune.
5. Stop wasting time looking for "the perfect person." Are you prefect? Didn't think so. Go out and find the mess to match your mess and fall in love. Perfect is boring. Oddities are the spice of life.
6. If all else fails, always have candy on hand. Wear candy necklaces (church bling) to get through long services, share suckers with angry sports fans, share gum/mints/candy with anyone and everyone--best way to make friends. Don't, however, offer someone a bite of your candy necklace--social convention.
7. If what someone else is doing isn't hurting you, that person, or anyone else, just stay out of it.
8. Be the best person you can be every day. We all have less than perfect days, but don't think of them as "bad" days. If today your best is toothpaste on your shirt, a speeding ticket and a smashed lunch then let's just be thankful you remembered to brush, you have a car and know that I personally feel a smashed peanut butter and  jelly sandwich is really optimal for mashing the wonderful taste of both spreads. If that fails, just remember that crappy days are what make the good days so much better. Yin and yang, yin and yang.
9. Take pictures of things that make you laugh and refer to them when needed. And don't be afraid to laugh at yourself. Sometimes when you think you might cry, laugh instead.
10. Don't diet. Eat healthful foods you enjoy to balance out the crappy foods you enjoy. Find ways to exercise that you think are fun too. Don't do/eat things just because you think it's good for you. Do it because you actually enjoy it. Life is too short to waste time eating celery and doing kickboxing.
11. Always walk into the room like you know exactly what you're doing even if you don't. It builds confidence and if you're about to do something slightly illegal, less people will question your authority to be there.
12. Be independent but not independently alone. It's great to have your own schedule and do your thing and be able to take care of yourself but don't get so caught up in making your own way that you can't be flexible and allow others to work into your life.
13. Things don't always happen for a reason. You cannot waste your life away waiting for things to happen. You are not entitled to great things to come to you. No one is. You have to be a catalyst for things to happen. Go out of your comfort zone. 
14. Crude jokes, while most of the time inappropriate, are always funny. I don't care how stuck up you think you are, there is a book out there called Everybody Poops and that is true AND funny. 
15. I'd like to be all zen yoga master and say you only have today, but let's be real here: there's a reason life has a timeline. Learn from your past, save for your future and live today. 
16. Set your standards high and your expectations low. True for people and situations. If your standards are high you won't find yourself with loser people or in loser situations and if your expectations are low, even if the people you are with or things you're doing aren't your normal cup of tea, if you have no prior expectations of the event, your expectations won't be let down.
17. If your self esteem is low get on Facebook. Let's be honest with ourselves. We only have Facebook so that we can creep on people or get a little confidence boost knowing that we aren't as big of a train wreck as some of our "friends."
18. Don't stop believing. Whatever it is that you want to believe in to keep you going, like if you're certain your letter from Hogwarts is 13 years late, or lucky underwear, whatever gets you through, stick to it. 
19. Pandora may know what you need to hear better than any other person in your life, but remember, only real people can surprise you enough into laughing when you think you're down. Like when I was in high school and my best friend and I took her five year old nephew trick or treating and ended up being really late so we were running home ("Come on, Dade!" we yelled at him. "We've got to haul ass!") and all I could think about was how we were going to get in trouble for keeping Dade out and we weren't going to get to go to our party. Then Dade tripped. And started crying. I felt bad we made him run, really bad, but now we were going to be even more late. Then he said, "I'm so sorry. I was hauling too much ass." 
20. Never, ever, underestimate the importance of proper grammar. People judge. Don't give them reason to assume you're an idiot by making errors on resumes and other documents or talking like you were raised by ogres. Let them assume you're a genius until you prove them otherwise, like when you leave your zipper down or trip up the stairs. 

My Thanksgiving "vacation"/sick leave in a nutshell (Ok, a really big nutshell):
    Wednesday morning can't eat, going into hernia surgery. Laugh and laugh with Mom about who even knows what. Little did I know I should cherish the laughing.
                    Afternoon: surgery. New nurse can't get in IV, blood squirts everywhere while I chat about The Hobbit so that I don't have to look at her digging in my hand with a needle. BP 99/58. Find out I won't be getting staples--Yay! Still laughing with Mom about nothingness. Valium. I'm thankful for Valium. BP 90/56. I wake from surgery. Praise God, Mary, Joseph and Baby Jesus they let me leave without making me poop first. Someone told me they wouldn't let me leave the hospital without first making me poop. I was certain I'd never get to leave.
                    Evening: Mom and Tanner rocket me in and out of recliner. After the first time of tensing my abs when they send me backward I realize not to tense and just go with the ride. My incision is, like, 6 inches long. It's huge. When I convince Johnny Depp to fall in love with and marry me, I'm going to tell him it's from a sword fight. Using bags of frozen peas for ice packs because the hospital forgot to give us an ice pack. I probably still got charged for it. I'm thankful for my mom and brother. I can't laugh. Nothing hurts worse than laughing.
                   Night: Localized anesthesia has already worn off. Was supposed to last 72 hours. Vicodin is making me itchy and giving me panic attacks. Apparently I'm allergic. I now know I'd make a terrible drug addict.
      Thursday! Happy Thanksgiving! Normally my most favorite holiday! I'm thankful my mom and brother stayed in Omaha with me rather than going to see the rest of my family. I eat breakfast, take a nap, watch football, eat pixie sticks with Tanner to stay awake until lunch is ready. Tanner has steak and Mom made a crap ton of stuffing. Heck yes. More napping. Mom and Tanner still lift me in and out of recliner. I'm thankful for frozen peas. I walk like a 90 year old man. My belly is so swollen I doubt I'll be able to wear jeans for 2 weeks. Mom makes her trademark accidental sexual innuendos and I think I might die it hurts so bad to laugh. By 5pm I'm so bored I eat cereal and take Tylenol PM.
      Friday: after sleeping for 13 hours the night before, Friday I wake feeling semi awesome! Mom and I go to my condo to get supplies so I can bake cookies. Out in the real world! God, I'm thankful for the real world! How did Boo Radley ever stay inside all those years? The freedom! The smells! The wind in your hair! Ok, I was outside to shuffle from the house to the car, the car to the condo and reverse. Tanner tells me I walk even slower than his Swag Walk. When we got home I had to take anti-nausea pills and a nap. I wake for the Husker game. We're losing. Halfway through the 3rd quarter I realize I'm not wearing my lucky 'Skers necklace, I put it on (you can all thank me later), and fall asleep. Nebraska wins. I wake, shower, make cookies. Tanner continuously crop dusts my mom and laughing still hurts so bad I might die. He then introduces me to Tunnel Walk of Shame. Probably the highlight of my weekend. Hilarious. But I still can't laugh. At 6pm Tanner leaves me in my crippled state with my mom, grandpa and aunt so that he can go watch the Creighton game. Present company turns on the dog show. I'm out of past posts to read on Tunnel Walk of Shame and haven't taken any painkillers all day so I suggest turning the dog show into a drinking game and then they switch to a PBS special on the Dust Bowl. Drool and saggy jowls even less attractive on humans. Starting drug (and by drugs I mean Tylenol pm because I am allergic to anything stronger) induced coma now. Still fat like a pregnant lady and walking like an old man. I forgot I'd not only not be able to use my core to move, but I also wouldn't be able to use it to stand up straight or to tighten up my gut. Losing all self-esteem. I am thankful for Tanner and Tunnel Walk of Shame and Husker football. 
     Saturday: drug induced coma didn't work as well as Thursday night. Slightly less fat and less stooped. Still can't laugh. Highlight of my day: a text from Jenny and Bobby "How are you feeling? Is your family pampering you? Let me know if you need anything!" So many of my friends and family have been so wonderful to me. I am thankful to/for all of them. I love them so much! I am also thankful for Goldberg's Ceasear Turkey Burger and the outdoors and getting to be alone in my condo for a few hours...until my computer died. I respond to Jenny: "Doing better! My family has been amazing. Thanks for thinking of me!" She responds: "We're just making sure you were able to poop!" Me: "At home, eventually. They didn't make me do it there!" Jenny and Bobby: "We're both happy and proud!" Me: "Your support means the world." I'm thankful I can laugh inwardly about poop and I'm thankful for my friends. 
     Sunday: I'm all off pain meds for over 24 hours so that means I can be off the poop meds too. I no longer look pregnant, walked slowly across the street to Walgreens and home then later across the street to the movie theater and home. I baked a berry strata and only took one nap. I still can't laugh. I'm thankful for laughter. I'm happily at home now so I'm icing with a huge bag of frozen broccoli, Costco style all double bagged and big enough to cover half of my body. Costco bag of broccoli>normal sized bag of frozen peas. And I'm lying in my own bed with Game of Thrones on my contraband HBO account. I'm thankful for mini-series about historical fictions and fantasies I've read. And Costco. 

