Flu Girl Talk at 4am

Happy almost-4am (yikes).

Do I have issues with priorities? Yes. But in my defense, I have the flu right now, and I slept all day. Supposedly, because I am sick and my immune system is crap, sleeping all day shouldn't have affected my internal clock. Hahaha yeah...try again.

So here I am. It's almost 4am, and I'm blogging. This blogging-at-weird-hours-of-the-night (day) thing is turning into a bad habit, but hey, at least I'm not out drinking at these weird hours (or ever). Bloggy blog blog blog...

Random thoughts I've had/collected over break:

1. Family is awesome. I was lucky enough to do some phenomenal bonding with my great grandma (and my family in general) over the days leading up to - and following - Christmas. Love. That. Family. And my littlest sister literally stalked me for a couple hours today. Why? Because, "Mom told me not to leave your side until she comes home." Works for me. Company + a little minion to fetch Tylenol/Motrin/crackers/peach tea for the sick kid = a somewhat happier sick kid.
2. Doctors must get sick. I had a really nice doctor today after driving a half an hour away to find an urgent care that didn't have 40+ people waiting like the one that is two minutes away from my house did. Yeesh. Happy flu/sick people season! I was the oldest kid by at least fifteen years in the waiting room, but that's what I get for going to South Lake Pediatrics; the key word is pediatrics. I couldn't help but think that doctors must get sick; after all, they deal with all of us when we are sick. How do they stay healthy?
3. Books are amazing. I just finished a series - the Hush, Hush series by Becca Fitzpatrick - and I'm extremely sad it's over. Now I have to go reread all of the books again :) The final book ended beautifully, even though it was 3:15am. My bad. It's a series created for teenage girls and that's obvious: the mysterious, sexy boy who just happens to be a fallen angel kicked out of heaven? That right there should scream TEENAGE GIRL CRAZE. Judge me as you will...the books were delicious.
4. Winter break should be longer. Coming from the kid who will probably be sick through New Year's everything and has barely thought about school but is now realizing that it starts back up in T-minus too few days, break needs to be longer. Ugh.
5. Holiday food and treats. So, so good, but so, so bad. Sorry about the excessive commas there...anyway, staffers, I will be dropping off a decent amount of candy/chocolate/cookies come that-wretched-day-when-we-go-back-to-school. Get ready for sugar highs.
6. Technology is beautiful. I recently joined the iPhone craze - it was my big Christmas present/incentive to finish (start) my college apps - and I'm loving it. Maybe a little too much, but whatever...my snapchat is Hu-lia because JBay and JBayBay and Juju and JujuB and Julz and Jules and Hulia and JuliaGulia and JoJo and pretty much anything that is a variation of my name is taken. Sigh...

Okay. I'm posting this so it is posted before 4am. The time stamp on here is messed up, but it's currently 3:58am so...I'm going to go alphabetize some yearbook rosters. Happy sleeping.

You five :)

It's 1:39am and you hang up the phone. The phone that you were so afraid of answering, the phone that you hate to talk on. Is it a metaphor for your life? Hating to talk on the phone isn't exactly normal, but neither is talking on it for four hours straight (with three interruptions).

So you hang up that phone you supposedly hated talking on, smile to yourself, and stare at it. You shake your head and laugh as you catch yourself smiling, proceeding to check the "recent calls" section just to verify that the past (2 hrs + 21 min + 17 min + 58 min) just happened.

With this kid that you thought you barely knew, who insisted on calling. Who calls anymore? Yet calling was way better than texting. My parents would die from culture shock if they realized I actually talked on the phone. You talked and laughed and talked, forced to repeat sentences as the mumbling interfered with the actual message of I like you and the silences grew longer and more comfortable. You discussed politics - literally - even though you hate it. You talked about mutual friends and colors and weird facts and habits and rooms and paint colors and foods and being cold. You talked about what actually happened and hinted at what is to come. You re-hashed the entire evening - the smiling and looking down that he is so fond of, the nudging one another, the gummy worms crinkling at the most inopportune times in the darkness of the theater, his bold move when he took your hand and your heart jumped, even though you weren't sure it would - down to every last second that could have made a difference. You laughed at one another and poked fun, stopping to clarify I'm kidding because you don't know each other just that well...yet.

You clarified on the technicalities of the potential -  I don't want it to be too soon. You guys broke up pretty recently - to make sure you aren't crossing any lines, stepping on any feet, pushing any boundaries (fill in the blank with any cliché you want), and to make sure you aren't just the rebound. 

By the end of the night/early morning/when your voices became more mumbled, the pauses grew longer than long, and the need for sleep was almost tangible, you were referring to the undefined "it" as we. We basically have their metaphorical blessing. I wish we had rehearsal together tomorrow. We we we we we. A small word, but it makes you smile as you say it again: we. You laugh because your phone has absolutely no battery left but it's still hanging on. You laugh because those gummy worms are still folded up in your purse, only five absent because you didn't breathe enough during the movie to actually eat them. You laugh because it was supposed to just be a movie with the theatre kids, but it turned into so much more. You laugh because you hate talking on the phone and you just did for four hours. You laugh because it's 2 am and you're laying on your bed in your purple poodle footie pajamas (you'll always be a child at heart) blogging because your best friend isn't awake and because nobody else really knows and you just want to skip and jump and scream and laugh and jump and frolic and hug and kiss everybody (but him especially) and because you are damn tired and there is just no way you are going to sleep yet.

