So you tell yourself that's enough for now

(I hate when you spend 20 minutes changing fonts and colors to make your blog lovely, and when you post it everything reverts to type).

I have a word document eating up my harddrive, and it contains yet another blog enumerating the ways in which I've failed to reach my potential, and listing possible motivators for making my next 6 months more effective than my last (6 months ago, I wrote the below blog post. Not much has changed). But once it was out of my headspace, I had little inclination to post it. And then I got my dictionary.com Word of the Day, and thought of this blog I'm typing, which I've been wanting to write/putting off forever, and I finally had the motivation to get started. This blog is completely off-the-cuff and NOT in a word document, because if it were on my harddrive it would never get posted.

So. Here's the part of the blog where I pull a classic (read: obnoxious) public speaking technique and define a word.

eudemonia \yoo-di-MOH-nee-uh\, noun:

1. Happiness; well-being.
2. Aristotelianism. Happiness as the result of an active life governed by reason.

This is the first word in ages that's resonated with me, both linguistically (come on: the rise and fall in cadence, the simply flowing assonance--it's undeniably striking) and emotionally (the word happiness has been on my mind for a while, as may become apparent). What's funny is that even though Dictionary[dot]com took the trouble of lovingly hand picking it for my inbox (that's totally what they do, right?), Merriam-Webster and my handy-dandy macbook dictionary don't even recognize it as a word.

Still, it's fitting with the music I've had on a loop all week, most especially with the song "Happiness" by The Fray (I've also been listening to Keane's "Somewhere Only We Know" if anyone's curious). "Happiness" is a song I've adored for years, but it's taken special significance on my iPod this year. Unlike what I expected upon first hearing the title, it's actually quite a bittersweet song. Isaac (Slade, the band's lead singer/songwriter) explores the notion that we often hold ourselves back from happiness, because happiness is hard. Happiness is more often missing people than it is being with them. The things we want can be our own worst enemies. Happiness is work, and happiness is rewarding. The lyrics resonate with me because I tend to live in my own head, and I have trouble putting myself out there. I often regret saying 'no' to opportunities, but fear of success and fear of failure hold me back. But usually the things that make a lasting impression are the things I have to talk myself into. Sometimes, you need to squeeze your eyes closed and jump off a dock with both feet. You never know when the Blob is waiting for you at the bottom. (Awkward, forced childhood reference metaphor: check).

But back on topic:

During our weekly Thacker D vid chat last week, MC relayed some advice a friend had given her: "Live [where you are] like you're never going to leave." It was advice I needed, too, and I'm so glad she shared it with us. The story behind "Happiness" is similarly motivating. Isaac wrote the song for his grandfather, a widower who lives in a nursing home. As someone who often feels like she's stopped living at age 23, I can only imagine how difficult it would be to stay open to life's possibilites at 87. But ten years after losing his wife, the Fray frontrunner's patriarch met a gal and fell in love. "They went to the [nursing home] cafeteria and got soup, and about 3 months ago they got married."

Wow. If that's not the wake-up call I needed, I don't know what is.

Aside from containing a message that is essentially always relevant to my life, Isaac is just a stunning lyricist. The poet in me thrills and trills, weeps (metaphorically) and sleeps (literally; I can't tell you how many times this song has lulled me to sleep) to these words. "Happiness: damn near destroys you, is more like knocking, throws a shower of sparks, was never mine to hold, has a violent roar."

Here's what happiness looks like to me:

Happiness is Katelyn getting married;

Dottie, too (though she has to wait awhile).

And love is like a photo booth at a wedding,

glowing smiles as Liz restarts her life.

Happiness is photos stuck in pages,

memories scrawled in ink along the Book.

I miss our days sitting up in Thacker,

but Skype date nights feel almost quite as good.

I love the days my mom drives down from up-home;

better still when she brings a packed car.

I have friends here in Carolina,

but loves from home are always twice as good.

Happiness feels so elusive;

there are days I feel dull and alone.

Contentment springs from coffee sunshine mornings;

poetry makes me feel alive.

My heart stretches from Waco to Missouri--

a big pit stop in NASCAR Tennessee.

Movies, wine, KK-esque adventures:

life is love, and love is all of you.