     I went to the movie Life of Pi tonight with a good friend from High School. It's been a few years since I read the book, but I have been super excited for the movie. If you haven't read the book and plan to, stop reading now, because I might give out some spoilers.
     When I talk to people about Life of Pi I always say that without the twist at the end, I wouldn't consider it among the best books I've read. In fact, the first time I tried to read the novel, I stopped. My grandma had suggested it to me and I started it one summer, stopped, and didn't go back to it until two years later after she died. I probably went back to it because I was looking for one last piece of something I could share with my grandma. She and I have always had the same taste in books: The Time Traveler's Wife, Harry Potter, The Red Tent, Life of Pi. Someone in Los Angeles must have the same taste as us as well because this summer I was in a gigantic used books store and I found a whole shelf of all of my grandma's and my favorite novels.
     Anyway, I was so struck by the end of the novel that I forgot about the things I loved during the book, but the movie reminded me of these wonderful things tonight. I had completely forgotten the beautiful language Martel gives Pi when he tells of his belief in God.
     The novel opens with an author who visits Pi to hear Pi's story after a man told the author that Pi's story will make him believe in God.
      I don't normally talk about religion. I would say I'm very lucky in that I've never had major questionings in my own beliefs and I've grown up in a family where most members have supported me to find my own way in regards to spirituality. I don't consider myself a religious person, however, I would say I have my own spirituality and relationship God (gods, Buddha,  Allah, the powers that be, good vibes, whatever) but I usually keep that between me and God(s, et al.) My whole rationality behind religion is that in the end, don't all religions ask us to just be good people? That's easy for me, I get that. I've never understood the dislike among different religions--if we're just supposed to be decent people, and if what one good person is doing/believing doesn't hurt you or anyone else, why not let him be?
     At the age of 12, Pi already considers himself a practicing Hindu, Christian and Muslim. I love this. He sees the similarities between the religions and takes the beauty in each one and manifests them in his everyday spiritutality. It seems profound for a 12 year old to have this grasp on life that most adults do not have, but at the same time, Pi's innocence is what makes him able to see that those similarities. One of my favorite quotations of the novel is: “Hindus, in their capacity for love, are indeed hairless Christians, just as Muslims, in the way they see God in everything, are bearded Hindus, and Christians, in their devotion to God, are hat wearing Muslims.” Glorious language. I could never say anything so perfectly, so simply. 
     I love Pi's view of the world. His confusion is not among the divisions in different religions, but how can humans drink in the wonders of our world not believe in some higher power? “If you stumble about believability, what are you living for? Love is hard to believe, ask any lover. Life is hard to believe, ask any scientist. God is hard to believe, ask any believer. What is your problem with hard to believe?” As a person reading this quotation warms my soul. As a writer, I'm incredibly jealous of the language and how perfectly this ties into the piece I find so fascinating about Martel's novel. Which story is Pi's real story? Is Pi the tiger or did he really survive 227 days with Richard Parker on the lifeboat? 
     Normally I hate, absolutely despise, when an author makes me read a whole passage, or in this case a whole novel, and then says "Oh, well, that was all a lie/dream/fantasy/whatever, here's what really happened." But that twist is why this story stands out so vividly in my mind years after reading it. Does it matter? Does it matter if Pi is the tiger or if the tiger was real? Does it matter if we label our belief Christian or Hindu or Muslim or whatever religion if at the end of the day we love our neighbors and help the less fortunate? As I said earlier, Pi's confusion lies not among people of different beliefs but those who doubt, those of no belief: “If Christ spent an anguished night in prayer, if He burst out from the Cross, 'My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?' then surely we are also permitted doubt. But we must move on. To choose doubt as a philosophy of life is akin to choosing immobility as a means of transportation.” The greatest way to live and grow is to continuously push and develop our philosophies ourselves. Truly fantastic literature can help us create this mobility. 
     Read the book. See the film if only for the colors and the beautiful effects. 