It finished with many goodnights. A goodnight from him, a goodnight from you. A sweet dreams from him, a sweet dreams to you too from you. You three. You four. You five. Your personal joke - the constant barter of sweet dreams and good wishes that only comes from two people who don't want to say goodbye - that initially signified that "it" was real. That "it" really could turn into we. And that final text Goodnight (: that sealed the deal and sent you scurrying around, ripping off the jacket, throwing on the footies and taking out the contacts, feeling for the glasses, flipping the lights off and the laptop on, settling down to blog it all, because what better way for an AP Comp student to vent? And finding this:

I climbed the door
And opened the stairs
I said my pajamas
And put on my prayers
Then turned off my bed
And crawled into the light
All because you kissed me goodnight

Which technically hasn't happened yet, but who gives a poop. There's potential in the we that makes you smile at the poem, recognizing the bubbly heart-jumping, blushing, feeling that continues to spread throughout your body. Maybe it's those gummy worms that you really shouldn't be eating at 2:22 am because you have to get up and finish start college apps (oops) and clean your room and do laundry and take a shower and start some homework and go shopping and look over music and remember to breathe when he will inevitably text you Good morning (: but who really cares? You just spend God only knows how long venting onto the internet about talking on the phone for four hours and now you're eating gummy worms at this time in the morning? Nobody really cares about those worms. They're yours to smile at and reminisce on, but it's time for you to reminisce in your sleep.

Goodnight. Goodnight. Sweet dreams. Sweet dreams to you too. You three. You four. You five. Goodnight :) 

The Phenomenon Called "Lamentable Sunday Nights" and Why They Occur: A Blog Post by Julia.

Well, because I'm "that kid," I did the Analyze your writing! thing three times. Just for fun. (And to see if the website was actually consistent.) 

I write like Chuck Palahniuk. Sorry, sir, I'm not sure who you are.
I write like Edgar Allan Poe. Sir, I know who you are.
I write like Cory Doctorow. Sorry, sir, I'm not sure who you are either.

Either my style of writing changes with every blog post (very possible) or that website isn't as consistent as I'd hoped (even more possible). But hey, it was interesting! Who cares if it is based on an algorithm or if it's produced by a literature/composition geek hanging out in his dark basement, surrounded by books, writing by candlelight, and only emerging from his shockingly small bedroom to make coffee or have dinner when his mama calls him. I'd take either answer :)

Now it's Sunday night. Ahh...Sunday night. My least favorite time of the week. It's the time when I (re)realize I put my homework off as long as possible. It's the time when I realize that if I don't do three loads of laundry before I go to bed, I'll be going to school naked for the next week. Yikes. It's the time when I really want to take a shower, read a book, watch TV, light my yummy-smelling Cookies for Santa candles from Target (everyone loves Target; don't deny it. I also have a HUGEEEEEEE obsession with these candles) and snuggle into my bed at a decent time...like anytime before 1am. High standards, I know.

What really happens on these notorious Sunday nights? I (re)realize that procrastination is a (fill in the blank with your favorite colorful word). Harumph. 

I can guarantee I will spend the next 8-10 hours cramming for the next week and telling myself It is only five days. Then you can sleep and catch up on life. During this time, I will be texting my best friend, who will also be doing the same thing: cramming like crazy. That's just how we work. Sure, she'll go to bed two hours before me because she does homework some Friday nights (yes, we are both aware that we do not have social lives, thank you for checking), but we both hate Sunday nights. Because we both procrastinate. 

Why do I do this to myself? Why do I leave all my homework/laundry/lunch-packing/cramming/reading/anything I would ever need to do for Sunday night? Why don't I just do it and not suffer through long nights at the beginning of the week?

The best answer I have is that I'm human. Honestly. That's all I have for you. And because YOLO. Sorry, it's this generational thing. We have weird catchphrases. But honestly...YOLO. We had a choir party last night, and did I think about my homework? Yes. At the beginning of the party, in the middle of it when I told Michael to shut up and stop talking about school, and at the end of it as I was driving home and thinking Oh, shit. I've screwed myself over for tomorrow. Then I shrugged and went on with my life. 

This is how far my concern extends: I got up at 1pm today (for the record, totally not intentional. My mother said she would get me up for church. Did that happen? Of course not. Did she assume I would get myself up eventually? Yes. Did my body decide not to wake up until it was bursting with sleep? Of course. So 1pm it was), frolicked around my house for a while (I honestly can't remember what I did. Oh...I ate popcorn. That's about it?), then made Christmas cookies with my siblings. And now it's 5pm and I'm kicking myself. But...

It's worth it. I spent last night with some of the most fantastic people in the world. I laughed my butt off and didn't stop smiling for hours. I have a bloody lip because a snowball fight was amazingly fun. I made cookies with my siblings because it's tradition and sometimes being with your family is more important than working on the not-yet-started MoPro part three or studying for a physics test. Especially considering the recent circumstances. Sometimes it's covering the dog in flour (sorry not sorry, Gabi!) and bickering over who made too many snowflakes and why there is flour on the dog and who left the cookies in there that long and wait they're not done put them back in and oh my gosh you have flour all over your face stop eating the cookie dough don't think I didn't see you Mom are these done yet when are we decorating the cookies wait make me one more letter oh and one more snowman and stop it we have enough stupid circles! Sometimes that's what makes life messy, fun, memorable, perfectly imperfect, meaningful. Sometimes it's sitting at your desk on a Sunday night, surrounded by dirty laundry and not-even-started homework, kicking yourself, that makes life memorable. Not because you're sitting in your room surrounded by homework and laundry, but why you're there. Because the flour fights, snowball fights, laughs, bloody lips, and dirty dogs are what you'll remember for the rest of your life, and the rest of it doesn't matter. Because family and fun and memories and living are more important than getting an A on that test or going to bed before 1am.

Propose it. Grow it. Reap it. Test it. Fail it. Repeat.

The best way to find out if you can trust somebody is to trust them. Ernest Hemingway

Narration

I'd always considered myself trustworthy, but it's safe to say I'm biased. I assumed trustworthy went with responsible, an idea attributed to me by my peers when nobody wanted to hold on to the class work for the next day. After all, if someone considers you responsible, they trust that you can manage to not lose that lab overnight. But it didn’t really hit me until that moment – the one where my phone vibrated, I grabbed it and found a hurt and angry text from my best friend – that trust doesn’t always mean being the responsible one. Sometimes it’s just about being the one they know they can go to. 

Description

They sit in silence, eyes meeting in the midnight darkness of the car. There’s something almost tangible between them, but it isn’t the usual lust of teenage sexuality. It’s something more, something subtle, yet important. He reaches across the console and comfortably places his hand on her knee, feeling the coarse fabric of her jeans under his fingertips. She intertwines their fingers, finding words unnecessary when being with him is this natural. It’s an understanding that brings peace, knowing that neither would try to hurt the other. He can see it in her eyes as she gazes out the window, smiling to herself.

