It's Tuesday, And I Should Still Be Writing... Something Else

I'm still struggling to write and work on my dissertation proposal. There isn't one single reason why though. Part of it is the oppressive heat and humidity. Unless I'm doing something that gives me a joy that's filled with a sense of wonder, such as hiking (especially if there's a waterfall!), the heat is just too much.

I'm even willing to wake up early to avoid the worst of the heat and humidity of the day... which still means hiking when it's hot and humid. It's just not as bad as if we waited until the afternoon. Bonus: there are fewer people on the trails in the AM.

My depression and anxiety don't help the writing situation either. Some of that is my brain telling me I'm not that good at anything; some it is my brain telling me not to care about anything, even the things I legitimately care for quite a lot; and, although there's much more, some of it is my brain freaking out because there's so much information I can't figure out how to organize it so I can actually write. It doesn't help that when I feel super trapped by it all I can't enjoy stepping outside to look at my garden because it's so fucking hot and humid.

The latter two bits are why I'm REALLY having a hard time right now.

I've devised a few plans. Some I've had to throw out because I don't have a big enough table--just laying out all the books and articles on a giant table would be the best! But I can't. No table. I also have two cats that would sit on everything, mess it all up.

I've narrowed it down to two methods:

1. Use my various colorful flag Post-its to create a color coded system. Each color would point me to a specific area (in this case an area of critical pedagogy because that's the section I'm on).

2. Creating some columns, likely just handwritten, for each area. I'd then mark down which book or article and the page number of the information I need.

Although the second seems more tedious, I'm leaning towards it because sometimes you run out of Post-its, and I don't want to make things more confusing because I don't have anymore blue Post-it flags.

And, NO, I'm going out to buy more in this heat and humidity! Plus, that would just tempt me to stop and buy a fountain Mr. Pibb, and I've been doing so well at only drinking it if I'm at certain restaurants (Note: I drink soda during holidays like Christmas because it's often the only source of caffeine available to my body that doesn't make it hurt).
 

I'm a Skinny Darling...

I'm finally realizing who I am... whatever that means. It sounds trite, cliche. But it is what it is... I've been meaning to blog about this for several days, but I continued to put it off because the timing itself felt just as cliche and trite as the concept itself (you know, New Years etc.). But alas, here I am, bored and writing about it.

It it all started with a pair of jeans, well a shit ton of jeans really. You see, I lost about five or so pounds while I was in grad school because cooking for one blows...  I learned to snack. Apparently snacking and sipping multiple coffees a day can lead to weight loss. Of course it didn't matter because we got a Noodles and Company my last semester. Combine that with extra stress, and blamo: the five pounds returned! And to continue the never ending trend, I lost it all again... everyone around me was dying so I drank a lot of Mr. Pibb but didn't eat much... and then I lost a few more after coming down with some mystery illness that really just turned out to be an unfortunate side effect of a medication. Needless to say, I had several pairs of jeans in a plethora of sizes. I never knew when I might need the others!

So, what exactly do jeans and "figuring out who you are" have to do with one another. Well, for one thing, it's really difficult to figure out who you are when you can't hammer down a solid weight (seriously, I feel like I'm riding a yo-yo. I'm currently down a few pounds because I lost muscle weight due to a bum knee) let alone a wardrobe. It doesn't help when you look about four year younger than you actually are... I confess; I'm a twenty-six year-old who purchases her jeans from the juniors department. And it most certainly doesn't help when it seems like they're constantly falling apart faster and faster. Solution? Apparently more expensive jeans. It sucks, but realizing the problem wasn't me or how I was doing the laundry made me feel a lot better. It also sent me into a tailspin. I actually cleaned out my closet...

While I was cleaning out my closet, I realized the clothes I was discarding seemed "young" or "college-esque." Everything that remained was either a comfy pullover for weekends or a cardigan (or one of the seemingly endless amount of tank tops that go with the cardigans). Something clicked. I finally realized what I looked good in. Sweaters! Cardigans! I can stop worrying (sort of) about putting weight on because I found pants that fit; I found comfortable yet work appropriate clothes that fit.