     You know how some people get all whiney and nostalgic and miss "the good old days?" Well, here's what I don't miss:

Elementary School K-6th Grade:
     Dirty. I was always getting something dirty. Be it crumbs on my shirt or falling down at recess and getting the knees of my jeans dirty. Hated it. I even got sent home once in First Grade because I fell in a puddle at recess. I lived across the street from school, but still.
     Speaking of jeans, mine never fit. I was always wearing high waters and hand me downs. Never fit.
     Stirrup pants. Did anyone else's mom make them wear stirrup pants? God those sucked. The straps were so uncomfortable on my feet.
     Milk from a carton. Sick. I don't think I need to say more.
     Never knowing who was mad at whom which time of which day.
     Getting made fun of for braces, my last name, how tall I was, how I ran, my middle name, my freckles and pretty much whatever else there was to make fun of.
     My annoying little brother tagging along everywhere I went and then crying like a fire engine when I'd beat the crap out of him.
     My mom telling everyone about how much I love Harry Potter and then having to lie about it to my friends. Like they believed me: "Pshh! No, I didn't read that! I just pretended to." Right. For hours. Multiple times each book.
     My dad's mom gave us all a series of 35 books on famous religious figures once for Christmas. That became Tanner's and my punishment when we got in trouble. We'd have to read The Life of Mother Teresa or John Wesley or Martin Luther or Gandhi and then report back on it. I'd have rather been grounded.
     Before you want to reminisce about how easy Elementary School was, remember how there were always the gross kids with perpetual snot running out of their noses or who had eye patches or whatever and how you were always secretly afraid you have to pair up with one of them or sit beside them in class. Yeah, that sucked. Don't even act like you weren't afraid of that. And if you were one of those perpetually snotty kids, I'm sorry. Life's better now, isn't it?!
     I hate the recorder.
     I thought I could be a dancer, because that's what my tall beautiful older cousins did. I was terrible. No rhythm (something that hasn't changed). And I didn't like going to class but I really loved the idea of being a dancer so I kept asking my mom to sign me up at the end of the year and then I'd cry before class started in the fall. It was a vicious cycle repeated for almost 10 years.
     I hated the days the nurse came in and checked the class for lice. I never had lice but I was so paranoid I'd get it, I'd make my mom re-check me when I got home.
     And detention. Every day of 6th grade. I had detention so often for talking that they made me my own creed to write out instead of writing the school pledge (which, to my immense pride, I still have memorized). Mostly I just got detention for talking too much, however, the most memorable time would be for skipping down the all singing "Pretty Fly for a White Guy." Because why wouldn't you?
     Oh, annnnd, I had my first real kiss on Halloween playing spin the bottle. Who wants their first kiss to be from playing spin the bottle? Lame.
     I also got in school suspension for dying my hair green. Stupid.

To the Left is a photo of me in 4th grade. I think that's a halfway 

decent photo of my grade school self. To the right is a picture of how I would pretty 

much sum up grade school Erin. Dorktastic. The hat is blue and had sparkly buttons on it. I freaking loved that hat. I won't even comment on the coat. Also, please note the permed hair. I begged for a perm. Thank God it turned green when I got in the hot tub and we had to cut it all off soon after. What was I thinking? I can't look at this photo and not laugh.

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 Middle School 7th Grade (in Norfolk, when I was in school, Grade School was K-6, Middle School was 7th grade, Junior High was 8-9 and High School was 10-12):
     I was no longer perpetually messy in Middle School. I still got made fun of for being tall, being thin, having weird names and freckles. Almost everyone had braces by this time so I was fine there.
     Instant messaging became big for me during this time. I was always on MSN waiting for cute boys to want to chat with me, but mostly I didn't have the balls to talk to anyone unless I was with a big group of girls and they were talking for me.
     I hated health class.
     I hated getting busted for passing notes.
     I hated PE when things were supposed to be a competition, but it wasn't cool to be interested in class, but I really wanted to win.
     This was also the first time we had to change clothes for PE. You got made fun of if boobs were too big or too small. You got made fun of for your underwear, you got made fun of for you body type. I survived most of my life not being made fun of by girls, but there's still that looming pressure.
     I hated how everyone talked about how you were supposed to be growing up and acting mature, but no one ever wanted to treat you like you could be mature. Maybe I couldn't be mature.
     Girls started to wear makeup in Middle School. My life would have been better if A. I'd know how to use make up and/or B. all of my makeup wasn't discards from my mom's crap.
     I fell down the stairs in the middle of the Middle School cafeteria when I was running late to PE. 18 steps, thud, thump, thud, thud, thud, all the way down on my butt.
     My brother was still an annoying piece of crap and my parents started to get on my nerves as well when I got to Middle School. Go figure, I know.

My best friend Carrie and me on the first day of Middle School. Yes, more stupid hair for Erin. 

Junior High 8-9th Grades:
       I kept the stupid hair cut from above all the way through 9th grade.
       I had my first real boyfriend in 8th grade. He cheated on me.
       My parents got divorced in 9th grade. I kind of had some issues. My 9th grade boyfriend was way older than me, constantly also cheating on me and probably will end up being on the nightly news. My best friends all started drinking, but this was when I started writing. Really writing daily--so stereotypical writer: family torn, beaten down in a terrible relationship that cannot be escaped, only solace is her writing that saves her hahaha so dramatic!
     I hate what a little piece of crap I was during 9th grade. I just thought I knew it all.
     My 8th grade science teacher totally had it out for me. He even let a kid chase me around the room with his lab table stool.
     I marvel at how I survived 7-10th grade with sports after school. I went home almost every day for lunch in Elementary School because I lived across the street. However, from 7th-10th grade I had to eat school lunch. A bagel, strawberry cream cheese and a cookie every day. That was what sustained me until I got home after practice at 6pm.
     You'd think I'd be saying I hate bagels, but really, I hate the cookies. Junior High cookies are the greatest cookie in the world and I have spent the last 6 years trying to find out where they came from and how I can make them. Can't figure it out. Damn those bomb-diggity-dog ass cookies.

I wouldn't say this is a typical picture of me in Junior High. I did not go to school
dressed like a dorky hunter, however,  we did (and I still do) love to get dressed up. Often. This picture is from the last day of 8th grade. My friends Carrie and Mo and I dressed up and were going to ambush Tanner and Tyson when they got out of the last day of Elementary School across the street from my house. As you can see Tanner in the background, you'll know that posing for this photo, we ultimately missed our target. 