Example

Trust fall: the age-old game where we determine that peers are indeed strong enough to catch our falling bodies, making them inevitably trustworthy. Does it actually function as a team-building game, inspiring future conversations of depth between classmates? Not last time I checked, but allowing yourself to hurdle to the ground at approximately 9.8 m/s does encourage the hope that your classmates care enough to pay attention. And hey, maybe preventing one another from cracking your skulls open on the cold concrete can build trust between people.

Comparison/Contrast

It’s one of those things you can’t see or feel. Unlike love, which is blatantly obvious – too much PDA in the hallway, the nasty really-we-can-separate-our-limbs-when-we-go-to-class approach to relationships – but can also be subtle – a slight touch on the back, they way they smile at each other as they leave – trust isn’t visible. Sure, you can play games where you torture one another into falling on someone else, but that doesn’t happen in everyday life. Trust is practically tangible, but it goes unnoticed; it’s the way people confide in one another, not in how they attack each other in the halls. Although it very well could be.

Process Analysis

Trust isn’t given from the start; humans are wary of one another – as they rightly should be – and trust must be earned. It often starts with a friendship, a scary circumstance, or a sentimental moment. From this point, one decides if the other is worth their time. If so, the individual proceeds with caution, testing the waters of trust as one trusts the cold lake in the summer. If the water proves warm enough, the individual proceeds, but if the water is too cold, the individual retreats to the safety of the beach. This process is repeated throughout the relationship.

Division of Analysis

Trust takes years to build up, but it can be torn down in seconds. Because of the fragile nature of this idea, one must look at the relationship between the trust-er and the trustee, the ways one has proved himself or herself worthy of trust, the content to which one is privy, and the amount of times the trust-er and trustee have had to re-initiate the trust between them.

Classification

When one thinks of trust, one often thinks of the trust required for life-altering secrets to be kept secret. If feeling spontaneous, one might take the playful approach and think of the dumb games required in classrooms to build the artificial hi-please-don’t-drop-me-okay-good-I-lived trust. Trust is deep, artificial, genuine, wary, and shallow, but it is always necessary in relationships.

Cause and Effect

Say there was no trust on the face of this earth. In short, all hell would break loose. It would be each man for himself, every individual believing that help from others was malevolent, designed to throw him/her off track for their own personal gain. Human relationships would go down the toilet (but watch out…perhaps the toilet has a plan of its own to take over the world). Humans would become wary, selfish beings, focused only on their own goals, blind to the needs of others.

Definition

Trust is what makes up our relationships. It is what defines us as human beings; friends are chosen based on trustworthiness, and information is shared based on who has what amount of trust. Trust can be the deep-seated secrets that are shared to unburden oneself, or it can be the casual “Don’t worry, you look great!” from a friend that keeps one together on a rough day. Almost tangible, it exists in our world without acknowledgement until it is gone. It takes years to form, but is fragile and can be broken within seconds.

Argumentative/Persuasive

We trust individuals for individual reasons. The best friend that always has your back, the sister that tells you your outfit is hideous, the teacher that encourages your learning in a positive manner – each person has a reason to be trusted that is different from another. While these are all prime examples, some argue that we cannot trust everyone. Why, sure you can! You can trust the spiteful girls to be catty, the intelligent students to have the right answers (most of the time), the babies to cry. We trust one another – for different reasons – without realizing it.

Epiphany at Eight

We're all taught from a very young age that if you have to be "sneaky," you probably shouldn't be doing whatever it is that is making you "sneaky." More specifically, sneaking around is bad. And so is stealing, for that matter. Stealing is a very bad offense. Stealing is one of those topics that is black and white. You either steal or you don't steal. You're either a bad person or a good person. But sometimes there's the grey in-between where everything gets blurry like my contacts as I write this. And sometimes it's these grey areas that make you question who you are as a person.

My mother has trained me to be a good child from the beginning of time. I left for the middle school bus at 7:38am every morning starting in fourth grade. What fourth grader wants to be up before the birds? No fourth graders that I know, but I sucked it up and rode the bus. That's the price I paid for an education at an arts school. 


It was on these cranky good-morning-just-kidding-I-hate-being-awake mornings that my mother instilled the belief into my brain and my book of morals that all people should be treated equal. I would flounce out of the house - as rough as those mornings were, they don't even begin to compare to high school, hence I had enough energy to flounce - and down the street with a kiss and a hug and an "I love you!" for my mother, a hasty "See ya!" for my siblings, and enough naïveté to believe that the world would end if I missed the bus. My mom would call after me as I trudged down the street five whole houses, "Be nice to everyone!" I always humored her, saying, "Yes, Mom. I will, Mom. Okay, Mom." It was one of those things where I just nodded, smiled, and waved, trying to avoid tripping over the wandering neighborhood cat.

Having this phrase ingrained in my head was convenient. I treated everyone with respect, including those I didn't like. Especially those who weren't nice to me; they got a special little smile, the kind where you know the person is just tolerating your behavior. But I was not discriminatory in the treatment of others.

I continued to be the rule-abiding, law-making overachiever that I was. Everything was black or white. Good or bad. Clean or dirty. My simple little ideas were not tried until the fatal trip to Sam's Club.

I had a best friend once upon a time. She was a wild child. Her sister was constantly in trouble with the school system, her oldest brother knocked up his girlfriend, her other brother was never around, and she was the baby. You could say she didn't really adhere to the rules that I worshipped. 

Regardless of our differences, I lived at her house. We spent hours together before dance doing homework, our hair, building forts, playing with our American Girl dolls, eating chocolate covered pretzels or ginger snaps, rearranging the toys in her living room. Her toys were my toys, her drama was my drama, and her mother was my mother. Where I was quiet, she was rambunctious, troublesome, dramatic, and busy. Where I was bent on rules, she was bent on breaking them. I didn't really see any of this to be a problem; after all, don't opposites attract? Out different personalities completed the friendship.