My closet actually looks like a closet of a twenty-six year old, and less like a twenty-something with no idea what to wear. I of course will still struggle with "ugly" days, "fat" days, "too skinny" days, or "nothing looks right on me" days. And I'll still get frustrated when that really cute sweater from Macy's doesn't come in a size that's small enough for me. I'll also still get frustrated when people tell me I'm too skinny or this or that. Seriously. I'm fully aware. I don't need a cupcake. I'll take a cookie though, maybe two or three depending on what type... no oatmeal or raisins! And no nuts!

But I digress... at least I'm getting it somewhat figured out, and I'm starting to become at least a little more comfortable with who I am and what I look like. In fact, I'm more comfortable with my looks than I realized.

I thought I didn't know how to do makeup. Every time I put on foundation I thought I looked weird, like it was all wrong. Well, after letting a Clinque lady do my face up, I realized I'm just a Darling woman: I hate makeup. It's funny really. All these years, I thought I was doing it wrong! It turns out I just really hate the look of foundation and most of it's counterparts (I really am like my mother! Eek!). Just don't take my mascara!

P.S.
Yes, mom, I'm bringing home a lot of clothes when I come home. Don't ask how much either... just be surprised. Love you!

Day... 19

Yes, I had to look up how many days it had been since I vowed to stop drinking Fazolis Mr. Pibb. Maybe that's a good sign... or maybe it's a sign I haven't been blogging enough! Either way, I'm on Day 19, and it sucks, sort of.

At first it was incredibly difficult. I tried anything to get my hands on the beautiful, Mr. Pibb filled yellow Styrofoam cup.

Seriously, I tried anything. I asked... I begged... I bribed! BUT I am proud to say in these nineteen days I've only had about... well, I don't remember how many. I know that I can count them on one hand, maybe one and a half. Not too shabby... I was drinking two to three a day!

This journey is actually quite bizarre. My palate is actually changing or perhaps adjusting rather. So, for those who thought I was crazy... I'm not! According to a very trusted and educated source (my therapist!), I actually fine-tuned my palate. I could tell the difference between fountain Mr. Pibb, bottled Mr. Pibb, canned Mr. Pibb, and differences in syrup to carbonation ratios at different restaurants! Now I'm on the other side-- my palate is... generalizing? Un-fine-tuning?

Whatever you prefer to call it, my palate is adjusting to canned Mr. Pibb. It's starting to taste good again, but on the semi-rare occasion I'm able to con a Mr. Pibb from Jeff, I still enjoy it... along with a feeling of dumping toxic waste down my throat. I suppose that's a good thing, for this journey at least.

And of course, I'm still saving money... I'll see you soon iPad!

Day 1: Fazolis Mr. Pibb No More... Saving My Way to an iPad

As you, my avid readers, know I love Mr. Pibb. I've blogged many a time about Mr. Pibb and its comings and goings throughout my days. It is perhaps my biggest vice, especially when it flows from a fountain into a giant Styrofoam cup. It's only found at a few locations, one of which is just a short drive from my apartment... Fazolis! Ah yes, the delicious, medium, 2.16 cent Mr. Pibb from Fazolis. But I need to give it up. That's right. I typed it. I've even said it. Fazolis Mr. Pibb, I bid you farewell. Why?

I want this...

An iPad! Besides, Fazolis Mr. Pibb costs me about 30 bucks a week. That's a lot for Mr. Pibb.

So, can I do it? Let's hope so... even if I have to tape pictures of iPads on every mirror and surface I own.

Wish me luck! Or send me a donation :)

Grieving and a Girl who Loves Mr. Pibb

Grieving is a funny thing. That might sound ridiculous, but it's true.

