Take home exam, Part II

I had a meltdown tonight that started with the realization that there was a Part II to my take home exam. I called Sprinky. She asked if I had a cold. I told her no, that I was crying and that I couldn’t even think of a good reason why since Part II only added two more double-spaced pages.

By the end of the conversation, I’d cried through the cellulite I had discovered on my thigh 20 minutes earlier and the resignation to aging and out-of-shapeness, which was only amplified by the understanding that I would not be able to get to the gym to play basketball tomorrow at 6 because I’d have to stay up later to finish the stupid exam; and after that, that I’d seen the most beautiful sunsets from the levee 4 nights in a row and had done my best to share them with people, but that at the end of the day, it was still only me walking to my car in the dark; and after that, that I’d missed the gorgeous moon tonight, but saw it last night when everyone else was busy and I was exploding with spectacular full-moon goodness; and after that, that the plane tickets I went to buy jumped like $70 during the 3 minutes I was trying to purchase them. My family—all 8 sides of them—will be together on the same day at the same time for my niece’s first birthday party, and American Airlines is messing with me. I don’t know when that will happen again barring a funeral or my own wedding. Doesn’t the airline industry know that?

In the end, it turned out that 80 degrees and sunny reminded me of summer in Fort Wayne with our little sliding door open, and me on the couch and Sprinky in the bedroom, and everyone coming in and out, and air mattresses all over the place, the OC and champagne, and the baby Weber grill, and my family only 2 hours away. I haven’t spent a summer outside of Fort Wayne in almost 10 years. What I’m missing here is couple of SCAN peeps, a very icy tall nonfat mocha on the corner of State and Coliseum, Elaine on my air mattress, a ten-year old following me around for weeks at a time, dusk on my balcony, and one very important Sprinky on the couch.







What I have instead is Schroeder’s take home exam part II, which seems to be as hazardous as tear gas or something.

Dear TUFW: don’t go!

I can’t believe TUFW is closing.

In the back of my mind—this is how painfully hopeful the world inside my brain is—as long as the school was there, we were all still somehow connected. At least there was a building and a lot to prove we ever were, and a dorm over by the woods off Lexington hanging onto a hopeless panicky eighteen year-old version of me, and a dorm next to the old cafeteria that always feels like a giant hug when I picture it inside. Two windows to the right of the door, on the second floor, is where I realized there was a chance I might be smart and capable and not crazy at all, but loved, actually. It changed my trajectory.

I feel like part of our history is disappearing. It’s the only place that ever felt like home; a place I can walk into even 5 years later and take a hopeful breath. One time someone loved me here, is what I think when I walk inside.

I’m so sorry for the staff and faculty being uprooted and displaced. I just can’t imagine:
A- how shocked and sad and uncertain everyone must feel
B- not being able to stop in and say hey to Dr. Cook or James or Tami whenever I secretly need to touch down on home base for a sec.

It’s heartbreaking on all accounts.

When I don’t feel so strange, I’ll do some kind of hilarious best memories post. But for now I just want to go home and hug people, and then pee on the library for old times’ sake.

(kidding)

Dear TUFW: don’t go!

I wish

I wish the hostess had not yelled out “Party of One!” in the middle of an 8:00 Saturday night restaurant crowd.

I wish the streetcar driver had not yelled at me in front of the whole streetcar for trying to use a transfer ticket at a non-transfer stop.

I wish I had not cried on the streetcar.

I wish I could be in Fort Wayne tonight on somebody’s couch.

Oh man.

My dad is learning how to text. He called me tonight and said it took him 25 minutes to text “Are you watching the Olympics?”

I told him I think its hilarious that he had a blackberry before they were cool and didn’t even know what it was, figured out how to “wink” and “poke” and find a wife on the internet, but is just now learning to text. Dads.

Okay. Down to business. Yesterday I got back from Florida. Sometime between last Thursday and now, I forgot that New Orleans was my home- I kept thinking I was going back to Indiana. Even worse, no one here knew I left, and no one knows I am back. I went all day today without talking to a single person except Navigon. To her credit, we had some great conversations about how to get to Target and Wal-Mart and the importance of u-turns. I eventually tabled the issue as she was getting edgy through her passive aggressive use of the words “Please” and “When possible” and “Now” but it was great to hear her voice. At 7:30 I realized Navi wasn’t actually a human and started calling real people. I just felt like someone should know where I was and what I was doing.