It was a fall day when we took the trip to Sam's Club. I never went there unless it was with her; her mom ran a daycare center out of their house and had to buy gallons of milk every week, whereas my family used up a gallon of milk in two weeks. We entered the store, grabbing the big carts and dumping them on our moms, deciding instead to run around and look at everything possible. 

We had been in the store for a little over an hour when she motioned me over to the candy aisle. Sitting there, on the shelf, was an open box of gum balls. They were just sitting there, bag ripped open, waiting for someone to pick them up and walk off with them. And just who would do that? My best friend of course. She urged me to take the gum balls, but I refused; in my black and white world, taking something that isn't yours - unless it is a sibling's, in which case all bets are off - is bad. Dirty. Not right. Mean. It could get you in trouble. Did this stop her? Of course not. Did it stop me? Of course it did. There was no way I was taking those gum balls, whether they were an accidental free-for-all or not. 

My best friend was not to be swayed. She looked at me like I was nuts, questioning again and again, "Why not? Nobody will know." There was no way my perfect, overly-moral and overly-conscientious brain could handle the idea of stealing, nevertheless in a huge store, in public, with cameras everywhere. I couldn't handle it. I ended up leaving the aisle, walking back to the safety of my mother's side. My mother knew something was up; after we left the store and were driving home, my mom flat-out asked, "Did she steal something?" I blushed, ashamed, and coughed out a meager "Yes." Now, ten years later, I still remember that incident. While it didn't determine our friendship, it was added to a list of problems with our relationship, which eventually ended. Catty dance mom talk turned into harsh feelings toward one another, which was in turn fueled by failed play dates and new friends. The grey matter was the area of questioning behind our friendship. Should we really be friends? Is this a good relationship for us? At age eight we - meaning our parents - were contemplating the importance of this friendship. Were there issues regarding ethics? It turned out to be black and white soon enough: yes ma'am. Staying true to my own beliefs kept me grounded, and I wasn't about to give all my beliefs up for one friend. It looks like the subtle reminders of my childhood - do your best, only say nice words - and the not-so subtle reminders of my mother hollering down the street, "Be nice to everyone!" were enough to secure my ideas of what was important to me in life, and especially in friendships.
 

Happy Holidays (ahh-oo-oo)

Please excuse the interpretive "ahh-oo-oo" portion of my title. As it turns out, the lyrics provided online do not add in the background singers. Sorry, background singers. We still appreciate you.

The delightful holiday season is upon us, but for me it hasn't clicked quite yet. The only way it has made sense thus far:

1. It's freakishly cold out. Yes, I am aware we live in Minnesota. Yes, I know it is December. No, I am still not used to be this cold.
2. I have an internal need for snow. There's this weird craving in my body - I know that sounds disgusting/creepy/anything but normal - and I really want snow. Last year we didn't have a white Christmas. You could say I was upset. 
3. I'm planning out what homework I can put off until break. Not a good choice, bad planning, procrastination is bad...believe me, I'm aware. I'm creating to-do lists for break, and so far all I've really put down is a) sleep, b) change the setup of this blog so it's more me, and c) clean my room. A promising list.
4. Most importantly, our Christmas tree (and lights!) are up. It's sitting in the kitchen - yay for not-finished house renovations - and I make sure it's on every single time I walk by. 

So I'm decently aware that it's the holiday season. Sure, we haven't made cookies yet, gone shopping for Christmas presents, or decided to listen to Christmas music 24/7, but that will happen.

But I'm not sure we'll remember how grateful we should be.

I love seeing the Red Kettle ringers standing out in the cold. Not because they're standing out in the cold - which, as has been pointed out, I do not enjoy - but because they're sacrificing their time for something. They're standing out in the bitter wind, fingers and toes freezing off, nose running, trying to hunker down in their coats for the sake of those who are less fortunate. And that is more than any of us can say we do for the less fortunate.

Around this time, everyone starts thinking about what they want for Christmas (or whatever religious holiday you celebrate this time of year). Whether it's an iPhone, iPad, new pair of boots, vacation to somewhere warm, or whatever I-knot-it's-expensive-but-hey-it's-Christmas item(s) you want, I can guarantee there are others out there that want a meal over the newest iPhone.

I'm not slamming Christmas lists in any way; I have a pair of headphones and a new phone on my list, therefore it would be hypocritical to say that Christmas lists are bad. After all, we're only human (Thank you Jon McLaughlin). But at the same time, I always feel satisfied during the holiday season. That's not 100% true - every single girl wants an attractive boyfriend to snuggle up with by the fire - but for the most part, I don't want anything. 

I love seeing the kindness people display this time of year. There are always those people who stop thinking of themselves and what they want for Christmas and find some way to help others. We all nod and smile, commending them for their good deeds and saying, "What a good person." But we never get up and do anything besides smiling and nodding and commending them for their good deeds. Why? Because. Nice answer, right? That's because I honestly don't have an answer. Maybe because we're only human; we're more concerned with ourselves and our own happiness. I mean heck, we live in Wayzata. The student cars in the parking lot are nicer than the teacher cars. Lots of people have iPhones. We spend tons of money on TVs for the hallways. We are not aware of the rest of the world. We could barely cough up money last week for the Student Council fundraiser, yet when we were offered ice cream sandwiches, students parted with their money. Why? Because there was something in it for us. There has to be something it it for us, and God forbid should we give up our free time to help those people, especially because we don't know them. There are certain individuals who do, but there's always room for more people to help out in the world. 

We are given a rhetorical situation. We are called to action by the poverty, hungry stomachs, and the homelessness around us, even though we don't see it. Yet more often than not, we don't help out. It's the holiday season; it's a time of happiness, family, smiling faces, hot chocolate, and an abundance of love. But it isn't that way for everyone. My challenge for myself, and the world, is that we all sacrifice something this holiday season - be it our time, money, or bonding with our friends - and make the world a better place for one person this season. One person. If you're feeling generous, make it two...or more :)

Happy holidays (ahh-oo-oo). Make it a happy holiday season for someone else - not just yourself :)

The Not-Rebellious Rebellious Second-Born

In every family has the uptight, overachieving, stressed-out child, usually categorized as the daunting "first-born." This first child sets the standards for the rest of the children; every successive child must strive to copy and out-do the oldest child, proving their worth when in comparison. Some second-born kids even go so far as to rebel, demonstrating the obvious differences that are blatantly clear if you would just look at the second oldest child as not following in the footsteps of the eldest because they are obviously different people.