My yearly blog entry

So I'm sitting in the lovely state of North Carolina realizing that my life is a little ridiculous right now. And not in a good way. More in a I'm feeling a little bit like Alexis Bledel in Post Grad way. Which sucks because I hated that movie.

Only I don't even have the cute boy/friend, or the skeevy boyfriend, or the influx of failed job interviews. Because I haven't even been offered a job interview yet.

I do, however, have a great brother. And church once a week. So, you know, there's that.

Okay, yes. It sounds like I'm complaining. Which I guess I sort of am. But really, I'm just wondering how I can spend all yesterday researching appropriate positions at publishing houses, wake up early (well, before noon) to start penning my cover letters, and end up spending two hours researching MA programs in Mythology/Folklore. In California.

The question of the hour seems to be: do I apply for a job at B&N and start writing essays, or reach for the stars and hope a publishing house calls me back? Both options are equally unappealing at the moment, but seem wonderful in the realm of 6 months from now.

I feel especially adrift after reading Kate's wonderful blog about the joys of J-school at Mizzou (miss you, darling) and MC's bi-monthly rants on how difficult and fulfilling and hot masters programs are. In Texas. Guys, I really miss you. And all my other lovely ladies.

On a positive note, I'm on my 2nd day of Zumba dvds. Zero professional life=the inclination to do something positive with your out of shape keister. Dottie, I never fail to think of you and the Julianne whenever I wake up early to work out. Work, school, and a boyfriend, and you still made a date with her nearly every day. Thanks for being my internal motivation.

Now, let's see how many months it takes for someone to realize I finally blogged. Eventually I hope to work my posts up to once every equinox. The one in March should be full of happy springtime thoughts. You'll just have to deal with the dying-leaves drama for now.

Dear Everything Bad About the 90's

Stop invading the fashion industry.

Dear young women who profess fashion awareness,

I know this style is popular right now, but you look like a wrinkled, puffy trash bag. This isn't Derelicte. Please burn all offending items.

Dear Banana Republic,

I expected better of you.

Dear offendeding parties,

See express.com for examples of what 90's inspired winter-wear should look like. Because the website won't let me post its .gifs

Why Thank You, Irony

I'm pretty sure someone had fun coming up with these words:

sesquipedalianism \ses-kwi-PEED-l-iz-uhm\, adjective:

1. Given to using long words.
2. (Of a word) containing many syllables.

hippopotomonstrosesquipedaliophobia, noun:

Fear of long words.

Now that's just mean.

Cover This!

Yes, I never blog. Sorry, guys.

In other news, this year I've discovered how much I adore song covers. I used to hate them with a passion, but they're basically the most fun thing ever. I don't know what I was thinking. Exibit A:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9gW6yQZyx5w&

Silly embed won't work. You'll have to clicky

And this, which you'll have to click cause they've disabled imbedding:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pRmYfVCH2UA

Enjoy the fruits of my procrastination.

For My Beautiful Blonde Invalid

Since my roommate went away

I don't know how to face the day

But I know that she's in pain

So I'll try not to complain.

Last night I slept in Marie’s room

She helps to ward off the gloom

But it will creep back in soon

In Katelyn’s absence I find no boon.

Her surgery went really swell

Now her body won’t rebel

And even though she’s now unwell

Soon she will leap like a gazelle.

I hope that she’s not too hurt

To watch some Glee and laugh at Kurt

Or find a cute resident and get her flirt

On, even if she doesn’t have a skirt (On).

For now she can’t do the Hoedown Throwdown

But please, dear Katelyn, don’t frown

For soon enough you’ll dance around

Even if Asbury makes you skip town.

And now I’ll end this silly rhyme

Because I think it’s a lyrical crime

But remember, Katelyn, you’re really divine

And as for roomies—you’re all mine!

Inclement Weather Advisory

Today I missed class due to inclement weather. I shouldn't have. Fail all around.

The 'bury is trying out this newfangled text messaging system. It worked--I think. It could be that some random person is just texting weather advisory messages. But either way, when my phone beeped at 8:11 and I saw the words "one hour delay," I believed them.

Bad decision, Taylor.

When I got up at 9:15 (around when I generally leave for class) my dear Lola told me I'd been lied to. I checked the email, and she was right. "For non-essential personnel. Morning classes will run as normally scheduled."