Then I came home to the cardboard cutout of SJP. She was glad to see me, I could tell by her stare. Her eyes were saying, “Welcome home. You look fantastic.” I wanted to have some coffee and tell her about Florida, but her legs don’t bend and she can’t handle liquids of any kind. So I settled for Subway and the weather channel meteorologist.

I feel like a stranger in my own life. Especially when I am in Wal-mart or Barnes & Nobles and get caught up in produce or magazines and walk out expecting to see Jefferson Point, but instead see the New Orleans skyline. I typically gulp and wimper and suck it up. But it is an awful 2 seconds during the realization.

Earlier today, I went to the uptown campus to find out about the job (the lady was gone) and must have arrived right at the beginning of welcome weekend or something. There were a million undergrads everywhere all fresh-faced and cute and hopeful. There were parents and little brothers and looks on their faces like, “This is my best friend, Sue. I just met her 5 minutes ago.”

I could have cried remembering that feeling—although my family never actually moved me in, it was the Broadheads—but seeing Elaine and Sprinky on that first day and thinking I was going to die when I got a load of Sprinky’s blues clues bedset. Hello? Blues Clues! Then making instant best friends with everyone, and switching friends, like, every 3 weeks until we found our places. I just loved it. Even things like Cara threatening to rip out people’s ovaries for being too loud in the lounge. Even that. And Jill tearing my shirt, and Sprinky killing Jill’s hermit crab, and Elaine saying inappropriate things to Millenium Bear in her sleep, and all of us making Helen pee her pants in the middle of the night; stealing all the shower curtains, Crazy Lena firing me in my sleep. Honestly, I could go on for 4 years.

This afternoon, already reduced to conversing with my navigation device and a cardboard cut-out of SJP due to lack of readily available friends, I couldn’t help but feel unbelievably jealous and nostalgic for my college friends and the intimacy of life together—literally, next door from each other. Now I am just a way older version. With less fun. And less energy. And less metabolism. And less friends. Boo.

My good friend said I am good at collecting people and that I’ll have plenty soon.
I said I USED to be good at it, but that I didn’t think it was my thing anymore.
She said it’s who I am.
I told her I was too worn out for social awareness. Those types of things take a lot of emotional energy and motivation, which I had in abundance at 19.
At 27, I feel very comfortable settling for 25 Oreos and America’s Next Top Model at home by myself.

Us as freshmen- you guys will love this:

Hausser









Me, Chuck, Steph, Beth, Trish







Making Koolaid



Finding moldy koolaid (we thought we had created a jellyfish)















Bball- I miss this! Team sports are the best.



Bethany (the person and the dorm :)





Valentine's Day- I actually got called off this shirt



Millenium bear- the giant stuffed bear my grandma sent me for Christmas. Not quite how she envisioned us using it…



Family weekend





Twister in Bethany lounge



Sprinky and the Bethany lounge mantel







Miss you guys.
Love you guys.
(This whole college thing just isn’t the same without you.)

Over and Out

I moved out of Fort Wayne today.

By and far the best good-bye gift I received:
A life size 7ft cardboard cutout of Sarah Jessica Parker from Sofia.



She will be my first and only friend in New Orleans and will hang out with me in my living room at night or while I am brushing my teeth in the morning. We had a long talk on my way to Indy about how much things are about to change for us.



About New Orleans. I have gotten into this awful habit of checking all the crime alerts on campus by the hour. It has been integrated into my daily routine: check e-mail, check facebook, check crime alerts. Statistically, I’m sure to get shot, mugged, carjacked or burglarized within the first ten minutes.

People have encouraged me to take a self-defense class. The thing is, self-defense classes are in the recreation center, which is far away, which means I’ll have to drive. I am most concerned about getting from cars to buildings and back into cars. I will be doing it as little as possible, and most often with hand-held shrubbery to disguise me as I scurry between buildings. This makes something as dangerous as a self-defense class more risky than helpful since it will involve a parking lot and all. I mean, how would I get from my car to the building, or from the building to my car? Especially if the class is after 6pm or something?

A person has to think about these things.

Also, the fact that there is no Taco Bell in the city. My diet consists of mostly fast food and $3 champagne. While local fried food is available, I am worried about the effect this lack of Taco Bell will have on my body. Don’t even get me started on the prospect of having to introduce fruits and vegetables at some point. I don’t want to overwhelm myself.

Happenings of note.

I had to drink Sprite out of a bowl this week because there were no other dishes.



Saturday we had birthday mimosas at Spyros—our favorite breakfast joint. BYOCAOJ- Bring your own champagne and orange juice. Classy.







(Elaine’s) Birthday cake at Casa’s



Spending some quality birthday time together



And, as any good birthday party would have, a crazy Sprinky—on the left:



Favorite goodbye party moments of yore:











The box of sweaters in the closet that let me know I was definitely home at my dad’s

fw

Good morning, fort wayne.
We only have a few more days together.
Maybe that’s why you’ve kept me up…

Three months ago:


Tonight:

You've held me well.

I'll miss you.

No clothes = no Ribfest

If you are one of the tens of people who use google reader, you might get 35 new post notifications from me. I am transferring old blogs from other websites into blogspot.

What else am i supposed to do on a Friday night with the shings? At 3:30 today, I could no longer stand to wear clothes. There went Ribfest.

If Jesus had shingles, the ASK clinic would help.

Why I am 65 on the inside:

1. I have gray hair
2. My knees hurt when cold front comes through
3. I have shingles

Let’s start with the shingles.
Leave it to me to get a disease for 60-year-olds during the two months of my life I don’t have insurance. Years down the road, this will be the dialogue between me and my potential clients:

“Do you have health insurance?”
“No, I can’t afford it”
“I think you should consider it. When I didn’t have insurance, I stabbed my foot with a parking lot spike and got shingles.”

In 2058, it will be an urban-health-insurance-myth: remember the girl who stabbed her foot and got shingles?

Here’s the thing, I had the stupid disease for almost two weeks before I even knew what was going on. I washed our clothes and sheets and couch covers in scalding hot water, because I thought we had some kind of a bug issue. I even walked around the B&G Club asking, “I’m sorry, I know this is weird, but do you guys have scabies?” I showed them the rash. No one had scabies. (I have this weird irrational fear of scabies.)

I covered it cortisone cream, and then in 3.7% benzyl peroxide face cream for good measure.

In the meantime, I started having all these kidney pains and rib pains and stomach pains, and thought I had jabbed myself too many times with the millions of boxes I moved this weekend out of my apartment into my dad’s. So I JUST KEPT HEAVY LIFTING, thinking I was just toning my rib muscles. My rib muscles, I tell you.

When I finally bared my torso and heard the word “shingles”, I gasped and then mentally ran through my will. I would die fighting, at least.

Kathy (my dad’s wife and a nurse) explained that it was neither life-threatening nor contagious, which was excellent considering I spent the weekend with my 2-month old niece and didn’t want to die—or end up like Dave letterman, who was MIA for three months with shingles. But apparently the pain only gets worse the longer a person waits to get medical attention, and I had already waited two weeks. They said I needed anti-virals and pain meds, like ASAP.

Enter: no health insurance. You remember my last experience with the free clinic, right?

I had no choice but to get up at 6 am on Tuesday morning, drive down to the free clinic and sit on the curb, in line, until the doors opened at 8:30. I was 7th on the list, and I waited for 4 hours. I wish I’d thought to bring a notepad to write down all the crazy conversations I heard at sunrise on the curb outside of the ASK clinic—as in Ask, and you shall receive…

But I have to say, wholeheartedly, the clinic ministered to me today.

I barely have an income, and I am in that two-month time period between the last thing and the next one. Every other clinic I’ve been to—and I’ve been to three—required proof of address, paycheck stubs, and a payment percentage. Once I paid $150 for vaccination, and once I paid $35. I was grateful both times. But I was seen by sketchy people and treated like the 75th person they’d seen that day who took advantage of the system and was just not worth the time and effort it took to provide the discounted service in the first place.

Today, the workers were kind and efficient, even the sign-in lady. Even the lady who walked up at 8:30 and unlocked the door for the mass of ill or injured people who were crazy for their meds or drooping on the curb with blasted shingles. She walked up and said, how is everyone today? I thought things might be okay right then.

The doctor turned out to be an actual, true doctor—albeit an 85 yr old one. I waited for 4 hours because he spent, like, 30 minutes with the guy in front of me who had a knee problem, and another twenty minutes with a lady who was afraid to get a mammogram, and the Indian family in front of them who were working with a translator, and the family before them who spoke only Spanish. Plus, he walked slowly.

But they cut the patient list off at 25 (from what I could gather) to adequately serve those who had already arrived, and made an effort to not over-promise and under-serve.

In the end, they never asked why I couldn’t pay. They did not require proof that I couldn’t pay. It was an interesting social-service concept: if someone says they need something and you have the means, give it to them. There were no hoops. Proof was not necessary. I was sick, so they helped.

They treated me like I was actually Jesus.

I was seen by the doctor and then sent downstairs for meds, and I received everything for free. FREE! Two hundred dollars worth of prescription meds were provided and filled by volunteer pharmacists, and I was seen and diagnosed by a volunteer doctor who greeted me with a smile and asked how my day was going. Can you believe it?

I love the ASK clinic.
I love that there are organizations giving service a good name to the actual client instead of just the donors.
And I love that there are people out there who treat other people like Jesus.
I hate the shingles. It feels like someone is continually stabbing me in the back and then setting my stomach on fire.

Belize eve eve

I should be sleeping.

I wish I could be one of those people who only blogs when there is an essential update because I think I could trick people into being interested longer. I really tried to wait until Thursday night so I could just say, I’m leaving tomorrow! And that would be that, but no. It’s my last night in Fort Wayne (again) and I can’t sleep.

My bags are packed- all four of them, three with program supplies and one little carry-on with three months of clothes. My outfit for Friday is folded and sitting on top of the laundry basket I’ve been carrying around since September. I picked up this cute little newborn hat today with floppy dog ears to give to my brother tomorrow in case Lily is born before I get back. Skype is downloaded and ready for use (skypename: brkwilson, if anyone is interested). All four seasons of the OC have been ordered and packed safely in my backpack.

It felt really strange to brave the winter storm today, to fill up my gas tank in the blowing snow and head out to Wal-Mart for sunscreen, bug spray and a mosquito net. Tomorrow I’m picking up the last of the programming supplies from the Boys & Girls club, eating as much fast food and ice cream as possible, and heading to Indy for dinner with the fam.

My flight leaves at 6am Friday.

The only thing I know about the family I’ll be staying with is that the son teaches in San Marcos at David’s school, and he lives with his mother and two sisters. I picked out some lotion and body splash for the girls and something more manly for Adam. I wrapped everything in cellophane and tied them with a cute ribbon. Obviously I’m sort of nervous.

I will be meeting up with Antonia (the principal at Santa Familia school) in Miami and sharing her flight to Belize City, then making the two hour cross-country drive to Cayo, close to the Guatemalan border.

I don’t know how the programming will pan out logistically. I mean, I’ve got a series of programs, and they’ve got lots of students. I’m not sure how the age groups are divided (grades and schooling is different than in the States) and I’ve never really facilitated without TVs and DVD players and copy machines and pre-and-post-tests, and other basic programming tools I am accustomed to, like, electricity. But I trust (I mean, I am really banking on this fact) that Jan-April 2008 was planned a long time ago and that God was already on these little details.

Just in case, two of my massive 50 pound bags are packed with paper, tape, glue, scissors, crayons, makers, pens, pencils, and lots of little prizes. If you have ever been inside a Boys & Girls Club, or participated in any program, you’d know that the key to a child’s heart is not electricity or overhead projectors or posters or pencils or anything. It’s candy. And now, in light of the childhood obesity thing, it’s little toy prizes—which I have packed, with care, in mass quantitiy to the exclusion of things like more construction paper or a second pack of scissors.














I’ll have three months, at three schools, in three villages to lend a hand. I hope to pass on everything I know about goal setting, conflict resolution, peer mediation, drug and alcohol prevention, healthy habits, decision making, and STD, HIV and AIDS education to the kids and teachers and families there. Beyond that, I hope to hand over a piece of my heart, to share what has been given to me: love and hope.

I’ll stay in touch and try to post pictures and updates weekly.
Over and out.

Brookie