High School 10-12 Grade:
     I loved High School. Once I quit being a snotty brat to my mom and grew up, I really, really loved High School. I loved every sporting event, every late night girl talk, late night streaking session and school dances. I finally had a job and could buy my own clothes. My brother was getting increasingly less douchey, I was the captain of the volleyball and soccer teams, I had awesome friends, I started hanging around boys I thought were good role models to my brother and thus they were also less douchey. Gas was, like, $2.00 a gallon so we could drive around in the country with the windows down and blare the music all night. High School was great.
     I have a hard time knocking High School, however, I'd never give up today to go back there. Yeah, today might be a little sucky. I just had hernia surgery so my belly is so swollen I look like a pregnant lady and I walk like an 90 year old man, but all in all today is a good day. It could be worse. I could have mud on my hand-me-down jeans, a perm and braces.
     On a side note, I did have a fat period in High School.

My adorable and incredibly nice and good-hearted High School boyfriend and me. 

   
   

     I think it's funny the things you learn and start to notice about yourself as you get older. For example: the only true judge of how tired I really am is if I am too tired to sing along with Pandora, I stand like a deer and have a fake laugh when I am nervous and how I think that anything is fun if you do it with the right people.
     Another thing that has come to light about my personality is that I am terrible in unavoidable crises where no one is hurt. If you have a bone coming out of your leg, your kid is downing, you're having a horrid asthma attack--blood, guts, life emergencies--I'm your girl. 100%. If we're driving and lost in a snow storm, however, I'll be laughing my butt off about how it's a damn good thing I packed the Girl Scout cookies and survival water and talking about how when we run out of gas we'll probably be eaten by inbreeds that live in the corn/wilderness (my biggest fear).
     One such moment occurred when my mom sunk our boat and while she went down with the ship as the captain, I got marooned on the island of Johnson Lake:

     I've been telling Sam, my first serious boyfriend in high school, (OK, not the first serious I thought was serious, but the first who wasn't a douchebag) about our cabin for the whole eight months we've been dating. There's nothing  I like to brag about more than my family. It seems odd to brag about our cabin. It was once a little red school house and looks like the rejected step child of the lake where everyone is now tearing down their crappy little cabins and building "cabins" that are bigger than my house. It's odd to brag about our boat. Our boat goes with our cabin. It's from the 70's and is broken more often than it works. And my family. We can be a load of hot messes from big personalities to all kinds of innuendos. We're awesome. However, probably quite intimidating to new people.
     Well, anyway, Sam has survived. Survived two days of rain in the dinky little cabin with just my family. My mom, my brother, a few aunts, a few cousins, my grandma, grandpa and a whole lot of Snort my family's favorite card game. Today, finally, the rain has stopped. It's not warm. It's not sunny. But it's not raining. Almost everyone went home this morning. When we saw that the rain had stopped, Sam called his mom and said he wouldn't be home until tonight because we were going to take advantage of the day and stay longer.
     My mom, Sam and I head out to the boat. There's a wooden sign my grandpa has hanging in the cabin that says a boat is a hole in the lake into which one pours money. Nothing is more true about this boat. It's so ancient something is always being fixed on it. Larry the Boat Guy probably rolls his eyes and groans every time he sees us roll up. I would at least, if I were him. There have been times when we have had to swim the boat back home like little swimming sled dogs.
     I'm so excited for Sam to see the whole lake. I point out Sally and Duke's cabin and the cabin of the people who started The Buckle. We are nearing the island and I explain how we can't go around the island because Johnson Lake is used for irrigation and so the water gets low on one side of the island toward the end of the summer when they start using the water on area farms.
     Clunk. We hit some sand. A huge cloud of dirt billows up under the water behind the motor. Clunk. The boat jerks. The water is shallow. My mom tries to give it more gas to pull out of the shallow spot. We don't move.  That's when we start taking on water. It seeps across the floor.
     I start to giggle. "I'll push," I say. I take off my sweatshirt (did I mention it was freakishly cold for July?) and jump into the water in my shorts and t-shirt. Sam continues to sit his dainty butt in the front of the boat and my mom is whispering "shit, shit, shit" under her breath. Note to self, I think, remember to tell Tanner that mom said shit, hehehe. I'm trying not to laugh so my laughter comes out like a snort as I'm trying so hard to hold it in. If my allergies weren't so bad at the cabin something probably would have come out of my nose. God, Sam is so lucky to be here with me right now. I start laughing for real.
     The water in the lake is only up to my mid thigh. No wonder we're stuck. I feel under the motor and can see that it's just making a huge hole in the muddy lake bottom. I try to push, but it's not helping. "Hey, princess, want to help or are you afraid of the water?" I ask Sam. He takes off his shirt and gingerly climbs down the ladder to get into the water. Like that was needed considering the water is, like, 2 feet deep, I think, but whatever. He pushes. I push.
     My mom is calling my grandpa who probably has his hearing aids out and can't hear his phone. She calls my aunt Sara, no answer. My grandma, my cousin Clair. What are they doing there, I wonder. Having some sort of plum gig that's for sure if no one can answer our SOS call. Plum gig. We haven't said that in a long time. I'm laughing again. Sam looks at me like I just told him sea creatures are going to swim into his shorts and I laugh harder. I'm not crazy. This is just ridiculous. Our boat is sinking. It is 2006, we are out on a freaking lake with a motor boat in less than three feet of water and our boat is sinking.
     I climb back into the boat and there's a good eight inches of water in the back and it's creeping up toward the front of the boat. "What should we do?" I ask my mom, trying to choke down my giggles. I bit on my lower lip to keep the smile off my face and my chest kind of heaves like I'm convulsing, but really it's just suppressed giggles. What an ab workout to hold back laughter!
    "Well, I don't know. Shit," my mom says. She never swears. I can't help it. I laugh like shit is the funniest word in the world.
     "You're the captain. You have to go down with the ship," I say. "We can try to walk home." Laugh, laugh, laugh. "It's like half a mile to shore and then 4 to get home on the road." I try breathing out my nose so I stop laughing. The heaves get more pronounced with this and I look like someone with a body twitch. "I don't have shoes," I say and the giggles escape. "At least the whole boat won't sink. You'll be able to stand here the whole time," I tell my mom. "Here I'll take off my shirt and use it as an SOS flag. We are in distress!" I take off my t-shirt and throw it at my mom. When it had been so cool earlier, I had dressed in layers so I was now down to my tank top and shorts.
     The sun is finally starting to come out so I decide to lay down on the benches in the front of the sinking boat and start getting my tan on. "We better move toward the prow so we can stay out of the water as long as possible," I say. "Is this the prow? We aren't even real boat people. We don't know the parts of our ship and it's sinking."
     "What are you doing?" Sam says. "You can't just lay down."
     "What else is there to do? I might as well get one afternoon of sun after it's been rainy the whole weekend," I say.
      "If you stay in there it'll just sink faster. Come back into the water," he says.
      "It can't sink all the way. It's, like, three feet of water!"
      "Oh, God, Sara, thank God," my mom says into her cell phone. "We're sinking. In the boat. It's taking on water. We're stuck and there's, like, a foot of water in the back of the boat."
     I roll over on the bench so that my back is to her, cover my face with my sweatshirt and use all of my self control to not roll around with my laughter.
     They're going to come on Duke and Sally's boat. My grandpa and grandma and Tanner. Their going to come tow our boat to The Boat Guy. We sit. We wait. I tan. Mom swears. Sam stands in the water. I twitch every once in a while with suppressed giggles.
     When they finally come to rescue us, Duke and Sally's brand new boat looks like a hero blazing the waters. They can't get too close to us for fear that they could get stuck too. My grandpa tells Sam and me to walk to shore and Sara will come find us in her car.
     You know those stories when old people say I walked 10 miles to school up hill both ways. Well, we walked a half a mile in waist deep water to the island. I figured since we were there Sam might as well see what it's like to be marooned on an island as well. Plus I hadn't been on it since I was a kid. "We used to tell Tanner and Sydney there were pirates on the island," I tell him.
     "Pirates? Really?" he rolls his eyes at me. Apparently he is unamused with the way this day is going.
     I climb up over the tin and rock barrier that surrounds the island. It's man-made, like the lake. The barrier is there so that the waves from the boats don't cause the entire island to slide into the lake. "Yeah, pirates. I don't know why we didn't tell them this is where the gypsies live. That would make more sense for my family." I sit down on a fallen tree branch. "So this is it. Cool huh?"
     "Yeah, I guess so. Not what I thought I'd be doing today." He sits beside me. "So gypsies?"
     "Yeah, they're the reason we can't sleep outside. The gypsies will kidnap us."
     "Gypsies. Here."
     "Yeah, you know, they can't open doors so they can't get us if we sleep inside."
     "They can't open doors? Because they have no hands?"
     "No, because they're gypsies. That's why they don't live in houses."
     "Are you being serious right now?"
     "You just ask my aunt Karla. She'll teach you all you need to know about gypsies." I figure since he just met Karla and spent the weekend with her and all the rest of my family he would know I was joking. Not about the story, she really did tell us that, but that I believed it. Apparently not.
     "We better walk to shore," I tell him.
     Of all the places to get marooned, it had to be on the northeast shore. Dead fish central. God it smelled. We wade to shore, trying to breath through our mouths which probably makes me look like a dead bloated fish, I hate breathing through my mouth, and I climb onto someone's dock.
     "Do you know who lives here?" Sam asks.
     "No, but I don't have shoes, so I'm not going to walk all the way up to the road."
     "You sure you should just sit on their dock?"
     "I'm not hurting anything. Besides, when I tell them our boat sank, we got marooned on an island inhabited with pirates and then braved the treacherous waters to come safely to land only to be shoe and homeless--perfect bait for childless gypsies--I think they'll take pity on us."
     "Unless they are gypsies."
     "Uh, no. Weren't you listening to anything I said? Gypsies can't live in cabins. They can't open doors. If they don't have a cabin, they can't have a dock. Obviously."
   

