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hot water.

“OH MY G… JESSICA!”

Flashback: it’s mid-October, last year in my CS apartment.  Nick has come into town for the weekend, and stays with us on our couch.

I jump up from the sofa, my book falling to the floor and losing my place, and run into my bedroom.  I knock on the bathroom door.

Nick, what is it?

“What the HECK is the matter with you? Why is your shower set to stun?”

What?

“You could have warned me!”

About the heat settings on my shower?

“Jessica!”

That’s what the screaming was about?

“I’m sorry, the next time I almost scald myself, I’ll whisper.”

Thank you.

… Are you okay?

“I’m fine.  How do you turn it off of nuclear?”

Move the knob to the left.

I went back to my book, and fifteen minutes later, Nick plops down next to me and turns on ESPN, smelling nice and clean… however clearly disgruntled.

Hi.

“Seriously, Jessica.”

What? Are you honestly upset about the heat of my shower? My shower, in my apartment, where I live?

“It was set to an inhuman level.”

It was not. That’s just how I like my showers.

“No wonder people are talking about an energy crisis.”

Shut up.  Now you’re all warm and toasty.

“No, Jessica.  I’m singed. Burnt.”

You’re a baby.

“You’re lacking heat sensors in your body.”

Flash forward: Tonight at approximately 10.43pm.

DAGNABBIT!

Disappeared.  Gone.   Poof.

Cold, frigid ice water raining down on my head.

You’re kidding me!  (Cue mental flashback to Nick screaming in my apartment, which prompted the first story.)

“Jessica?”

Of course I can’t simply take a shower at 11pm.  Of course, because that’s when the stupid washing machine has to run.  Of course that runs out the hot water. Of course.

“Jessica! Are you okay?”

Fine.

Fine, fine, fine. I’m fine.

Towel, pajamas… I’m freezing.

“What happened?”

That stupid washing machine that has to run Right Now stole my hot water.

“I thought you’d fallen or something.”

I did not have the foresight to see that Dad would be concerned about hearing my scream my fool head off.

I’m sorry.  I’m not yelling at you, just the lack of hot water.

“It shouldn’t be doing that…”  Dad’s already downstairs fiddling with the hot water heater for his demanding, stressed out daughter.

It’s okay.  I’ll just wait until whatever’s in the wash is done.

So here I sit, mascara streaks down my face like I drew on war paint with DiorShow… stupid washing machine.

only a few days left.

I’m tired.

No, scratch that.  I’m downright exhausted. Lately, no amount of sleep feels like enough.  Last night I had 10 hours.  I still can barely function.

Some of you may remember when I was leaving CS.  (Oh, and this one too.)

It was painful, mostly because I was leaving behind four years of memories, and would have to continue in “the D” without my best friends.  I was miserable.

And now, six months later, repeat my earlier circumstances ad nauseum.   I’m tired, and I still have more studying to do… I need more bloody hours to fit into a day, while I simultaneously lament the length of a day in the life of JR.  It’s such a catch-22.

Aside from the fact that if I don’t study, I won’t pass and therefore won’t graduate, anticipation mixed with a unique brand of nervousness is also keeping me awake.  For years I’ve been so anxious to get to this phase in my life; done with college, exams, stress.  I’ve fixated so much on becoming without all those things that I’m not quite sure what to do with all the spare time I’ll have on my hands.

Stressing out about my math class takes up an inordinate amount of space in my brain, and is likely why I sought a doctor about heart palpitations two summers ago.  Every day I float through an awful series of “is this due?”; “is this due?”; “did I get this right?”

It’s beginning to tax my nerves.

I’m looking forward to apathy… maybe if I’m lucky I’ll form some dissociative complex, hide myself away for a year and actually finish that novel.

Probably not.

I’ll probably just find the next big thing to stress about.  And another excuse for not getting enough sleep.

Right now,  I’m sitting in my dining room, covered up in one of my favorite quilts and listening to the portable Black & Decker heater roar.  Mmm… cozy.  Except for the math that needs to be studied.  Not quite as fun as oh, say… reruns of Will and Grace.  Definitely not.

Even though my bed is just up 16 stairs and down the hall, I refuse to leave this room until all that math review is done.  Funny, because I mostly ignore the fact that we even have a dining room, much less occupy it for the span of an entire 24 hours.  I also do not habitually eat Maggiano’s leftovers straight from the heated foil take-home box with a can of Red Bull as an accompaniment.  There are a lot of things I don’t usually do that are being done tonight.