Good one, Asbury.

So I'm rather annoyed. I like Dr. Strait's class. In fact, it's my favorite class. I want to be there soaking up highfalutin' ideas and pondering Shakespeare. Instead, I'm here blogging. Boo.

Of course, it was only a few minutes ago that I realized an hour delay wouldn't affect me at all since I don't actually have an 8am.

Why did they send the delay warning almost fifteen minutes after non-essential personnel would have left for work? And why send it to essential personnel (students are definitely an essential to a college running)? And why so vague?

Overall, fail for everyone. Myself included. Off to class thirty minutes late and looking like it.

Edit: The sky is crying death and misery. No fun. But Dr. Strait was cool, so I guess it all works out.

You Wanna Know Me?

I was cleaning out my documents folder and found a list of random things about myself. I'm pretty sure it was for one of those mass facebook notes I never responded to, but hey, it's still valid. Or is the word I'm looking for "egocentric?"

Random pointless things about Taylor:

1. I had no hair until the first grade. When I was a toddler my parents would dress me up in frilly pink things and take me to the store, and little old ladies would say, “Oh, what a cute boy you have!” Now my friends say I have goddess hair. I guess it's an even trade.

2. I have a Dasani addiction, but I'm pretty sure I'd be okay with Fuji, too.

3. I rode to the Capitol’s Fourth of July '07 in a Secret Service SUV. And met Elmo.

4. I used to have an imaginary raccoon named Tas (Tay-z) that would only come out during the nine hour car ride to my grandmother’s.

5. I took a nap in the back pew of the Cathedrale Notre Dame de Paris. There was a service going on, but I was just tired from a walking tour. I feel I should regret this, but I really don't.

6. My first memory is moving from Pennsylvania to Ohio when I was three. I tried to lug my suitcase down the stairs, tripped, tumbled, and got a bloody nose. My mom is convinced I don’t really remember, I’ve just heard the story often enough to delude myself. Does this mean all my memories of running unsupervised around the forest at age 4 are made up, too?

7. I never realized that I break my food into pieces before eating it until my friends lovingly started making fun of me for it.

8. I hate all vegetables except potatoes. And fake ones like corn and pumpkin.

9. Though I sometimes tear up, I have not actually cried since the seventh grade.

10. From grade 6 to grade 11, I wanted to be a fashion designer or a hairstylist.

11. My favorite snack is Pal’s cheddar rounds. I will wake up at 9 on a Saturday to eat them before breakfast closes.

12. Lost is the only TV show I’ve watched since the pilot. No longer true. I'm two season behind. Man, how old was that list? All the others I started in the 3^rd or 4^th season and, almost always, caught up on the previous seasons before the next week’s episode.

13. I’m a military brat, but not really.

14. I hate being the center of attention, but still like to be recognized.

15. When I laugh at my own jokes, it’s not because I think they’re clever. It’s because I’m asking myself, “Why the hell did I just say that?”

16. It takes me a ridiculously long time to get to know people.

17. I used to love animals. I would tag along to the animal shelter with my Mom, hold a kitten until I fell in love, and beg my mom to take it home. She always let me - I'm onto you, Mom, with your subterfuge pet adoption methods. It just took a few years. Now? I can't pet an animal without feeling like I need to wash my hands. Thanks, OCD.

18. I am ADD about my hobbies. I'll get really into read: become kinda obsessed with something, then drop it for something else. It makes me worry about my future career.

19. I will probably regret putting half of this in a blog. I really need a filter.

20. I LOVE my friends - because this belongs in every blog I write.

Blogging for My Roomie

Stupid Safari just died and deleted my almost finished blog. Katelyn, only

you could make me attempt this again. But it's crazy long. So reading it should hopefully get you through your entire recovery.

I’m sure everyone (except my poor Georgia friends) got a taste of the recent snowfall. JC hasn’t seen that much legal white powder in well over twelve years, and I was appropriately excited. After all, what’re a few firey (snowbank-y) deaths compared to the hopes of a white Christamas? When the electricity unexpectedly died twenty minutes before a two-hour Dollhouse special, Jay had a mild panic attack; but I chose to succumb to my rarely seen spontaneous urge and drag my siblings into the snow.