     

     At lunch today mom was sitting at a table with her preschoolers and some of the kids were talking about boyfriends and girlfriends and getting married. One of the girls asked my mom why were the other kids talking about that. My mom said she didn't know because you don't have boyfriends and girlfriends until you are older and you don't get married until you are a grown up.

     A little boy popped into the conversation saying yes, and then when you are married you have babies.

     The girl replied with but only if the girl wishes for a baby. She doesn't have to if she doesn't want to.

     Smart girl!

I finally wrote the section where Amy sneaks away from her parents to spend the day at the MET. This is the chapter I traveled to New York for my birthday to research. I lived a day in Amy's life. Much thanks to all of the writers in my summer workshop who told me I couldn't fake a real New York experience and to my advisor for giving me the push I needed to book a trip to NYC and most of all thanks to my cousin Darby for going to New York and living a day in Amy's life with me and to my wonderful friend Nick for being the best host ever! Hooray for re-writing :)

I could hardly sleep. I just kept waiting for Mom’s alarm. When it finally rang, I nearly peed my pjs.

            I slid out of bed and hunkered down on the floor grabbing my clothes for the day out of my suitcase. Camel colored khaki shorts and a salmon pink fitted tank top. You know, “fitted” to show off my curves—haha—or in real life, fitted to show that I have no boobs. I tiptoed to the bathroom to change and brush my teeth and hair. Dad was out, I assumed, because his blankets were wrapped all over his head and body like a dead person in a body bag.

            After making sure Dad’s body bag was breathing, I glanced back at Keegan on my way to the bathroom. He was twisted up his sheets on the pullout couch. All other blankets piled down on the floor. His arms and legs stuck out at weird angles. His arms looked like he’d been doing Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” dance in his sleep and his feet still stuck out from under the covers from last night when he had to let the lotion dry on them.

            It took me all of fifteen minutes to get ready, grab my purse and quietly open the door and slide out of the room. I don’t think I breathed until I heard the little click of the door closing. I did it! Now to get out onto the street. It was all I could do to not run to the elevator and out the door. Must not attract attention.

            There was a man in jogging cloths riding down the elevator when I got in. “Uh, I-I’m going down to breakfast,” I blurted out as soon as I walked in, my eyes bugging out.

            He just nodded to me and pointed at the headphones in his ears.

When we got to the lobby my elevator partner started running away before he even got out the door, punching his watch as soon as the elevator opened. I could see people settling down to breakfast in the hotel’s restaurant down the hall. A few people sat in the lobby drinking coffee and eating, I don’t know, various muffins and egg sandwiches from the Voltshop in the lobby and reading newspapers. No one even looked at me. I was sure the front desk woman with her big beehive hair and bloody crimson lipstick was going to stop me when my hands first touched the revolving door to escape, but she just said to “have a nice morning!”

Standing out on the sidewalk seemed too easy. Really? I made it? I didn’t even have to use my half lie that I was going to get breakfast. Half lie because I will get breakfast, that’s just not the main reason for me going out.

Out on the street, I realized two things immediately. 1. I hadn’t asked the hotel girl where to get on the four or five subway from the hotel. And 2. I was going to ride the subway wearing shorts and whenever there were days when we were going to ride the subway with Mom, she made us wear pants or capris so that our bare skin didn’t touch anything on the trains.

I turned to go back inside and ask the beehive where the four/five was. Then I turned back toward the street. Did I want her help? Could I trust her? What would she think about me going out alone?