My grandma has been in and out of the hospital for several weeks, maybe longer. Right now, she's not my grandma. She's just a vessel for sickness who only looks like my grandma. Somewhere inside is the Grandma Darling I know-- the one who held me as a baby, ate cabbage with my mom and Aunts while I dipped slices of hot dog into mashed potatoes, the one who makes the world's best Angel Food Cake, the one and only Bingo master, and the one filled with wisdom and a capacity to deliver a hug like no one else.

So why is grieving so funny? After all, that last paragraph is rather heart-wrenching.

Well, upon hearing about the latest turn of events with my Grandma, I pulled into a drive-thru at a nearby Fazolis-- they have the best Mr. Pibb in town. I really needed one... I think I might be addicted, literally. Elizabeth (Yes, that's how often I go there--I know their names, and they know me.) opened the window, and sweetly said, "I was told to give you this for free." I thanked her, drove off... and I lost it. A free Mr. Pibb sent me over the edge. Mind you, I was on the verge before the free Mr. Pibb, but the smallest gesture turned me into a ball of tears and snot. I'm sure it all would have eventually came out, but like I said grieving is a funny thing. The smallest thing can trigger a breakdown, even a free Mr. Pibb in a yellow Styrofoam cup.

The best part about all of this? If Grandma Darling could hear (or comprehend-- they say morphine is good stuff) this story, she would smile, laugh, and, as always, say something wise.

I'm a Mr. Pibb Connoisseur...

I might be an addict too. Okay, so I am an addict. And before we go any further in to this post... I've said before, and I will say it again and again: It is Mr. Pibb, not Pibb Extra. It might have an extra pinch of cinnamon, but it will always be Mr. Pibb to me and every other Mr. Pibb fan. Moving on.

For the third day in a row the Fazoli's near my apartment has no Mr. Pibb. I feel as if my entire day is off-track, and it's not going to find it's way back on until I have my Pibb in a giant, yellow Fazoli's Styrofoam cup. It's like I didn't get my morning coffee, that is of course if I drank coffee. Sure, I could drink canned Mr. Pibb, but I'm a connoisseur-- I know the difference! My body craves it from the beautiful yet likely bacteria laden fountain with the perfect ratio of carbonated water to Mr. Pibb syrup. It also craves it from the one closest to my apartment. I've tried it from other Fazoli's, and it's just not the same.

Now there are other places that serve high quality fountain Pibb. Unfortunately, they are incredibly inconvenient... I'm brazen enough to walk into a sit down restaurant and ask for a Pibb to go, but damn you Mexican Restaurant with delicious fountain Pibb, you are across the street from a Wal-Mart. And that means traffic! Seriously, it's never not a pain in my ass to get to that Mexican joint (who also serves amazing queso!).

Oh, Fazoli's, you need to get that Pibb back. It's been so long since you've had it, I've written a blog about your lack of Mr. Pibb. That's sad... on your part, but mostly mine.

Mr. Pibb vs. Pibb Xtra

According to Wikipedia (thank God my students don't read my blog as Wikipedia is a hideous source), in 2001 Mr. Pibb received a little spice: cinnamon. So, I admit, it is just a little different than it was before, BUT why does this mean we have to call it Pibb Xtra? I for one, won't ever be calling it that. See, I won't even refer to it as that again. It's Mr. Pibb.

Seriously, it's Mr. Pibb. We as human beings are constantly changing, but we don't change our names ever time we add something to our mix (unless you're a little kooky like my father). So, why should Mr. Pibb? I have grown, shrunk, dyed my hair, cut my hair, grown out my hair, painted my nails, changed toothpaste, had four pair of glasses, changed majors, became lactose intolerant, and switched anti-depressants like a woman pms-ing changes clothes before work. Not once did I change my name, and I certainly didn't change my name when I added a little more serotonin action to my brain chemistry.

So tell me, those of you who disagree, how is that any different than Mr. Pibb adding a pinch of cinnamon?

Besides, I can't even notice the cinnamon.