I typically cave in to my overwhelming need for sleep and crash around thirty minutes ago.  I do not contemplate making a tuna salad sandwich at 2am, and I do not (except when Katie’s here) lament the fact that Sonic, my caffeine factory, closes at 12.  But such things are necessary tonight, because tonight is the last night before my math final.

So wish me luck, all of you who will read this in the morning.  I hope you have a wonderful day.  Your prayers for my success on my math test and improved cognitive function do not go unappreciated, I promise you.

book review: Twilight

When all the rave about a new cult phenomenon called Twilight started, I paid no attention.  A vampire novel?  My generation of vampire novelist was Ann Rice, an author whose books I never read, because I don’t do vampires, the un-dead, creepy things, etc.  Not interested.  But then I heard that my sister had read it.  Katie doesn’t really like to read books, she reads plays.  For her to find a book that she really enjoys, it takes a pretty talented writer, someone who can really work with the flow of the story.  If Katie had read it, I had to try it.

And so two days ago I purchased the book for the members’ price at the local B&N, and let it sit on my nightstand for a day.  Today, in one of the few afternoons I have to myself, I started reading and couldn’t stop. I finished the 500-page book in two hours.

It’s no wonder that Meyer’s book is causing a phenomenon.  It’s a quick, intense, suspenseful, romantic storyline, told from a very identifiable first person perspective.  The heroine, Bella Swan, is shockingly easy to relate to; she’s clumsy, nervous, slightly socially awkward, (but simultaneously strong) and makes a difficult choice to move up to the middle of nowhere and start a new life because she wants to see her mom happy.  I’m not giving anything away – you learn this in the first few pages.  Edward Cullen on the other hand, is breathtakingly surreal.  Meyer describes him in such perfect detail that you can see his character glide across the pages with surprisingly little effort.  If you’ve paid any attention to pop culture at all in the last two years, you’ll recognize where the vampire craze  has come from.  Edward Cullen is such an irresistible character that Meyer’s sequels should sell themselves.

I am, despite all my intentions to resist, a little bit of a romantic.  I don’t, however, take up romance novels or the like and whisk myself away to small, sunlight dazzled corners and smile unabashedly at love proclamations from fictional characters (not that there’s anything wrong with it).  But this story is a love story.  One so intense and passionate, and yet painfully human, that I was slightly breathless on more than one occasion.

I haven’t written a book review since high school, and this is my first stab in four years, so to sum it up: Stephenie Meyer is a compelling, talented writer, and I’m leaving the house now to go buy the sequel.

sleepy.

I’m exhausted, but I just saw a commercial that made absolutely no sense, and so I’m provoked to write about it before it’s forgotten and shelved with differential equations as I sleep.

It’s a KMart commercial, where a man comes up behind his wife who’s standing looking at herself in the mirror.  He runs his hand down her arm, and says, “Hmmm… cashmere.”

Then a look comes across his face, “Did we go over budget?”

“No honey, I went to KMart!”

Announcer voice: “100% Cashmere sweaters, now only 39.99!”

First order of business… didn’t KMart go out of business in my metroplex?  And if this is true (which it is), why am I still seeing their cashmere commercials on my television?

Secondly… Actual Scenario Man is not going to rub his hand down his wife’s arm and instantly murmur, “Hmmm… cashmere.”  It’s not going to happen.  The real world scenario would be that a man rubs his hand down his wife’s arm, and says, “Fuzzy.”  Maybe he says, “Hmmm… that’s fuzzy,” but it’s defintely a statement of texture, not textile.  As much as I love Nick, I’m sure he can distinguish between cashmere and burlap, but only to the point of: “That one’s soft, and that one isn’t.”  Cashmere and angora?  No.

I just had to get that out.  Socially innacurate commercials annoy me.

Election night.

I don’t like when I feel a responsibility to comment on the state of the world.  It’s not as though you don’t have your own opinions, and it’s not as though mine really count.  But this is one of those times when I feel that, considering the impact of tonight on our world, I’m almost required to find words to say.

So, here’s all I’ve got:

My faith is not based on knowing in which drawer to find the scissors, or how many minutes it takes from me to get from home to work.  It’s not based on some theory that little gnomes are holding up the world with strings and duct tape.