I got out my map; and while unfolding it, a guy stopped and asked if I needed help.

“Uh, no, no it’s—I’m OK,” I said.

“No, really, it’s not a big deal. What are you looking for?” He smiled and took a step closer. He was maybe a college student. He had a book bag and headphones around his neck but not in his ears. He also had a beanie on his head even though it was summer. I don’t get that fashion statement.

Mom always says you can’t trust people in New York. Dad says this isn’t necessarily true. Dad says in Nebraska people are just known for being extraordinarily nice and that’s not the case in most other places. Grandma says people are people no matter where you go. “Where’s the entrance to the four or the five subways?” I asked.

“That’s easy.” He smiled. “Go down to the corner there, cross the street and turn right. It’ll be right there. Not even three minutes away.”

“Thanks,” I said. Stuffing my map back in my purse.

“Good luck with the rest of your travels.”

Lookie there, I thought to myself, people are nice. You just have to ask for help.

I walked down to the corner like he said, crossed the street when the light told me I could and followed a group of business people on cell phones to the subway stop. I’d watched Mom do the money for tickets before. I knew I just needed two entries into the subway, one to get there and one to get back so I put in the exact amount for two trips. No wonder Mom always wanted us to be fully clothed when we came down here. I wished I were wearing gloves when I punched the buttons on the machine and couldn’t help thinking how many other people had touched those buttons and how many thousands of germs and diseases and general dirtiness their fingers had come in contact with. I shivered at the bacteria I imagined to be crawling up my hands and legs.

Deep breath. To the train. To the MET.

I followed the green signs for the four and five trains. I had to take the exit on 86^th street. 86^th, 86^th, 86^th, I repeated in my brain. I could do it. I had gotten on at the Wall Street entrance. I needed to go toward The Bronx, not toward Brooklyn. I could take the four toward Woodlawn or the five toward Eastchester. Follow the greens. I found my platform and the five train toward Eastchester pulled up with me. Perfect timing.

There is a seat in the corner left for me and I slide into it, trying to make myself as small as possible. I have to watch the stops carefully.

No one else is looking around. Most people have their heads down and are reading or looking at their phones or the floor. 86^th Street, 86^th Street, 86^th Street, I repeat to myself. That’s my stop. Right? Oh, crap! That’s it right? I can’t get my map out now. No one else even has to look up from the floor to know when to get off. I can’t get out my map to confirm. 86^th Street. 86^th is right. I can do this.

The man across from is looking down at his shoes and I can see he has some kind of injury on the top of his baldhead. There is toilet paper stuck to it. It looks too deep to be a shaving injury, but I’m not sure why he would put toilet paper on it. I drop my eyes to the ground like everyone else. There are yellow Chuck Taylors planted to the floor, basketball shoes with short/pants/shmants? that almost touched the tops of the high-topped basketball shoes, sandals with green toes, more Chuck Taylors.

Canal Street stop. And bags. Bags galore litter the floor. Everyone has a least one bag. Most have more. Almost no one is talking to each other. They are like me, alone. Those who are in pairs are talking so loudly.

Grand Central Station stop. And pants. Everyone is wearing dark pants—jeans or dark brown. I rub my hands on my white, bare legs. A man with a baby in a stroller boards the train. The baby is so little but he is holding a water bottle. Really? The dad just expects him to hold onto that bottle? The baby has a scab on his knee. He starts to pick the scab. The dad is looking at his phone. A woman is sleeping with her head on the pole, her coffee in hand.

50^th Street stop. A woman starts singing “Amazing Grace” somewhere down at the other end of the train. I can’t see her. A little Asian man sits next to me. I fiddle with the strap on my purse. “You are not from here,” he says to me.

“N-no,” I stammer. My voice sounds so loud in the train. A man with a yamaka bobs his head to the sway of the train.

“Where are you from?” he asks. He is holding onto the seat behind my back and his fingernails are caked in dirt.

“Omaha,” I say. “Nebraska.”

“Ah, that is nice.” He smiles and reveales that most of his teeth are missing. “So in Nebraska are people pretty nice?”

“I-I guess so,” I say. I try to scoot a little farther away from him. He smells like pee.

“Is there a lot of theft in Omaha?” he asks. “Like could you lay down your notebook, leave and would it be there when you got back?”

“I guess so. Maybe, probably. People are pretty nice,” I say. His jean jacket has rust colored stains on it and his shirt, which I assume had once been a bright yellow, has a hole under the left side of his rib cage. I can see his skin.

“So there’s not too much theft,” he says, shifting one of his plastic grocery sacks in his lap. He has three in his lap and two on the floor.

“Well, it’s a city, I mean in Omaha people break into cars and stuff,” I say.

“Yes, but people are generally nice. And if you forgot your notebook, say on a desk at school, it would probably be there when you went back looking for it?”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“That’s just great. Good people, Nebraskans. It’s not like that here,” he says.

 He continues talking about how nice it must be in Nebraska where you could just leave your notebooks out. Oh, God, I think. He is going to rob me. My stop is next. I’m going to get out of here and look in my purse and everything will be gone. Oh, what was I thinking? I’m an idiot.

We were slowing down for the next stop and I saw that 86^th Street was tiled on the walls flashing by as the train rolled in.

“Uh, this is my stop,” I said, getting up.

“How pleasant it was to chat with you, Nebraska,” he called, smiling as I hurried out of the train.

I didn’t care about social acceptance. I ran up the stairs and out of the subway not paying attention to which exit I took. I just needed to get above ground and back to daylight. Once out on the street, I rifled through my purse. Everything was there. My phone, my wallet, all contents of my wallet. Nothing was missing. I slowed my breath to a normal pace.

Uh, oh. Seven new text messages. Eight missed calls. Four voicemails. I guessed my absence had been noticed.

I sent Dad a text: “hey. went to get breakfast. im ok love you”

Immediately after I pushed send, my mom’s picture popped up on my phone and vibrated with all of her anger in my hand. She was a quick dial. I ignored the call and surveyed my surroundings. OK, I thought, I’m on 86^th Street. I need to be on 83^rd Street. There’s Lexington. Do I need to go right or left? I peered down the street both ways. Left. The numbers got bigger going right.

After I turned left onto Lexington, I stopped in a place that advertised “hot and crusty” so I could pick something up for breakfast to stick with my half lie. I got a cinnamon bagel with blueberry cream cheese to eat while I walked. The numbers continued to get smaller until, my heart almost stopped at the site, there it was! The New York Metropolitan Museum of Art! Bloody hell I’d found it!