How could I resist? The snow lay in wait, flurries continued drifting softly to the sparkling ground, and the lights from the mall reflected off the snow, turning the sky a stunning milky gold. It was Christmas break magic, there was no denying it.

“Besides,” I couldn’t help but add (several hundred times), “We have an Aga.”

Moriah abandoned us for a party, so there are no pictures. It’s hard to frolick with a camera! This will have to do.

I love my friends. Also, I kept hearing Marie-Claire yell, “Narnia!” in some distant, snow-capped memory.

Moving on, here’s a little rundown of the evening.

Annalee’s boots (which fit my feet—scary) have no traction. I fell about 37 times, beginning spectacularly with a full on, feet-in-the-air, my-butt-hurts slide on my first step off the porch.

The snowball fight turned into a battle of sorts. I was tackled 9ish times, and I’m still thanking my wonderful siblings that Neal was everyone’s favorite target.

A flashlight blinded me no less than 27 times. This was not as bad as Jay’s eye injury (snowball to the face) or Neal’s almost crushed glasses (which were, for some reason, in the pocket of his parka). Annalee got away unscathed.

Our snowman was -32 degrees awesome. And, as any misshapen, crumbling snowman (with one boob) is expected to, it ended in assisted suicide. When one(s) fail(s), one(s) should have a hella good time destroying the evidence. With one(s)’(s) boots. (Okay, now I’m confused).

Also, surges in power lines look remarkably like lighting. It’s super cool and kinda scary, like the northern lights in your backyard. Everyone should see it happen at some point in their lives. Bonus points for a snowy backdrop.

Anyway, we trumped back to a still-dark house, acted smug about our gas stove as we drank mucho hot chocolate, and blindly stumbled to our beds, fully expecting the power to return in the night. The joke, it seems, was on us.

There was no power in the morning. Also, we were snowed/iced in. Didn’t stop Mom from making Dad take us to Pal’s for breakfast. But when we got back, we were pretty much stuck.

I wandered about the house. I pestered my family. I took several naps in unconventional places.

I found myself facing the ultimate conundrum: the Divine Comedy or Harry Potter? Annalee forced the solution by refusing to start The Sorcerer’s Stone because she had homework. And so, Sibling Pressure Story Time was born.

Then sibling conserve-heat-by-sharing-beds was born. It made me miss group naps.

Then our cousins arrived, decided it was too cold, and got a hotel. Thanks guys, really. But it worked out for the better, because we finally broke down and visited their room after two days without showers.

Don’t we look good?

We decided to alleviate our boredom by finishing our Christmas shopping. Wouldn’t you know it?

The power goes out. Good one, mall.

So we headed home amidst the swarm of heretofore-unseen traffic. Where did all the cars come from? We don’t have that many people in Johnson City. I still haven’t figured it out.

And I continued my napping streak. (Ask Moriah why she sepia-ed that picture).

This is nothing; several of us took turns napping on the Aga. It was cozy (but did burn Neal’s butt).

Two days without power: ten thirty pm. Mom, Dad and Neal have gone to the Biltmore so Neal can sing Ava Maria. Jay, Alura, Haley, Moriah and I are hanging out by the Aga, per usual. We hear the rumble of trucks. Could it be? Yes! The Johnson City Power Board! We ran outside in our pjs and blankets (we’re not ashamed!) and pestered the workers.

“Do you folks live on Ridgewood?”

“We live on Cloudland.”

“You’re on the corner, right? We aren’t getting Cloudland up til tomorrow.” A tree had shattered a pole and the lines were scattered across the street like the snakes in Indiana Jones. “But y’all’s line probably runs from Ridgewood. You may have power in a few hours.”

“Really?”

“Of course! Lemme check.” We followed him around the house like hopeful puppies. “Nope, y’all are on Cloudland. Sorry.”

And that was that. We went back to the kitchen, played Apples to Apples by candlelight, and made adult jokes over our little siblings’ heads. Sometimes, you do what you have to.

We weren’t so hopeful the next day. Our non-hopes weren’t disappointed. All our food went bad. There was candle wax everywhere. Still nothing was accomplished, aside from a trip to the Laundromat. We got power back around six pm, 70 hours after it went out. We were leaving in twelve hours. Good one, first three days home.

Still, we had our electricity back. There was much rejoicing.

So then we caravanned to Delaware for Christmas. It’s a nine hour drive. We got there in thirteen hours. Good one, DC traffic.

That week I learned that my love for naps in strange places is genetic. We found Uncle David sleeping: on the kitchen floor, on the living room floor, sandwiched between the sofa and coffee table (on the floor) and leaning against the step on the dining room floor. Moriah has photographic evidence (they’re awesome) but I couldn’t get ahold of it. Ah well. I give anyone reading permission to Facebook stalk my sister.

Before we left we hit the outlets. Factory stores+50% off everything=almost making up for the previous week and a half. Thank you, Rehoboth Beach. Also, Grotto Pizza isn’t half bad either. (Seriously, it’s delicious. If anyone ever goes to Delaware, eat it. Your life will be changed).

So we made it home in eleven hours (due to potty stops for the puppy we somehow ended up with. It cried for three hours straight. Thankfully, we passed it along to my aunt a few days later).

And I’ve been a vegetable for the five days since. Although it hasn’t been a week entirely wasted. I finished Battlestar Galactica. And got caught up on Dollhouse. And dyed Moriah’s hair. And what more could I ask for, really?

If there’s one thing this break has shown me, it’s how often I say "good one." DJ and Marie, this Christmas is for you.

Wednesday, Why Do You Hate Me So

I am stressed and I don't know why. Scratch that; it's because of Dr. Hurlow. Well, not her so much as the article due in twenty-two hours (she hasn't given my draft back yet) and the presentation I have to give tomorrow with no guidelines (except "be creative!" Really? I think no). I hate presentations. They make me literally ill. Seriously, I can't eat for at least 12 hours before I give an oral presentation or it won't be pretty. Sad, sad, sad.

Still, I'm feeling very antisocial. This is not a big deal, generally, cause I'm antisocial all the time. For some reason it's really bugging me now, cause I miss my friends and want to join in their fun hairdying/movie watching/dance party having times. This weekend, you better be awesome.

Also, I'm writing this before chapel. My concealer is missing, which gives me all sorts of free time to blog. I don't know why this needs noting, but I feel it does.

Double also. Dear Kate, thank you for tagging me in your music blog. It made me really happy. I hope I don't let you down. Please bug me this weekend so I don't forget to do it. Love, Tay.

Triple also. I love miscommunication. It happens all the time. Like now. Katelyn and I misheard each other, and now we're talking about Hey Arnold! Does it get any better? No. No, it does not.

I feel I should mention: The show Hey Arnold! includes an exclamation point. I'm not being dramatic, I promise. If you don't believe me, check out my blog title. That'll convince you.

Places I Should Never See My Breath . . .

. . . but have in the past week.

-My car

-The caf

-My dorm room

-Chapel

I'll keep you posted. You know, in the vague, not really sense. Cause if I ever start to see my breath in Morrison or McCreless, my fingers have probably long since frozen off, which tends to hamper typing, so I hear.

Me, Myself and Aye Aye Aye

I have to say, I've just been convicted. Not in a fire and brimstone kind of way, or even with anything particularly strong. Just a gentle "You're wrong" from God.

All day I've been a little irritated at people in general. Nothing huge; just a few specific things that people have done made me way too angry. I was aware of it, and not letting it affect me. No worries.

But I was still judging in my head. "That was so rude of them." "Did they just do that?" "Really? Really?" Even the wordless, welling annoyance in my chest had a hint of judgment around the edges.

I just realized that all of the actions that have bothered me today were essentially selfish decisions people have made. What's the deeper meaning here? I don't know. But I was all prepared to blog (or rant to somebody) about how selfish we, as humans, can be (complete with examples from my day, heavy on the "can you believe that?").

Then I got to thinking: how selfish is it that I'm judging other people's actions?

Yeah, it might have been selfish of them not to think of others in that instance. But isn't it just as selfish for me to expect them to cater to me? Or even when my irritation was on someone else's behalf; how selfish is it for me to get angry about something that the aforementioned person brushed off? Isn't getting mad at others' self-focus putting the focus back on me?

It reminded me of John Weece's chapel message (because everything today has), and, on the whole, my need to let God lead my thoughts. Jesus wants me not to be bitter, even on the smallest scale. Who am I to judge? God doesn't, ever. Jesus suffered for every self-centered action I or anyone else has ever committed. It's so selfish of me to think I have to right to consider other people's actions acceptable or not.

Okay, so this is vague, over-analytical and possibly pointless. But I hope y'all can see through all that to what I'm trying to say. Don't let sin get'cha. Or something like that.

Yes, I Was Blair Waldorf for Halloween

It is ridiculously difficult to come up with a good Halloween costume. My creativity has already been channeled elsewhere, apparently, because I always seem to draw a blank. I think this is because we Brantners weren't allowed to celebrate Halloween before 2004. Mom and Dad, this is all on you.

But my friends had awesome costumes:

And mine turned out okay. Besides,

who could pass up seeing this?

Or this?

Or any of these?

All in all, an evening well-spent.

Also, this blog is sub-par, and that's all on Katelyn. But that's okay, cause we're in love.

5 Stages

When one experiences a loss so great, so deep, that they feel they simply can't function anymore, they often resort to psychological games. Elisabeth Kubler-Ross identified these symptoms in her 1969 book "On Death and Dying." These coping mechanisms, the 5 Stages of Grief (aka the Kubler-Ross Model), can seize those closest to us, leaving us defenseless.

I never noticed Eddie's great love for Bella, but in the time since Katelyn replaced the tried and true periwinkle blue with a nameless cobalt beauty, his grief has been unimaginable. Here I've documented the personal struggles of myself and my car in the hopes that someday soon, we can finally move on (with our lives intact).

The Five Stages of Grief

September 26-October 14, 2009

Depression: Kate, Katelyn and I reach the car, laden with shopping bags and cringing under the steadily increasing downpour. I shove my keys in the lock and turn, but Eddie will not be moved. Several attempts to unlock the door and he gives up, but he remains mopey for the rest of the day. At one point his dejection keeps the key fixed in the ignition. I'm worried.

Denial: "My dad said the key is faulty, and I've got a new one, so . . . . And I know I said the brakes are acting funny, but they're barely jolting. I'm probably just imagining it."

Anger: Katelyn and I are on our way to Penn Station, and I can't help but notice that the brakes are now catching. We shrug it off. Pull into the parking lot. Eddie is growling at us, but he's been foul tempered for at least a week now. I find a spot, pop it into Park, and take my foot off the pedals. Eddie is suddenly, irrationally PISSED, spitting and growling, revving the engine to 5000 RPMs. Katelyn glances at me--"what did you do?"--but my hands are held defensively aloft, both feet firmly on carpet. I snag the key and jerk it from the engine, slicing through Eddie's fury. Katelyn and I lean back against the seats and glance at each other. What the hell was that? He was so frenzied I literally wondered if we would explode. I don't know what I've done wrong.

Bargaining: "Come on, Eddie," I murmur pleadingly as Katelyn places a soothing hand on the dash. "Just a few more miles and we'll be home." I realized that my eternal gratitude wasn't a sufficient incentive sometime between the brakes starting to squeak and the engine accelerating without my aid.

Acceptance: Katelyn, I think we need to play matchmaker. There's only a 50% chance my mechanic will call back, and I don't know Eddie and I can take much more.

Sexy Friday

Today was a good day. Here's why:

1. Skip chapel, sleep til ten

2. Sexy Friday, kickin' heels [bonus: watching my hottie friends walk around campus all day]

3. Two classes canceled, bum around with Sarah, Jenelle and Kate

But probably the best part was Artist Series. And not just the dresses and the makeup and the hair, the pictures and "girrrrl"s and clacking through the rain in crazy high shoes. Not even the wonderful boys who sheltered us from the angry sky. No, by far the best moment of the night was when I stared up at the stage, watching the pianist of Cordis rock out, silky black hair flowing down his back, and this image popped into my head:

Sadly, I then compared each band member to the Aristocats, and my glee was immeasurable upon realizing they all fit. Childhood wish fufilment? Check. What else ya got?

To blog or not to blog

I am indecisive. It took me over an hour to get to this point. How sad.