I looked up at the sky tonight and (since I live in the boondocks) saw more stars than I could ever possibly count.  I took breaths of fresh, cool air, I stood still as this awesome earth continued its orbit.

My God is so big.

And that’s where my faith comes from, that’s where the peace is.

diet coke.

I pulled in to Sonic tonight at 7.22pm. I was exhausted (I still am exhausted) from being up until 1am waiting on news regarding Nick’s sports injury, and then from being on my feet all day.  It took all my energy just to stretch out my hand and push the little red button.

“Hi, welcome to Sonic, America’s Favorite Drive In! My name is Josh, how can I help you?”

I need a…

I need a Coke.  Good, old fashioned fountain Coca Cola, but the new pressures I’ve put on myself to be healthy had me thinking.  Coke, or Diet Coke?  Coke or Diet Coke?  Coke or Diet Coke?  Coke…?

“Hi, welcome to Sonic, America’s Favorite Drive In! My name is Josh, how can I help you?”

Coke.

Large Coke.

Perhaps my judgment was impaired due to the aforementioned reasons, but deep down, I know why I went with the empty calories.

People who drink Diet Coke are crazy.

You know them (and to be fair, it’s not all of them).  They’re the ones who can drain a Diet Coke before you’ve even unwrapped your straw.  They say things like, “I’m hungry, we should go eat,” drink a Diet, and then pick at their meal.  And you know that the only reason they wanted to “go eat” in the first place is so they could have a Diet Coke out of a fountain as opposed to out of the cans that they have stashed in their purse, wallet, car, desk drawer, etc.  At (insert your local grocery store here), these people make a beeline for the Diet Coke so they can pretend that they’re stocking up for a party or some such nonsense.  They’ll get fruit and multigrain cereals so that the other people in the store don’t think that they’re desperate junkies, but we all know that those pantries contain enough dry goods for the next national food shortage, while the fruit moves from the fridge to their eco-friendly compost pile uneaten, week after week.

They’re the ones with the shakes… accompanied by frequent, hurried comments like, “I just haven’t had any caffeine today,”; “My headache will stop in a minute, I just need a Diet Coke,”; “Have you seen my phone?” (which they’re holding in their hand); and the best: “I’ve only had four or five today.” They’re the ones who are always carrying around those red and white cans, and you get this eerie feeling that it’s not the can you saw five minutes ago.  Don’t kid yourself.  You’ve seen the signs.

It makes me wonder… what’s in that stuff?

I don’t envy you, Diet Coke fiends.  Perhaps you’re a few pounds lighter, but I’ve got my sanity.

nothing.

I cannot say these words enough:

You hold my every moment.

You calm my raging seas.

You walk with me through fire,

and You heal all my disease.

I trust in You.

And I believe You’re my healer.

I believe You are all I need.

I believe that You’re my portion,

I believe You’re more than enough for me.

Jesus, You’re all I need.

You hold my every moment.

You calm my raging seas.

You walk with me through fire,

and heal all my disease.

I trust in You.

I believe You’re my healer.

I believe You are all I need.

I believe that You’re my portion,

I believe You’re more than enough for me.

Jesus, You’re all I need.

Nothing is impossible for You.

Nothing is impossible.

Nothing is impossible for You.

You hold my world in Your hands.

“Healer” – Hillsong

life is difficult.

I’m going to change my shower curtain rod.  An innocent, innocuous task.

“Why do you need to change your shower curtain rod?”

Because the bubble pattern on my shower curtain rod doesn’t match the flowers on the shower curtain.

“No one notices things like that.”

I notice things like that.

“Then change it.”

But that means I’m going to have to get out of the house, drive to the store, where they’ll probably be out of shower curtain rods.

“Surely they won’t be out of shower curtain rods.”

They’re always out of shower curtain rods.

“How often do you check for shower curtain rods whenever you’re grocery shopping? How do you know they’ll be out of shower curtain rods?”

I just know.

“That’s ridiculous.”

No, it’s how life works.

“Not normal peoples’ lives.”

Maybe we have one around the house.

“You’re kidding, right?”

No. Maybe we have one around the house.

“Jessica. You believe that Wal-Mart, the place where you can buy four different kinds of grapes twenty-four hours a day, will somehow be out of their seven thousand unit inventory of shower curtain rods… but you’ll find one in your house?”

Yes.

“Taking one from another shower in your house doesn’t count as “finding one”, Jessica.  Your sister’s going to be pretty aggravated if you just dump her shower curtain on the floor because you didn’t want to have a shower curtain rod with bubbles on it.”

I’m not going to take one from another shower.  I think I saw one around here the other day.

“You’re nuts.”

I’m going to go find that curtain rod.

“I’m going to go study.”

You should at least stay on the line so I can gloat about being right.

“Fine. Go hunt.”

Hah!

“What?”

I told you we had one.

“Are you serious?”

Dead so.

“Where did you find this shower curtain rod?”

In the downstairs guest bathroom.

“Well, congratulations.”

Thank you.

“I’m going to go study now. Please don’t kill yourself trying to put it up.”

Nick, it’s a shower curtain rod.  It’s not shelf hanging.

“You just worry me.”

I will be fine.

I get the bubble printed shower curtain rod out of its suspended mode easily.  Everything clatters to the floor, flower curtain and all.

The new color-block curtain I’ve chosen is laying neatly on the floor, with its coordinating hooks sitting beside it, waiting to be installed.

Unwrap the… unwrap th… unwrap… Why the heck won’t this stupid plastic wrapping come off?

Oh, it comes off.  In a million little pieces.  This is stupid.

Why would  you wrap something this way? Each piece of the hardened cellophane wrapper takes a year and a half to unglue itself from the shower curtain rod, and each piece static clings to your body as you furiously try to shake it from your hand, leaving you covered in static clingy hardened cellophane pieces…

It’s unwrapped.

Shower curtain rods are simple to install.  Twist one way, it gets longer.  Twist the opposite way, it gets shorter.  Twist both ends of the shower curtain rod in opposing ways, and it tightens and stays where it’s supposed to.  The difficult part is balancing the pole that’s almost as big as I am over my head while standing on a three-inch wide surface, trying to get it to suspend itself in between the walls of my shower.

This is when I fall.

Foot slips, head hits back of shower, pole comes crashing down on top of me.  Darn it.

I get back up on the three-inch wide surface, and here we go again.  I get the shower curtain rod at the perfect height, evenly distributing its weight, and I go to reach for the little metal color-block coordinating hooks and curtain when the shower curtain rod falls again, hitting me on the head.  I fall off the three-inch wide surface, step on the little metal things, scream in pain, fall, hit head.

I quit.

It’s a good thing I got a tetanus booster shot for the last sharp metallic thing I stepped on, otherwise I’d be racing to the doctor right now.

The third attempt was a success, for now.  I’m just praying I twisted the stupid thing the right way this time so it doesn’t spontaneously knock me unconscious when I try to hang the new curtain.

remote.

I haven’t been very diligent in updating this blog, but thanks for your constant interest.

Yes, I can see you on my blog stat tracker.

Anyway. I realize that it takes me forever to update, and I’m not always funny, I’m not always interesting, and sometimes I’m annoyingly introspective. Regardless, enough of you have come often enough to bump me up to over a thousand hits, so thank you for reading despite all the aforementioned flaws.

I should not do homework while I watch t.v. Forget the obvious reason why: I don’t pay attention to my homework and instead watch Law & Order… last night I had another realization why it’s a poor idea for me to attempt my Calculus homework while watching t.v.

I was spread out all over the couch – a lab to be turned in next Tuesday on my left, two pencils with which I had to repeatedly do the “fast grab” to keep them from disappearing forever into the abyss of my couch, notebooks, papers, computer, calculator… and me, on a loveseat.

I hate this.

“Jessica, what are you doing?”

What are you talking about? I’m knitting. I’m packing… I’m obviously struggling with differential equations.

“No, what are you doing?”

I’m trying to figure out how to put the this modified square root into the calculator.

“With the remote?”

What?

The cable box is scrolling through 4×2-the cubed root (I can’t figure out how to input it on the computer, either) of x, and understandably freaking out.

Shoot.

“I’m going to take that back now.” Dad takes the remote away from my confused little hands. “There’s your calculator.”

I’ve been suspended from remote duty.

It takes the cable box a few seconds to figure out that we want to change the channel to TNT, not figure out the marginal cost of producing 100 tacos.

I should either stick to Law & Order or Calculus. I obviously can’t do both.