The moment was almost religious. I thought I might cry. I crammed what was left of my bagel into the bag and marched across the street. I’d seen the outside before. I’d seen the outside so many times when we’d come to Central Park. Never would Mom let me go in. I took a picture of the outside with my phone and texted it to Bere, Sophia, Grandma and Marcus. I sat down on the front steps and really savored each bit of my bagel, taking in the view of my glorious museum.

After dorking around finishing my bagel and exchanging texts with Grandma—the only person I’d sent the picture to who was awake in Central Time Zone—it was 9:20, only ten more minutes until the museum opened, and I knew I had to do the dirty work. I called Dad.

“Amy! Thank God! Where did you go for breakfast? We’ve been looking all over. I know you aren’t in the hotel,” he said.

“Is that her? Where is she?” I could hear Mom yelling in the background.

“Hey, yeah, I, um, I’m, I decided, I just got done eating breakfast. I’m at the MET,” I said.

“You’re at the MET?” he asked. “How did you get there? Are you OK? Where is that? How far? Did you walk? Why didn’t you tell us?”

“I’m fine. I’m here. I’ll be safe in the building,” I said, walking up the steps toward the front door.

“She’s where?” Mom asked in the background. “Give me the phone.”

“I’m going in now and I can’t be talking on the phone when I go in. I’m OK. Love you.” I hung up the phone and stuffed it into my back pocket. It started vibrating a second later and I realized the back pocket would be far too annoying. I couldn’t have my butt buzzing all day long so I turned it on silent after I let Mom’s call go to voicemail and tossed the phone into my purse.

I was in. I entered the MET. Now was the time for that woman to be singing “Amazing Grace,” I thought. I paid the student fee, well, “the student recommended donation,” and grabbed the museum map. I had no desire to see pottery or weapons or musical instruments. Paintings and drawings. Maybe some sculptures.

I found myself first in the American wing looking at paintings of slaves. How American, I thought. Not that a person should feel good about slavery, but I found myself feeling even more uncomfortable with it than ever. I remembered learning that there was no slavery in Nebraska, but now that the apparent “segregation” of my town had been made obvious to me, I wondered if Nebraska people were really as nice as we were rumored to be. It’s like I live in a world where we are all nice to strangers and nice to each other’s faces but only when we’re in our comfort zones. I like Omaha. I like Nebraska. But isn’t our niceness a little fake sometimes if we expect everyone to stay in their little pockets of town?

“We.” What is we? Do I consider myself a part of that we who are nice fakers? I hope not. I hope I’m really nice.

I wandered along and came to a hall with all kinds of freaky kid paintings. You know, like the really old ones where you can’t tell if the boys are boys or girls and they’re all round and hoity-toity looking? Kind of gross. But, really, in all honesty, fascinating. Someone actually got paid to paint these kids like this. Some family displayed these paintings in their home.

The feelings, the pictures, the details, reading the stories—God, nothing at home was as good as this. Nothing could compare. I wanted to sit down with each work and just study every brush or pencil stroke. See each masterpiece: the perfection, the flaws. But then, just like any other museum there were works that didn’t speak to me. Or there were the ones like the freaky kids that spoke negatively to me.

I found Washington Crossing the Delaware and about threw out my back trying to take in the whole thing. It’s so freaking huge! I mean, I knew the dimensions. I’d read about it. But jeez, really seeing the thing. Amazeballs. I can’t even imagine where the artist started. How do you start something that huge? And the proportions were right. I’d have one head this size, one head another size—it’d be a mess. I read that he had to restart twice because the first two were destroyed. That’s dedication. How cool to care so much about your idea that you keep restarting from scratch. I suppose maybe in the 1800’s maybe he didn’t have anything better to do. He didn’t have a hot young artist at art camp distracting him.

I sat down at the bench in front of Washington Crosses the Delaware and just thought for a while. Staring up, neck cranked and my mouth was probably hanging open like a gaping idiot. I didn’t even care. I was at the MET!

I wondered where you’d have to store a canvas that large in the 1800’s so that it didn’t get wet. It’s not like they had workshops like we do now. He probably had it in, like, a barn.

I couldn’t imagine that dad would let me clear out the garage for a few months to work on something that large. Larger than life-sized. Crap. Dad. I checked my phone fourteen missed calls and eight new text messages. And it was noon. I opened the most recent text message from Dad: “where are you? i paid to get in this place and now i cant find you.”

Crap, I thought. They’re here. I hadn’t even see Degas yet. Shooty, shoot, shoot. Well, it’s a big museum. It’ll take him a while to find me. He probably doesn’t even know who or what Degas is.

“im going to see the degas exhibit. meet me there. thats the last thing i really need to see.” I sent back.

I tried to give myself tunnel vision and not pause on my way to find Degas. It was hard. But then there she was. The Little Fourteen-Year-Old Dancer—the reason I could never be a sculptor. How anyone had the bravery to try sculpting after Edgar Degas perfected this little girl was a wonder to me. I love her. I want to be her. I want someone to be so interested in me that they would take the time to create something that perfect in my image. I want to be so inspired by something that I draw countless sketches before the final project is complete. Hell, even Degas’s sketches of this sculpture are famous and hanging in the museum.

Oh, how I love all of his dancers! What a neat form to study—their grace, their angles, their bodies and tutus. Everything is so perfect. The positions of their heads, their feet—you can see their elegance even in the still frame.

“Amy Delancy, you are in so much trouble!”

I jumped and turned back at the sound of Dad’s voice as he came up from behind me. I was standing in front of Three Dancers Preparing for Class. I turned back to the drawing. How could I care about being in trouble when I finally got to see this in real life?

“Dad, look at this,” I said, still staring at the piece. “How could I waste another second of my life not seeing this in person?” My voice was so quiet. I didn’t care. I didn’t care one bit that he was mad. I didn’t care that it wasn’t fair that he was mad. I was there. I was standing in front of Edgar Degas’s drawings. I was surrounded by them. Woman Combing Her Hair, The Dancers, Two Dancers, Sulking—all of them. I was in a room with the very essence of Degas himself.

Dad was talking all the while I was thinking this, but I didn’t hear him.

“Did you know he’s my favorite?” I asked him. “Edgar Degas. He’s my favorite artist. Do you see the rough sketches here and here?” I asked, pointing to some of his initial sketches of later masterpieces. “Do you see how much he cared about each subject? The care he took to get each detail. He’s just amazing.”