And then there's Lauren, who really couldn't care less about being the second child.

The second child must try to live up to the standards of the first child? Who cares. She must prove that she is equally talented? Yeah, whatever. Life is life, and she's living it young, wild, and free.

Lauren doesn't try to be like me. Okay, disclaimer: this isn't "Inception" in any way, I'm not living inside of her, and I have no way of creeping on looking inside her brain, therefore I cannot back this up with empirical evidence. But I have been putting up with living with this kid for the past thirteen (almost fourteen) years...just saying.

She has an air of individuality about her - not the hey-I'm-wearing-candy-for-clothes-or-lingerie-to-school approach (thank God for that) - but a reckless approach to life that lets her define who she is by her own standards. I don't know many freshmen girls who would jump from lunch table to lunch table, friend group to friend group, grade to grade, hanging out with whoever they knew and liked. She doesn't care what people think of her. Being around her makes you feel reckless in a good way.

After all, I'm the frugal, no-nonsense child who couldn't make a decision if my life depended on it, and a little recklessness helps me to decide. "I don't know if I should buy that shirt. Am I really, like really, going to wear it?"

Lauren, on the other hand, is Lauren. "Well...just buy it. You could always return it later. Or I'll wear it. It's going on the credit card anyway."

"I forgot you were a bad influence."

This little individual just happens to be quite a contrast to me; she's 5'6" with straight hair (most days), a wicked sense of style, "popular" friends, a knack for taking risks, serious determination to do what she wants, and a cool life-is-chill vibe about her. She doesn't try too hard for anything; she's automatically friends with the right people, her homework is fine if it isn't perfect, she doesn't need to be in the front row for dance, and her room is more or less clean. Life just happens for her. Lauren spends her weekends seeing movies, going to games, hanging out with friends, and chasing boys. I spend my weekends reading books, learning music, and doing homework. Do we try to be opposites? No. It just happens.

But there's a part of her that likes being this close in age to one another. We are three years apart, so I'm the senior driving the freshman to school; her first homecoming is my last homecoming. I give her advice like she gives me cute outfits. Sometimes I have to go steal my clothes out of her room when she isn't home, but that's another matter entirely. We are actively involved in choir, dance, and theatre. She has some of my old teachers. We talk shows, characters, cast drama, boy drama, friend drama, stupid inside jokes, music, and school. We even defend our ages and heights on a daily basis:

"Are you guys twins?"
"No...we're just sisters."
"Oh. You look really similar."
"Yeah, we get that a lot."
"Who's older?"
"She's three years older but I'm two inches taller." Yes, thank you Lauren. I was not aware that I am short. 

Even though we have our differences, I can't help but wonder if she feels pressure being related to me. I mean that in the least-cocky way possible, of course. I've never been the younger child, but there must be pressure to be just as good as your older sibling. Mr. Dahl mentioned that today, saying, "Your sister has made incredible progress. She might grow up to be just as good as you...but don't tell her that. It must be hard being your sister." That's when I question if there's undue pressure on my sissy, my Lolo, my confidante. Maybe in her subconscious mind, she's urging herself to live up to my standards, to prove she's different, to show she has more to offer than being "Julia's little sister." She doesn't know it,  but she's her own kind of rebel. She's the carefree, high-achieving, talented second-born, and it's blatantly clear that she is here to give 'em hell.

Turkey Lurkey: Take Two

 I leave the auditorium, walking past my friends. Lauren sidles up alongside me. "What's up with you guys? Why is she avoiding you?" I manage to huff out an irritated response with the least amount of expletives possible. "I really don't know. And at this point, I give up. I don't know what I did, so she's going to have to tell me before we can figure this out. I really don't give a damn anymore." She pauses for a moment, thinking. "That's really bitchy of her. But hey, my friends aren't being great either." Now it's my turn to pause. "How about we get a movie, buy a lot of candy and chips and crap, and have a screw-the-world night?" Her response: "Sounds good to me."

That night was filled with Baked Lays, chocolate, licorice, chocolate, peach tea for me and Arnie Palmer for her, chocolate, chocolate, and Channing Tatum. Thank God for sisters (and for Channing Tatum).

Sometimes she's better at being the big sister. Sure, I'm the one that picks her up from cold football games when he friends are being exclusive and takes her to get chocolate (don't judge me, I'm a girl; chocolate is a girl's best friend when life gets rough), but she is smarter in other ways. Every night she comes down to my room, pops her head in and asks, "What kind of tea do you want in the morning?" This I'm-your-little-sister-but-I'm-also-kind-of-your-big-sister thing has been going on since the beginning of time; I'd come down for breakfast before elementary school and Lauren, little four-year-old Lauren, would look at me and say, "That doesn't match." Sorry for not wearing matching clothes every day of my childhood...but now I go to her when I need a cute first date outfit (or any cute outfit at all). I do not shop for dresses, especially homecoming dresses, without her. I drag her along to Target to buy groceries. The people who work at Heartbreaker know us as "the sisters who come in every couple of months and buy a lot of stuff together." Yup, they know us. But we have our moments when the friendship turns into a relationship of tension and teenage angst - long showers that begin the second I decide I'm going to shower, constantly being late. My father often jokes that he doesn't want to know how long it would take an ugly girl to get ready for school if my sister is attractive and it takes her almost an hour. Me? I just call her high maintenance. When you require a shower before going grocery shopping, I question how concerned you are with your image.

Ever the social butterfly, Lauren spends most of her days connected to the worldwide web. If you see her without her phone or iPod in hand, you'd better call an ambulance; she might die of shock. If she doesn't, my parents will when they see her. It's normal for me to come up from the basement and see her on the computer, GoogleDocs homework "in progress," iPod in hand as she stalks Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter, phone buzzing the entire time. Thanksgiving wasn't much different; when we weren't competing in tic-tac-toe on the tablecloth or keeping Mom sane helping with food prep, the kid was stuck to her phone.  I even have proof. Sure, she looks borderline possessed, but when you spend that much time "connected" to the rest of the world, are you really human?

We also have our jokes. After all, the kid's a dork. We play off of each other, throwing songs and words out, going back and forth as our mom shakes her head at our obnoxious giggles brought on by stick drawings or funny words. Lauren accidentally wrote our address on one line instead of two for her audition form, so we spent the next twenty minutes doubled over in laughter as we tried to find the weirdest, most obscure towns in the United States to fill in for where she lives. While Spunky Puddle, Ohio, seemed like a good choice, she ended up choosing Ynot, Montana, as our current place of residence.

Dear Progressive commercials, you inspire us. This is now a constant phrase in our household :)

In the end, we're dorks together. My sister is a piece of my childhood that won't go away, and I like it that way. She keeps me sane and always laughing. We've gotten closer this year than we have in the past, and it's weird to think I'll be at college next year while she's trying to find someone to drive her constantly late butt to school. There's nothing I can hold back from her, and she's become my confidante. After all, you can kid the world, but you can't kid your sister.

Turkey Lurkey!

Thanksgiving was quite interesting for us this year. There were lots of alterations to our norm: we had two Thanksgiving dinners (called T-linners from here on out...just bear with me!), our official T-linner was not at Grandma and Grandpa's house, certain cousins were absent, and I spent the day coloring the tablecloth. Yes, the tablecloth. 

Tehee. We had more fun than our younger siblings did when it came to coloring the tablecloth!

Our masterpiece. P.S. I totally won tic-tac-toe.

Here's what normally happens:

1. Thanksgiving dinner is at Grandma and Grandpa's house around 3pm.
2. I usually help with all of the cooking.
3. My grandpa cuts the turkey (shaves the turkey?).
4. Uncle Steve, Aunt Jeanine, and our cousins Jack, Nick, and Charlie are there.
5. My cousin Stephie arrives late, usually for dessert.

That's just how it works! But this year was different.

We had T-linner on Sunday at Grandma and Grandpa's because Uncle Doug flew in from Costa Rica - leaving my aunt and our two cousins there, apparently - and my cousin Chris magically appeared from college. Sunday was the only day we could get them together to have T-linner, so Sunday it was. It functioned as a normal T-linner for the Bassetts: the men discussing politics, the cousins running around   wrecking havoc on the peaceful world, myself and my sister listening to the women discuss cooking, college, children, and everything under the sun. Eventually I disappeared to do physics homework.

The real T-linner happened at our house on Thanksgiving Day, and that's when I did my creeping observing.

As the eldest child, I knew I would need to be ready to help Mom with anything and everything, so I dragged my butt out of bed and into the shower at 9am. Yeah, yeah, I know... 9am isn't very early, but let me remind you that as a high school student, I do not sleep. Breaks are meant for sleeping because weekends are meant for homework. Therefore, 9am was still quite early in my book. I ascended out of what my siblings call "the cave," which normal people would call "Julia's room, consequently in the cold basement," and noticed that the furniture had been moved. It reminded me of the weird stories of burglars that burgle (hahaha what a weird word) someone's house but only move the furniture around. Clearly it was my mom's doing, and my brother probably helped. When you get up at five o'clock in the morning every single day, you have time to move the furniture around.

The house was strangely silent, especially for a day when the kitchen is usually abuzz with food preparing, food burning, hurried scolding, direction giving, dish cleaning, and the general chaos of hosting Thanksgiving. In truth, we've never hosted Thanksgiving Day at our house, usually pawning off all the cousins and uncles to Grandma and Grandpa's house, a central point of gathering for our family, but there's always time for firsts. Here's the information I gleaned from stalking watching the people in my house:

Dad: Well, he was relatively easy to observe; he wasn't there. He spent the day working at my gramma's house, preparing it for my great-grandma to move in. This is the epitome of his work life: not working when we are at school, but spending long and strange hours working when we are home. Thanksgiving Day was no different, and it was clear that my mother was not happy with his absence. I've never realized how much my mom wears the pants in our family, but boy does she wear them. Seeing as how my father is a self-employed contractor, my mother is the source of steady income. His absence on the day of our T-linner reinforced this idea; she spent the day reheating the food she had made the day before, moving furniture, cleaning the house, cooking the turkey, and trying to keep track of the two youngest kids. He scooted in at the last minute, roughly twenty minutes after the grandparents arrived, took a shower, and came down in his pajamas. Mama wasn't exactly happy. He also managed to slice his hand open sometime during the day, so while the rest of us were saying grace, he was finding a plastic glove to keep his hand from bleeding out. Lovely. It also seemed like his way of getting out of praying, but that's just my opinion. 

Mom: Oy vey. She spent all day on Wednesday cooking so Thursday wouldn't be as hectic; typical Mom planning ahead. The house was mostly ready by the time I emerged from "the cave," proving she'd been up early to try to get a head start on the day's duties. For a couple hours, we got to hang out as the turkey cooked and the siblings disappeared. She's as easily amused as I am; I can spend hours on StumbleUpon, and I will never introduce her to that website. She's independent but loving, not relying on my dad to move the furniture but also giving us ways to help her in the kitchen. She's very modest about her abilities; my grandma complimented her on the stuffing and she brushed it off, saying that she'd only taken my grandma's advice and that it really wasn't that different. 

I asked her what color a turkey's beak is? She stuck a carrot in her mouth as an answer.

Grandpa: Grandpa is my biggest fan, as my father tells me every time I see my grandpa. I absolutely adore him. His body is riddled with ataxia, impairing his movements more than ever. It's hard to see him stumbling around, and he does his best to cover it up. We have him lead us in saying grace, and I'm shocked by how hard it is for him to speak clearly. He fights the disease every second, gently refusing our help as we offer to carry his plate or reach something for him. I know his ataxia makes him feel useless; when we go over to their house to rake leaves or lay wood chips, he insists on paying us. He doesn't want to feel like a charity case, so he does his best to be independent. Ever since his ataxia has taken a greater toll on him, I always say goodbye to Grandpa and give him a hug; time with him is precious. I can't help thinking that this could be the last Thanksgiving prayer he gives with us, and I sent up my own little prayer that it won't be his last. He chats with my dad about work, window installations, and my dad's cut hand. We laugh as he reminisces on cutting off his finger while working with my dad in Colorado...it's clear he is the forgiving type, even though it wasn't Dad's fault.

Grandma: I swear surviving the Great Depression has made her inclined to bring us food whenever possible. It is literally impossible for her to come to our house or leave hers without food in our hands. This time she brought candy corn and other treats. It's ironic that she brings us unhealthy foods because she spent my childhood worried I was going to be obese, and now she's bringing us candy. She's sweet, but I can tell my mom is on edge with her around. She doles out compliments to my mom on the food, discussing how it is that the turkey is so juicy (oven bags) and how delicious the stuffing is. For once the discussion doesn't turn to college, and I'm beyond relieved. 

Lauren: Lauren sauntered into the kitchen about an hour after my mom put me to work. This couldn't be more true to Lauren's personality; she gets up half an hour before me on school days, but I'm always the one waiting for her in the car. She's definitely not the most helpful child, meandering through the kitchen, back to her room, down to the kitchen to get food an hour later, then back to her room. She's easily angered by our little sister, taking on the don't-touch-that-it's-mine-and-don't-look-at-me-like-that persona that I had around her age. Although I swear I did not get that PO'd that easily! We spent our downtime coloring the tablecloth. The two high schoolers coloring, while the 5th and 6th grader are nowhere to be found. This is what our relationship is like: we're either happy and joking while coloring the tablecloth and singing show tunes, or we're at odds when I chastise her for not helping at all. 

Quintin: The kid does his own thing. The only boy in a family with three girls, he's prone to disappearing with his iPod to laugh at dumb YouTube videos that only twelve-year-old boys can find amusing. He's a really sweet kid but he's easy to anger; keep him in the same room with Erica for too long and you'd better get some earplugs and possibly some bandaids. He helped Mom move furniture in the morning, but I didn't really see him after that. When we had our downtime and Lauren had wandered away from coloring, Quintin emerged from wherever he was and colored with me. He's the artistic genius in the family, so his turkey was reflective of that. 

Yeahh...this is how he takes pictures.

Peacefully coloring, for once so write that down; it won't happen again.

Erica: This child will be the death of my parents. She tries to help but doesn't really help, inevitably making annoying noises, creating messes, and generally wrecking havoc in the world. As the youngest child, we don't really have the most (or any) patience for her habits. When you give her something to do she can complete it, but it's rather hard to keep her entertained and out of the way. Part of that is her ADHD, and part of it is the fact that she's ten years old. She spent most of the day playing in her room, but she did come down to help set the table, and to color on the tablecloth of course! I think we've just been writing her off as hard to handle. She can be super helpful; she spent three hours the next day cleaning my room so my best friend could come over :)

And then there's me.

Here's what I did: enough said.

Our dog spent the day stealing socks out of the laundry basket. I think she was feeling a little left out of the Thanksgiving Day celebrations and needed a little bit of attention :)

Uhhhhh....whaddaya mean were dum?

Bauerlein splits up his argument into smaller sections. The overall argument is that our generation, including everyone under the age of thirty, is dumb. We are dumb because we are not book-smart, history-smart, or aware of the world around us. Correction: we are aware of the world around us in regards to social networking, pop culture, and Web 2.0, but we are not aware when it comes to politics, world problems, and the bigger issues in life than who is dating Taylor Lautner.

Here's what Bauerlein's argument boils down to: this generation, including anyone under the age of thirty, is dumb. We have been proven dumb because our test scores are falling, our reading time is flat lining, if not declining, and we are attached to screens and technology, yet we are not learning anymore from the technology. Each point is presented in a different chapter with statistics, surveys, testimonies, and modern examples to prove what Bauerlein is saying. In splitting up the sub-arguments of his argument, we are convinced that we are dumb, one point at a time. At the end of the book, it all comes around to the conclusion: we are dumb, but there is something we can do about it.

This is the sole definition of concerning. Mark Bauerlein, for the sake of your sanity, I hope you never ever ever ever ever ever saw this and never do. This is Kellie Pickler, a 26-year-old country singer and American Idol contestant. Try not to cry at her stupidity. 

Two passages I agree with: 

"To replace the book with the screen is to remove a 2,500-year-o.d cornerstone of civilizations and insert an altogether dissimilar building block. The enthusiasts of digital learning maintain that screen-influences brains possess qualitatively different mentalities than book-influenced brains, and so we must conclude that the e-book and the rest will spawn other knowledges and altered communications."

Dear Mark Bauerlein, we are the same person in regards to this statement. I agree with him because as a  hardcore reader, I love holding the book in my hands. This inevitably makes me biased against e-books and reading online. At the same time, Bauerlein provides statistics and all sorts of proof that we are not learning online. This goes to prove that replacing a book with a screen would not help us read and learn; technology hasn't been furthering our learning, so why would giving us e-books change that? Sure, it could be a different kind of learning, but is that what we are looking for? I'm all for sticking with I-can-hold-it-in-my-hands-and-turn-the-pages books :)

'"What are you doing?' That is the genuine significance of the Web to a 17-year-old mind, not the universe of knowledge brought to their fingertips, but an instrument of nonstop peer contact."

Sadly, this rings true to me. As a child in the dumbest generation, the web seems to exist to please us. Go on Facebook and what does it say? What are you doing? Well, someone should tell all the annoying people of the world that we don't care what they are eating right now. If you don't have something interesting to say, don't say anything at all. We go online to visit social networking sites, to find pictures, to chat with friends, find help on homework, and occasionally conduct research for school. but even when "conducting research," the web is there to please us. Just type in anything you want to look up on Google, and you immediately get thousands of results. Don't like what you've found? Reword it or - dare I say it - go on to the second page of search results. You can click around until you've found what you want. The web appears to be there to please us.

Two passages I disagree with:

"Let's get specific," I goaded. "You are six times more likely to know who the latest American Idol is than you are to know who the Speaker of the U.S. House is." At that point, a voice in the crowd jeered, "American Idol is more important!"

I dislike agree this passage in the sense that it writes off all teenagers and young adults as unconcerned with the world of politics. Walk into any MoPro class and you will know without a doubt that high school seniors are aware of politics and what political party they identify themselves with. I understand that Bauerlein is providing an anecdote to show that young Americans are more concerned with pop culture than they are with the people who run their country, but not everyone knows who the latest American Idol is...I haven't watched the show in YEARS. Overall, I think young adults are more likely to know facts about pop culture and social networking, but we aren't limited to that kind of knowledge, contrary to what this segment is implying. 

"May generations ago, adolescent years meant preparation for something beyond adolescence, not authentic selfhood but serious work, civic duty, and family responsibility, with parents, teachers, ministers, and employers training teens in grown-up conduct...not anymore." 

Okay, first of all, we do not spend our adolescence frolicking through fields and disregarding all responsibility for the future. Sure, years ago adolescence was not nearly as socially bound as it is today, but that doesn't mean that today's kids aren't preparing for the future. I started working as a dance teacher in seventh grade, but I also have a Facebook. Does having a Facebook mean I am not preparing myself for adulthood? Not last time I checked. Today's students are cramming their schedules full of honors and AP classes, clubs, intramurals, sports, volunteering, church groups, and jobs. During the rare spare time (at least it's rare for me, and I'm assuming for many other students with busy lives), students end up online. We consider it a break from our busy lives, the busy lives that are preparing us for college and the world beyond college. There are the kids that play Call of Duty all night, get drunk, do drugs, spend all their time on technology and friends and never do their homework, but there are always those kids. The rest of us are trying to prepare for adulthood. 

How effective is Bauerlein's argument? Effective. He begins with his warrant in the preface, explaining that he isn't writing this book to out our generation; this is a serious problem, and he has enough authority to discuss it. Throughout the book he shocks the audience with horrendous statistics and embarrassing moments. We laugh when reading that the caller identified The Great Gatsby as "that guy who was great," but we cannot identify Mitch Albom or the U.S. Speaker of the House. Bauerlein's examples are easy to connect with; he references Jay Leno, Harry Potter, Google and video games. The way he presents the information makes us, the audience, realize that WE are part of the problem. It isn't as funny when we can't answer the questions he poses, or when shocking statistics prove that we aren't doing as well as we think we are. Bauerlein backs up everything he says with statistics and information from other sources. This helps to establish his credibility throughout the book, giving us reason to listen to him. Whether or not we agree with Bauerleins argument that we are the "dumbest generation," we are inclined to listen to him as he reasons out his argument and persuades us to listen to him with examples and situations we can identify with.  

Happy Halloween!

Halloween started out as the ancient Celtic festival called Samhain. During this time, the ghosts of the dead were thought to be mingling with the living as they traveled to the otherworld. Food was sacrificed and bonfires were made to honor the dead (as well as ward them away), and the Celts wore costumes of animal heads and furs. The spent time in the streets, roaming about and making noise to scare the spirits away. Fairies supposedly roamed the land during Samhain, going door to door asking beggars for food. Those that gave the fairies food were rewarded instead of punished.

On All Souls Day, the poor would go door to door asking for food, praying for their dead relatives in return. The Church promoted this practice because it took place of the Pagan tradition of leaving cakes and wine out for the spirits of the dead. The poor received soul cakes, the modern-day equivalence of the treats received when trick-or-treating. 

The Roman Catholic church deemed Samhain a pagan holiday because of its connection to the supernatural. In an attempt to get rid of Samhain, Pope Boniface IV made November 1st All Saint's Day. This day was also known as All Hallows, or Hallowmas. Since Samhain was celebrated the night before, it became known as All Hallow's Eve, later shortened to Halloween.

There is logic involved in trick-or-treating. The phrase itself is logical...if you don't give me a treat, I will play a trick on you. Nowadays nobody does the "trick" portion of trick-or-treat, but there is the occasional group of rowdy teenagers that will smash pumpkins in the middle of the night.

Scooby-dooby-doooooo!

Welcome to my junior year. While the rest of the world was dressing down - and by that I mean wearing less clothes, aka sexy costumes - here we are! The Scooby Doo crew plus the awesome Jasmine (yes, we still love Disney characters at age seventeen) in the middle.

Is there an argument in here? Why, of course! Because everything's an argument ;) Please ignore my lame AP Comp jokes; I really can't control them.

1) Our costumes argue that we are a crew that sticks together and it's true; we are involved in the same activities, and those are some of my closest friends.

2) We aren't going for sex appeal. While the rest of the high school wears less, we just went for the easiest thing. Deciding your costume on the day of the party isn't usually recommended, but at cast parties it's a free for all. There's been everything from lax bros and hand-sewn princesses to Facebook and Ingrid Michaelson.

3) Each individual's costume argues that they are like their character. In truth, we didn't base it off of personality. It was more of a "Oh you have purple? Be Daphne, because I don't have any purple," sort of thing. Although...

• Mari is Fred. Mari always wants to be a boy whenever possible; it's a weird I-want-to-play-a-difficult-role-that-is-opposite-from-who-I-am theatre thing. I think. But that reflects well in the fact that she is Fred.
• Mari's costume also uses humor. Clearly she is not a boy, and that gold stuff on her head is definitely not hair. 
• Allison is Scooby. Al Pal is our quirky friend, the one who can be sweet but awkward at the same time, and we love her for it. We also figured she would be a good dog so...that happened :)
• That yellow stuff attached to Michael's head is potentially hair. Very awkward hair, but hair none the less! The awkwardness could be considered humor.

4) A ton of planning did not go into this, but there was still a decent amount of planning. We planned enough to go as a group (save Shreya, I guess) and we knew who was going to be each character. Although we weren't as intense as our classmates, it didn't matter because a) it was a cast party, and theatre kids don't judge, and b) we had fun.

Yay for Halloween.