I walked over to The Dancing Class. “He spent hours watching his subjects. I wish I had something like that. I wish I were so inspired by something like dancers that I could just spend hours in their classes watching and drawing. Do you love anything that much, Dad?” I finally looked at him. He hadn’t left Three Dancers Preparing for Class.

“Do you like it?” I whispered.

“It’s beautiful,” he said.

“This sculpture here,” I said gesturing to the middle of the room where The Little Fourteen-Year-Old Dancer stood, poised in a protective glass case, “is one of the most famous sculptures in the world. We’re here getting to see it. Isn’t that cool?

“Degas is French. He lived and worked in Paris from 1834-1917. Most of his work was done in the 1870s. His ones of the dancers are my favorite. The way he studied was that he copied works of Michelangelo and da Vinci. He was friends with Manet, Monet and Renoir and his work was a huge influence on Picasso. Can you imagine? He’s one of the founding artists of the Impressionist movement. His paintings and drawings travel all over the world. I did read somewhere though that he was involved in some controversy that lost him many friends because he was anti-Jewish. I’m not sure I remember all the details. I do remember he said something about how if art weren’t difficult, it wouldn’t be fun. Man, what would it be like for people to remember your work and your words?”

“I like the dancers,” Dad said as we walked toward Woman with a Towel, “but tell me about the naked women combing their hair and bathing.”

“Ooo, I like this one. It’s pastels. That’s what I use when I’m not using pencils, you know. He really liked the female body. During the Impressionist movement, he did a whole exhibit on naked women. Some people loved it, others hated it. The cool thing I know about this piece is how carefully he had to plan the colors. You see he used the pastels with his fingers and all kinds of other utensils like brushes and sticks to smudge and polish the pastel and mixed and layered the colors. The colors didn’t become muddy though. They didn’t mix too much. He was so careful about everything. Each color, each stroke was so planned.”

He just nodded staring at the painting. “So he was just interested in dancers and naked women?” We walked in front of Dancers Pink and Green next.

“I guess so. Can you blame him though? Once you can do something like that, if that’s what inspires you, why not go with it. Who wants to draw something they don’t like?”

“I love this one.”

“Dancers Pink and Green is one of my favorites too. He did one where the dancers are in blue too. It’s in Paris. You see the top hat man?” I asked pointing at the painting. “He’s kind of creepy huh? This one is actually really cool because there are no known sketches of the painting so it’s assumed that he just did it all on canvas with oil paints. I find this really hard to believe with as careful a planner as he was, but maybe he wanted to try something new.”

“You know a lot about him,” Dad said. “I guess that’s like Keegan knowing all about athletes. Hey, when I was coming to find you, I went by some paintings in the rooms before this one that I thought I recognized. Can I show you?”

He took me to Water Lilies by Claude Monet.

“Of course. Everyone recognized Monet. He was another one of the leaders in Paris of Impressionism too. He did, like, dozens of these lily paintings. They kind of became abstract as he went on. My favorite of his, ah, yes! They have it here. The Houses of Parliament. Apparently when he was staying in London he did over a hundred paintings like this at from different angles in different kinds of daylight. That was just his life. He could just stay in London and roam around each day painting. No big deal.”

“It’s not like that for artists any more is it?” Dad asked.

“Well, you know, I think I want to teach art to college kids so that I can get paid to work on my own stuff too. We had a speaker come talk about it. Universities probably let you travel and stuff if it’s for your work. I think this European Paintings exhibit is the best one here, but if you want to look at something else we can,” I said as Dad started wandering toward the next room of European paintings.

I showed him Manet and Goya and Picasso. He was so surprised to see that Picasso didn’t just do the crazy nose-on-the-forehead abstract stuff! We just walked and talked and he listened. He listened and was interested in all the things I had to say.

Then his phone rang. I knew it had to be Mom. No, Dad didn’t know it was almost three o’clock. He was sorry we didn’t call. We would head out right away.

“I’m glad you’re feeling better, Dad,” I told him as we walked outside. “Tell me, honestly, what did you think?”

He held out his elbow for me to slip my arm through. “Amy, that was one of the coolest things I’ve seen in New York. Probably because I had such a great tour guide.”

I knew it! But I didn’t say “I told you so.” I just smiled and we walked arm in arm to the subway stop. I lead the way. 

My day in a nutshell:

     Pretty sure there were cops doing a stake out during my morning hill sprints. Wonder what they thought of me running back and forth across the "half pipe" hills. They did make me feel safer running passes by those evil giant poodles. I swear I've never met a meaner dog than giant poodles. They're almost as scary as the geese/ducks/waterfowl that hiss at me while running at ConAgra or on the Keystone Trail. Notice I found myself more concerned with poodles and ducks/geese/waterfowl than I did with the fact that the neighborhood I run in every week has cops doing stake outs in it.
       I so rarely make movie references, it's very sad to me that people are starting to not get my Other Sister references. First my dentist looked at me like I was crazy when I said "up and down and not across" the other day and then this happened: Me describing my dad's side of the family: "All of my girl cousins are tall, thin and beautiful. I am short, average and, in my opinion, mildly entertaining." Friend: "That's really harsh." Me: "No, if I were describing it the harsh way I'd say in my dad's family, it's like I'm Carla Tate, you know, The Other Sister." Friend: "Who's that?"I proceeded to do all of my best Carla Tates including Olive Juice. Nothing.
      Later, my friend Heather and I admired a hot guy at the gym. Heather: "Wow. So what's his status?" Me: "Yeah, wow. I've worked here a year and a half. Had a crush on him a year and a half. In that time he's fallen in love, gotten engaged, gotten married." I pause. She nods. Heather: "He's good looking." Me: "And really nice. In case you're wondering, by the way, I've been single for a year and a half. That's all the longer it took someone else to fall in love, plan a wedding and execute."
     1. Christmas lights are already strung and plugged in downtown. This annoys me. 2. My thumbs are so incredibly sore from the 2 med ball workouts my classes did yesterday. Better stop that nonsense before I get man hands. Of all the dumb things to be sore on your body--thumbs. 
     Lastly, I think everyone knows my obsession with Mexican food. While discussing with some dude how if I didn't have the lake to visit in Norfolk the Mexican food would still be reason to go home (other than my dad). Dude says: "I'd take Qdoba over the drive." Me: "Qdoba's OK, but it doesn't even compare  real Mexican." Dude responds with: "That's probably why I like it so much. But real Mexican refried beans and chinchillas are amazing." Chinchillas. I don't know anyone who eats chinchillas and I lived in Peru for a while where they eat guinea pigs. Please know I did not try guinea pig, and I don't think these cuties would be very tasty either: