Wedlocked

The prodigal return: India (un)defined

In the next few days I'm going to start the colossal task of actually starting to relay more details about my India trip and what the whole experience has been like for me. Meanwhile, I'm searching frantically through a thesaurus to find other words for "different," "experience," "interesting," "amazing," "incredible," and "India." Who knows how many times this blog will feature those words in the next month. Time will only tell.

I know there's just a couple of readers out there, so I'm going to toss around the idea of actually going through the journey day by day. We had to keep a detailed journal as part of the class assignment while we were in India, which led to one too many rants on the group dynamics and perhaps too much pondering of what this trip means in the grand scale of my education. I'll let you decide if you want to click through my daily breakdown of what I saw, what I ate, what I said, what I did, and what I will never forget. Note: add "unforgettable" to thesaurus worthy list.

Mostly the last few days have been spent sleeping off jet lag and trying to get back into a routine. Arriving in India took a lot less effort to get on a time schedule because I did not really have a choice. I mean, I had a few days to suck it up and get used to it, lest I fly halfway across the world to sleep in for a few more minutes. I woke up by 7:30 a.m. almost every day I was there, but only today managed to wake up at 8 a.m. here in California without the aid of an alarm clock. Maybe I've finally made it back to this Pacific time. Or, like many of my India cohorts, I may find myself falling asleep before Conan is on. Wait, is he still on television?

(SIDE NOTE: In high school I was a HUGE fan of Conan O'Brien and I can't believe I went to India and came back and now all of a sudden his show is caput. I mean, I left for three weeks, THREE weeks, and he's off the air. I would chalk it up to my fandom, but the truth is I was so busy with school last semester I hardly watched TV except for the Real Housewives of Orange County or any other housewife show for that matter. What can I say? I'm a student/housewife. Sort of. Mainly I think talking orange people are funny. Alright, moving on.)

I landed on Sunday afternoon in Los Angeles, went back to school on Wednesday and I've hardly had time to digest the last serving of roti bread and daal before life revved back up. Back to reading, back to writing, back to worrying about honors thesis and household stuff...when will I be able to sit down and really process what happened in the last three weeks? It's also hard to relay what the experience, ahem, I mean the adventure I was fortunate to be able to go on recently was like in just a few words. So my conversations go like this:

Them: "Hey! You're back. Welcome back. What's it like to be back? How was your trip?"

Me: "Amazing." (head nod) "It was awesome."

Them: "Was it everything you expected and more?" (note slight sarcastic tone, emphasizing the fact that the trip MUST have been, of course, all I expected)

Me: "Yes, of course. It's hard to put into words what it was like. It was mentally, physically, and emotionally exhausting. It was unforgettable. I mean, like, I'll never forget it."

Them: "I can't wait to see pictures!"

And.....scene.

The trouble with this setup is that it's a veritable "How've you been?" in life. I can't possibly sit down and tell my India stories in one sitting. And half the people asking me how it was don't really want to hear the details about the situation of widows in Vrindivan or about the village where they build solar panels and women do the welding. I have a very short window of time to relay that the trip was fantastic and pictures are forthcoming. But the truth is, I have a whole theory about picture taking on this kind of trip as well. Sometimes I just put down the camera and just spent time where we were. Who needs one more postcard-looking photo of the Taj Mahal? I mean, REALLY.

Well, I did take some photos at the Taj Mahal. But still.

So I'm still trying to digest my trip and figure out how to relay the experience and start reflecting on the experience I had while I was there and what it means for my studies, etc. Maybe writing about it again, with a few days and with a few weeks of distance, will start cementing some notion of what I left India with besides some shawls, gifts for friends, inexpensive books bought from street vendors, and some photos.

Honestly, I'm not sure what to make of my trip to India. It was beautiful, it was heartbreaking, it tested my personality, spirituality, and beliefs, it made me laugh uncontrollably, it made me shed tears with strangers, it stank of trash, shit and piss on the street, it made me learn, it made me think, it made me sit on the floor, it made me rethink, it made no sense, and it gave me clarity. It was a contradiction. There were moments I loved it and there were moments I thought I was all wrong. At times I thought nothing was right. Maybe it's a big waste of time to try and define my trip to India. Going back there everyday, in pictures or in recalling the stories of the people that I met, through this blog, could bring me closer to understanding it more. Or I'm just another self-indulgent westerner who believes enlightenment can be found in India.

I'll let you decide.

Until then, here's me at the Taj Mahal. I know, I'm such a tourist.

 

Greetings from India

Getting to the internet in India, in my situtation, has been harder than I thought.

So, I have one week left in my trip and so much to write about that's impossible to do in one sitting. I'm debating on doing a day by day post when I get back, but for now, I'll leave it at this.

Run across the street. Protect your bag. Stay humble. Remember where you are. Put down the camera once in a while. Dance with them on stage when they ask. Try, for a second, to abandon your ideas of culture and what's right and "weird."

I'm looking forward to sharing my photos and experiences with you when I return. It's been overwhelming and emotionally, mentally, and physically exhausting.

For now, adios from Jaipur, moving back to Delhi.

Namaste.

The last hours

It's the final day of the fall semester and I've had tears in my eyes more than once today.

I sent off my final graduate school application yesterday (for now because there are more deadlines in the spring), kissed the envelope goodbye and wished it a wonderful trip to the University of California- Irvine. When I think about potentially getting answers on my applications just weeks after I get back from India, it is obvious all of this is going to happen very quickly.

Soon I will know if it's back to the workforce or back to school for me next fall. And potentially I need to start making some decisions about working while I get my masters and Ph.D. Do the decisions ever relent? Can we all take a collective breath?

 

Today I'm finishing up a paper for Literary Theory and I have a final in Irish Literature. Irish Lit was the sleeper of the semester, the class I took because it was on a list and surprisingly found myself loving almost everything we read. Even at this stage of my bachelor's degree, I'm still learning new things and being exposed to new genres of literature. Now I'm hoping to include Irish Lit as a potential specialization in grad school.

Even though I'm nervous about my upcoming trip to India and I'm dreading rejection letters (inevitable) in the spring, I'm so relieved that I'm finally finishing my degree. There's so many students at SDSU- Imperial Valley Campus who are like me- people who have come back to finish what they've started and some who have inspired me- those with families, jobs, and children (and some on the way). Even those in my group of English major friends have faced personal struggles, hospitalization, pregnancy, family issues, financial burdens, and a full load of classes. And they kept on going. We all kept on going.

My name will be on a diploma in a matter of months, and it'll be time to be a post-degree member of the community. My degree doesn't guarantee me a job, it doesn't guarantee happiness, and it doesn't slice or dice or julienne fries. But I know that at the very least, finishing school, despite whether I go to graduate school now or later or never, has reinforced my belief that I can accomplish anything as long as I'm passionate about it. Some people tried to convince me a couple of years ago that a degree doesn't make a difference (at the time I was a journalist in the newsroom) and degreed people are not always good writers or reporters. Sometimes, even in the last few weeks, I wondered if getting my degree will make a difference to anyone but me.

Graduating at twenty-eight is different than graduating high school at eighteen, anxious to leave home, ready to prove everybody wrong. As I mentioned in my statement of purpose to various graduate schools in southern California, this time I realized it was not about everybody else. At night when I switched off my book light, my husband sleeping soundly, the dogs snoring under the bed, I was just left with myself. I think of everything else I could've done with the last 12 hours of my day, most of which was spent reading, writing, driving to class, being in class, and driving home. This semester I haven't eaten lunch most days. I've spent almost every day doing something for school. With the exception of our trip to Las Vegas, I've read or written every. day. Every. Day. EVERYDAY. Putting up pictures in our home fell by the wayside. I found myself apologizing to my husband for having to read even when he got home from work. Trust me, I've made plenty of mistakes along the way and I still have so much more to go as a scholar and literary critic.

For once, I learned how to prove myself wrong. The support of my family, friends, and husband has been important, but none is more valuable than finally believing in myself. Most days I fake it. Other days, I hand in papers with pride.

So I may apply for a job I've been thinking about. I may work and get my Ph.D. I may not step foot in another classroom. I may go to grad school. I may start a family. I may start writing my book. Once again, life is full of questions marks. But instead of mistaking it for doubt, I'm finally starting to see it as a wealth of opportunity to continue my career, to pursue a new avenue.

The rest is up to me.

Coming up on Wedlocked: I'll review my fall semester's reading list and make recommendations for novels and short stories that even non-English majors can enjoy. Meanwhile, send me your favorite books to read on planes at briannarangel@mac.com

And now...something for the kiddies.

 

On recognition of success

For several years, I didn't hear a word. Sometimes I wondered if she was alive. Other times, I cried over her silence. Other times, I raged against her selfishness.

It's strange the days that she calls me. My older sister still calls me by my childhood family nickname, Nana. As in, "Hey, Nana, it's me. Just wanted to call and say hi." All this from the person that I was certain may never call me again.

Earlier this year, I saw my sister again for the first time in four years, crying together in the Austin international airport to the discomfort of onlookers. It was strange. She was out of my life and there she was all of a sudden, laughing and talking, a living, breathing person and no longer just a memory.

Recently my sister reached her 18 months of sobriety. It's amazing to think of the journey she has gone on in the last year, getting a job, moving in with a boyfriend, sustaining a healthy relationship, and picking up the phone every now and then to check on me. From the girl who was my confidant growing up, to the hurtful actions of the past, my sister is now a revived family member in my life.

Lately I've been writing these statements of purpose for grad school and I've been honest in my approach. My childhood shaped me, the poverty, the violence, and my family's cycle of addiction (that in most cases I was hardly aware of in my younger years). So part of these statements are supposed to highlight what you've accomplished, what you want to do, who you want to work with, blah blah blah.

It's all very important stuff. I guess sometimes I don't give myself enough credit. I'm finishing my senior year pretty strong thus far. I'm going to make Dean's List again. I have a 3.85 in my upper-division English classes, I scored decently on the GRE. But while I'm touting all this scholastic stuff to graduate schools who may or may not give me thousands of dollars a year to continue my education, my mom works part-time at Target and my sister is an overnight weekend waitress at IHOP off the interstate that dissects Austin in half.

So much of my story has to do with my past. So much of my story has to do with my little family, my mother and sister, who shaped me and raised me. So much of what graduate schools (most schools) want to hear is how you're different, how your socioeconomic or class status will enrich their school's diversity. I mean, I get that. I believe in that. But I also wonder where the recognition is for people like my mom and sister.

I know it may sound cheesy, but I don't think what I've accomplished is any more important than what everyday people accomplish just to sustain their lives. My mom and sister are survivors. My sister is a survivor. It wasn't too long ago she was living on the streets. She went to jail (the same jail my mom was in when she was convicted on drug and weapon charges when I was a child), went into sober living and has maintained her sobriety through all of this. Days come and go, she pays her bills, and is just trying to make it.

Not to downplay my accomplishments, but I wonder why it is easier for people to look at me, what I've done and congratulate me. I think, most of the time, people like my sister, who are battling a completely different problem, should be praised just as much. But there's no room for that. We want to look up to people who make millions, who live in big houses, who drive fancy cars. Pimp my life. Give me money. Live like a rockstar. Most people right now, people who are really struggling, would be delighted to say they own a home. Or won't have to worry about when they're going to get paid. Or if they can afford to get their prescriptions. Damn, I sound like a socialist, don't I?

I was nearly brought to tears when my sister said she was slowly starting to save up to come to my graduation day in May. She's putting aside $10 from each shift she works and has $50 saved up so far for her plane ticket from Austin to San Diego. It may not sound like much, but it goes to show how different our two lives are. Meanwhile, I'm attempting to get sponsorships for my $3,500 trip to India to study abroad. Applying to graduate school costs more than $500 between application fees and paying for those GRE tests, and transcripts. I'm taking on debt to apply to go to school and to take this trip to India. It's worth it, and I'll obviously have to work full-time after graduation to pay for it all. But someone's more likely to be forgiving of my decision to pay for these things, to spend this money (for me, $3,000 is a LOT of money), but it's considered a worthwhile venture. It's worth it. 

My sister just wants to scrounge up $300 for her plane ticket for graduation, but given her financial situation, it might as well be $3,000. It's just another example of how my life is different from my family members. It makes me think, it makes me laugh, and I try to keep it from making me feel guilty.

Recently, I've received two $50 checks from people who are helping me pay for India. One came from a reader of this blog, out of the blue, from a stranger. The other came from a community member who I've had a working relationship with through my volunteerism. It may not sound like a lot compared to the cost of the trip, or what $50 can buy these days, but these contributions were extremely humbling. So much of it has to do with the confidence these people had in me to say, "Hey, we like what you're doing, we believe in it, we want to help." The donations are so valuable because they remind me of how important reaffirmation of what you're doing is when you feel challenged by something. I know there's so much more that money could have gone to for their families or loved ones, but they decided to give it to me. In a way, I still feel like that poor girl asking for help. But the socialist in me wonders if what I've decided to do with that money is actually more valuable than my family's struggles. Doesn't it make you think?

Part of what I relayed to the graduate schools about discerning my future from my past is that I've made mistakes. I failed out of college. I gave up. Then I went back and have redeemed myself. Much of what my sister is doing is similar. Her sobriety, her hard work, her giving me a call, is her redemption. I know my most people's standards, I'm the successful one. In a way, it's a difficult burden to bear. You're proud of what you've done but you also feel the weight of your family's dreams on your shoulders. Graduation day will be a celebration for all of us because they've all contributed to my success, whatever that really means.

It may be because of my upbringing that I'm fortunate to recognize that success is intangible. For me, it's sustaining good grades, making good on my promise to my husband that I would do well, making good on my potential by really pushing myself, and breaking the cycle of poverty. For my sister, it's maintaining her sobriety, giving me a call, and working to build her life anew. I'm just months away from finally receiving a piece of paper that said I did it. I guess I can't help but wish there was something, someone to do the same for my sister.

Leave it blank

Standardized tests are a bitch. Even at a higher level of education, they're a menial task meant to streamline the way schools look at students. But there's not an answer option for "uhhhhh, wha?"

In the last few weeks (in addition to keeping up with my six classes) I took the Literature in English GRE subject test and the general GRE test.

Essentially, the subject test is a nearly three hour exam with 230 mind-blowing questions that range from Old English (the words include the number three!) to Middle English, to contemporary literature and tons of literary theory. Basically, it's a test to see how much you've read over the years and how much of that you've been able to retain. It also forces you to dissect excerpts of texts in a matter of moments. About 40 questions into it, I realized I wasn't going to finish on time.

It's one of those split-second moments where you realize you're probably way over your head. The incessant ticking of the clock, the fidgeting of the girl next to me, that irritating proctor who acted like we were high school students (she double-checked all our bubbles on the scantron), only added fuel to the nervousness.

A strange thing is happening, as the talk of grad school is everywhere and I'm inevitably spending a few minutes a day rattling off my list of schools. I feel out of my element, unable to compete in a sea of students who have all dreamt for this moment. In a way, I've dreamt about it, too. But my entrance into this idea of going to graduate school is recent. Aside from the times in elementary school I told my mother I was going to be a doctor, I wonder if I ever really believed I would graduate from college. I have a hard time believing it now.

My first graduate school application is due in just two days. Meanwhile, I'm having to write a "statement of purpose." Can we all have a collective moment of silence? And a collective growl? As much time as I spend spilling my guts here (not enough time lately) and writing other people's stories over the last several years as a journalist, I don't know where to begin. What I do not have a difficult time doing is being honest. That, I can do. Hell, perfect strangers know I come from a single parent family, don't know who my father is, that I grew up in poverty, the name of my two dogs, and the fact that my husband makes dirty grammar jokes even though he refuses to read a book.

I've written this supposed 'statement of purpose' in my head several times. In the last few weeks I've been unable to get a good night's sleep because of it. I think about how to talk about my past. I think about how to admit to my failing out of school. I think of how to make these strangers see that I redeemed myself. I think of how to incorporate the lessons I learned in my job and how that relates to my academic world. I think of how to not sound like I'm playing the violin and whining to get in. I think of how to tell them, honestly, that I DO feel out of place writing this 'statement of purpose' and that I never really thought of myself as a grad school type, if there is such a thing.

Statements of purpose are designed to sum up your background, your academic research and what you want to study (while simultaneously revealing which professors you'd like to work with and why) and why you're right for their program. It's like a job interview, only perhaps a little more revealing. But it really just makes me want to pull out my eyebrows. I lack the confidence that should have set in by now. It's in there somewhere, it happens when I turn in a paper that I feel really good about. The rest of the time it's a vivacious puppy that slips just out of my hands when I try to get it to hold still to love on it for a little while. When I need it most, it's out the door, abandoning me in the hopes of smelling the corner of the lawn or disappearing underneath the bed. (See? Even my metaphors have suffered!)

The thing is, I don't want to fail again. I know that I won't get into some schools. I know it's possible I might not get into any of the six schools I'm applying to. Then it'll be back to the real world or working full time and paying off student loans. What's worse, what if I get in, and (gasp) fail after I get in? It's enough to make anyone go mad. Did I mention I also have homework to do while this little troll rots in my brain?

One of my professors said to be honest and be myself. I'm halfway tempted to confess to these highly educated committee members that I don't consider myself to be a wordsmith and I have dubbed myself any number of things including the "everyman scholar" and "white trash literati." For those who don't know me, it may come off as nothing but schtick.

This task has put me into a situation I've never had to deal with before. I have the ability to talk professionally at interviews, curse like a sailor at a bar, and somehow speak publicly on a whim while sounding half-way eloquent at times. I'm not quite sure how it all fits into academia. Maybe it's best summed up when I tell the University of California San Diego and the other schools I'm applying to that I'll absorb information from all sides while secretly disagreeing, shed a tear with them when they tell me their life story, can condense aforementioned life story to 25 moving column inches in the newspaper, share a pint with them after class, and argue about social class and status in Joyce and Hemingway with a decidedly common vocabulary that does not rival the recent GRE subject test but is equally as important. With all due modesty and candor, of course. Thank you very much.

On second thought, perhaps I should start devising a plan for the destruction of the reject letters that most certainly would follow. I mean, I'm going to get accepted somewhere, I'm sure. If I have a hard time convincing myself, how could I possibly convince another of my worthiness to become a PhD candidate?

I guess I'll just have to give myself a shot. But in the case of my approach to the GRE subject test, you're not penalized for answers left blank. I'll keep it relevant, explain what's necessary, confidence (faked of course) minus self-aggrandizing. As for the rest, the stories I could tell, the points I could make, the reasons I could list, the accomplishments I could inflate, I'll save it.

It'll give me something to talk about at my grad school's orientation or on stage when I pursue my unfounded career as a local standup comedian if it all falls through.

Travelogue

I'll never forget that one summer.

There wasn't anything special about it. My sister and I spent our summers like most poor kids. We scrounged the couch for change or took that roll of pennies we'd saved for a few weeks to the neighborhood pool where an afternoon of sunshine and splashing that left our stomachs rumbling on the way home and dizzy with the heat.

Our days were not filled with ski trips to Aspen, luaus in Hawaii, or cross-country drives to heralded state parks. I think two summers we drove for five hours to stay with our aunt and one very special day was spent at Six Flags over Texas. You would think it was Disneyland, the way our eyes lit up at the very thought of SIX FLAGS. For us, it was Disneyland.

So going back to that one summer. I was still in elementary school, my sister, I think, was about junior high age. The neighborhood pool was closed, the one that was located at the high school just a few blocks away from our one-bedroom apartment. Naturally we did what any other young kids would do faced with the possibility of spending another boring day at home. We hitched a ride with a friend's mom to the pool on the other side of town. WAY on the other side of town. It was the "good" pool. The Mayberry pool. The pool that was on the older side of town but where Goldie and Gus (does California even know who these mascots are?) taught swimming lessons. Goldie and Gus were two "fish" looking mascots who had a catchy tune on their commercials "The water's fine, just come on in!" then the group of kids would chime in: "We'd like to but we cannot swim! What do you mean, you can't swim? Quit your fussing, get down to the pool and start your lesson. No need to worry, no need to fuss, we're swimming like Goldie and Gus...YEAH!" AND now I know why I can't retain bits of IMPORTANT information.

Anywho, we passed the day at the good pool, the clear pool, then it was close to closing time. Nevermind that our friend, the one with the mom? had left a couple of hours earlier. It was getting late and if it weren't for the delayed summer sunsets, we would've already been in the dark. We set off on foot to try and get home before mom did.

The problem with walking home is our adolescent-sized legs did not measure the fact that our home was a good four to five miles away. Ruddy from the afternoon light, we trudged home, worried as it became darker and more evident that we weren't going to make it before mom did. Out of nowhere, our rumbling car, came out of the dark, shining its headlights on us. Relief! Mom! But her look said it all.

"Get. in. the. car."

Nothing else. No, hey, how's it going? Damn, you're sunburned. Did you have fun?

"Get. in. the. car. NOW."

Oh it was bad. My mom drove to the police station. Maybe it was her job as a waitress or her job at the grocery store, I don't remember which, but she apparently had someone she called to ask a favor. You have to remember this is way before police stations were just about booking people and were probably a lot more lax on what went on. So I was met with the tallest man I thought I'd ever seen in my entire life (this was before Conan O'Brien) and he started to walk to me to a jail cell. He asked, "Did you know how afraid your mom was?" I burst into tears. My sister burst into tears. Huge rolling rocks came down those sun-kissed cheeks, snot was bubbling, bottom lips were quivering helplessly.

It never occurred to me why my mom started laughing. Laughing. Out loud. Uncontrollably. The police man in the uniform giggled and tried to console us.

"Are you ever going to do that again?"

Sniffle. Gasp. Sniffle. Head shake.

"Noooooooo."

I suppose I can't condone what my mom did that day, but it's always remained a joke in our family. Remember that summer?

I guess the whole point of this story is to talk about the fact that my most memorable summer growing up was our adventures at the local pool. We didn't take vacations. It wasn't until I was with Jaime that I knew what it meant to take a week somewhere or even just a couple of days to stay at an inexpensive hotel and get lost in a city or try something new. My family made the best with our situation.

About a month ago I went to a study abroad fair on our SDSU campus. I asked about a program that I was interested in May but the deadline approached too quickly and I didn't have the money for the $500 deposit. Strangely enough, serendipitous, whatever you want to call it, the woman from the San Diego campus encouraged me to e-mail the professor heading the program. I did. I got a reply.

A day later, I plunked down a little bit of my student loan as a deposit on my trip. I am going to study abroad in India with a Women's Studies program for three weeks this winter. I still can't believe it, to be honest with you.

I took a chance that I would have to pay for it myself, which I am completely willing to do, but I'm still a college student who uses student loans to pay tuition and I only have a part-time job. In addition, I'm applying for scholarships and seeking sponsorships from the community. I'll give more details on that awkwardness later. (How do you ask for money and try to relay that their donation, however small, would be accepted with the joy that a kid would have for the 50 cents it takes to get into the pool?- but on a much larger scale.)

This women's studies class is already exposing, through our course readings, to the complex cultural differences that I will become more obvious when I land in Delhi. For three weeks from Dec. 28 to Jan. 17, I'll be traveling in Delhi, Jaipur, and Agra. I can't even begin to wrap my head around this. Part of me can't believe it's actually going to happen and the other part of me can't wait to get the semester over with to get on that plane.

I'll post more soon on the details of the trip and some of the things I've already learned about studying abroad. Meanwhile, I have to work on writing a humble, yet honest, letter explaining to someone in not so many words that no matter what happens, even if I foot the bill (which is inexpensive by study abroad terms but is still a sizable chunk of money in my- and most people's- worlds), this trip will be like the ultimate summer- unforgettable.

India? Are you crazy? Give me your tips for traveling abroad or securing sponsorships here or e-mail me at briannarangel@mac.com.

Pepper: The True Hollywood Story

First, there was Frankie.

When we took this photo, it wasn't meant to look like he was in utero, but this is the only time I'll ever be able to use it. The day I first saw Frankie, he was outside a shopping plaza Petco as part of an adoption drive for the Austin organization Lucky Mutts (good used mutts for lucky people). He looked sort of like he did in this photo, shaggy, super adorable, as huggable and lovable as a spring puppy.

But I soon discovered he had a bit of an attitude.

He was a rescue dog, had a bite inhibition, and if you tried to touch his ears the wrong way, man he let the hand that fed him have it.

 

But Frankie turned out to be like your grouchy old Uncle Fred.

He has his quirks, he gets a little pissy late at night, but he's awesome.

I've had Frankie for six years, he's now an estimated nine years old, and getting him was well worth the $100 adoption fee. Frankie has travelled cross-country with me, helped me get out of a bad relationship, comforted me during my lowest days, and loves coffee ice cream.

But a few things about Frankie makes him a little different than other dogs (Yes, I know everyone says that about their dogs.). Frankie doesn't "do" costumes.

Frankie will bite the crap out of you if you screw around with him.

Frankie is a chameleon. Freshly groomed and shaggy, he looks completely different.

Frankie is what I like to call a "handsome" dog. He's definitely a ladies man.

But after Frankie spending time with a friend's cocker spaniel, Frankie was a little lonely.

As I mentioned in a previous post earlier this spring, I was itching for a kid. But the timing wasn't quite right and I needed something to fill the void. The husband and I started talking about a second dog, but I've never had a household with two dogs before. I didn't know if they would get along or if Frankie would feel like he was now the second-in-command. Everyone had advice about having two dogs, ranging from "Don't do it" to "He would love having a companion."

So we finally headed to the Imperial County Humane Society in El Centro. It took a few trips but then we met this little guy.

 

Given how shaggy and matted Frankie was when I adopted him, I knew underneath this dread head was an adorable dog who needed a home. We went home to think about it and as soon as we decided we were ready to make the big move, we were ready to be responsible for another dog- the dog vanished.

We went to the Humane Society and he was gone. A truck from San Diego Humane Society had just picked up a brood of adoptable dogs since they get far more traffic than our local shelter. I found it nearly impossible that this dog had suddenly gotten picked up and once I had my mind made up, that was it.

What followed next was a serendipitous series of events that is a reminder that you never end up where you think you will. After countless phone calls, debates over the possibility of holding the dog, I finally got a gracious employee to put our little dog on hold. Adoptions go quickly in the San Diego area and when we arrived with Frankie 10 minutes before the San Diego Humane Society opened, there were already two families waiting. Their humane society is like the Cadillac of all humane societies. It's ridiculous. Each dog has their own room, their own toys, their own plastic faux sofas. Don't get me started on the crazy cat habitat. It's obvious compared with our dilapidated shelter that the money really gets funneled to San Diego. Which is sad when you think about it. Maybe we could get a lot of dogs adopted in our area, too, if the facilities helped the dogs appear more adoptable, if you know what I mean. I'm by no means turned off by an outdoor shelter, but I know a lot of people that will not even look locally for a pet.

So after two weeks of calls, one drive to San Diego, and my stomach in knots, I went to peek into the room where the dog was being held. The staff had told me the dog was in fact a girl, under all that matted hair, and they named her Regina (which is the worst name for a dog ever, if you ask me). I walked through the door, put my face to the glass like a kid in kindergarten

and looked down.

There she was.

There she wasn't. Maybe it was the haircut. Maybe it was the fact that she was laying down and wouldn't lift her head to even look at me.

Maybe this wasn't the SAME DOG.

I asked Jaime and he went in and took a glance. Definitely not the same dog.

Maybe, the same dog? Were we wrong? But we had the photographic evidence, a photo I had taken with my camera phone the day we walked away from the dog that would never materialize again (I'm sure he's in a good home).

 

From the moment Pepper came trotting out to meet with Frankie and give each

other the necessary sniff test, I knew I couldn't let her stay there another moment.

She was so sweet right off the bat, so different in personality than Frankie from the very beginning. Jaime pulled her up on his lap and snuggled her face without so much as a growl or a snarl. I think, in the end, he needed her as much as I did then.

On the drive home, we wracked our brains for a name, because we knew Regina just wouldn't do. In describing her coat, I finally threw out Pepper and it stuck. She learned her name within a week. The first time we unleashed her in the backyard, she bounded through the grass like Pepe le Pew, then ran up to Frankie, barked at him to play with her, and ran again. Frankie remains semi-confused about this new woman in his life, though he does strangely find her rather attractive and apparently a turn-on (we don't get it either, considering they're both neutered). Aside from the occasional fight over a bone, the dogs are doing well together.

Pepper has developed her own personality. She's like a rambunctious two-year-old that can't get enough of squeaky toys. She has destroyed many of Frankie's toys, pulling out the stuffing only to kill the squeaker inside. I'm thinking about outsourcing her as a dog toy tester (any takers?). She lets you cuddle with her, which is a rare thing for Frankie to allow to happen because of his abusive past. It took a long time for Pepper to warm up to being picked up but she thumps her tail (audibly) in the morning when Frankie would rather sleep in. She's better than an alarm clock and she has few boundaries when it comes to affection. I always warn people that come over that she loves licking noses and she's liable to dig in the trash when she feels like it.

Pepper is a fast runner and she's escaped the house twice already

(she's microchipped), has tons of energy, and can mangle a rawhide faster than you can change channels. Because of her lighting-fast speed, we imagine she wasn't an Imperial Valley dog at all, but a rebel from Texas who ran to California to escape the law.

She's our kind of people. She's weird looking and hard to pin down.

And she may be wanted in three states. Just sayin.

We hope she never manages to jump the fence in the yard or escape through the unsuspecting legs of a visitor as we open the front door, because for now, she's our dog. If she did escape we imagine she'd probably start her own messenger business on the streets of San Francisco, putting all bike messengers out on the streets. Until then, she's pulling on the end of a leash, chasing birds in the backyard, and squeaking her turtle endlessly into the night. Come to think of it, maybe she was the right dog for us all along.

Uhhh, did she just write a whole entry about her DOGS?! Yeah, I did.

Coming up next on Wedlocked: Information on my upcoming trip to India- everything you never wanted to know about studying abroad. Complain about irrelevant blogs at: briannarangel@mac.com

Tom DeLay puts fractured foot in mouth

Does anyone else find this incredibly hilarious and wrong? And awesome?

Tom DeLay's feet (and word choices) are failing him and I'm hoping that he ends up going to prison. How is it that a politician who has been indicted and still has not been prosecuted is venerated on a TV show? And he didn't even get kicked off the first week!

I don't watch Dancing With the Stars, I'm a purist (meaning I watch So You Think You Can Dance, also known as THE LONGEST ACRONYM EVER: SYTYCD).

Anywho, this excerpt from People online shows how DeLay would be doing the world a big favor if he spent some time behind bars.

Can you believe a former (uh, yeah, let's forget he's from Texas) congressman would say:

By the end of the night, though, DeLay told PEOPLE he was paying the price for the performance. “They’re starting to tell me I shouldn’t have done this,” he said of his feet, which were dressed in orthopedic booties after the show. “I ice them. I’ve got a bone stimulator machine that I put on them.”

Did you catch that?

"I've got a bone stimulator machine that I put on them."

Thank you Tom DeLay. I needed a laugh today.

On parent-child relationships or "I need you as much as you need me" complexes

He was silent for more than a split second. I could understand. Oh yeah, I was asking if it would be okay if the same woman that I have had several rounds of heavyweight yelling matches with on the phone (albeit a long time ago) could visit for nearly three weeks. And could she stay here? And come when we're about to move into our first home?

Would that be okay?

My husband is a good man, let me just say that, not only because he said yes but because he had faith that it would be okay and that we wouldn't kill each other and it wouldn't lead to the eventual dissolution of our marriage because of one month that I temporarily lost my sanity.

My mother lost her job last year. Since then, she's been pounding the pavement, applying for anything and everything under the sun. She is a great worker, she's a smart woman, and she's unfortunately part of the thousands of workers without a degree who are up against people with degrees who can't find a job. So she finds herself at a time with a lot of time on her hands, plenty to stress about, and a need for an escape.

What better way to escape than to come to California for a few weeks to help me move?

The idea at first was just mentioned off-hand, then I laughed it off. But we actually made it happen.

I know children, at any age, are not supposed to admit this. I had a great time. I mean, it was really fun. There was a fair share of awkwardness at the beginning. My mom and I haven't spent any kind of time together unless I was in crisis-save-the-world mode and she was hospitalized (most of the time). It was like getting to know someone you SHOULD know already, but you really don't for some reason.

Growing up, my mom and I were pretty much inseparable. She was one of my best friends. She pretty much knew everything about me. She knew who I had a crush on, she knew when I was heartbroken, and she knew when to leave me alone. Although my mom worked a lot, we had a better speaking relationship than most teenagers I knew had with their stay-at-home mothers or working fathers and mothers. We were just different. It's that same thing that kept my friends gravitating to my two bedroom apartment instead of their McMansions with surround sound and every new tech whatever and a maid who fixed them dinner.

I stood out among my friends, and I was kinda ashamed that I lived in an apartment complex where my neighbors had foil on their windows. They loved that the grocery store was right next door, we could go buy food, watch a movie and not have to worry about parents peeking in on what was going on. We were all good kids, but still loved our freedom.

There's a downside to having a great relationship with your parent, too. Well, perhaps too "open" of a relationship. I also knew when she drank too much. I also became really embarrassed when she spilled her margarita all over my eighth grade crush at my birthday party. And she proceeded to sing my childhood lullaby to my classmates. They made fun of it for the rest of the year.

Senior year became even more complicated. I was just happy to be graduating, I was near the top of my class, I was applying to UT-Austin. I asked to go to prom and I was treated like the most selfish child in the universe. I learned several years later that last year of high school, when I first started spending so much time alone with my friends, my mom was battling a cocaine addiction. It all makes sense now, but I'd be lying if I said I didn't struggle that last year, debating with myself about why all of a sudden my mom expected me to do the grocery shopping with whatever cash she handed to me and the embarrassment of trying to pay with the check she gave me only to be turned away since she had a hot check out to the store that she forgot to pay. There's nothing like having to walk away from the week's worth of carefully chosen groceries to stay within the $40 budget empty handed, walk across the street, and wait for her to come home from work to explain what happened. She worked overnight, came home at 7 a.m. and most of the time was awake just before it was time for her to go to work at night. I made dinner for her and myself. I packed her a lunch some of the days. Others, I'd get out of whatever school activity I was doing, go get her dinner, and drop it off at work. I knew in my heart I was a good kid. Her behavior just wasn't connecting with that.

Anywho, to shorten the story, my mom and I have a history.

In recent years, though, after I went to therapy and she has since been sober, it has been an improving relationship. We've learned to laugh together and the last three weeks with her here were awesome. After a few days, we learned to just be ourselves around each other. Which, considering we'd been so close most of our lives, was an interesting concept.

When that initial suggestion was made that she come for a few weeks, I hesitated, even for a few moments. I didn't know if I could be faced with the woman that raised me- I know our personalities are so much alike that we'd probably butt heads. Could be repair some parts of our relationship that still needed work? Could I keep things on an even keel as to not upset my husband's first few weeks in HIS first home, too? I didn't really know what to expect. I took a chance. We took a chance.

She took a chance.

I'm not going to lie. It took me a while to let my guard down. When I did, though, the rest was gravy. We watched TV together, we cleaned house together, we laughed so hard we cried, we bantered. I learned where my desire to carry on an ongoing commentary of reality television comes from. I learned where my best sarcastic come backs came from. I learned a bit about my mom. And a lot of it was reinforcement of things I already knew. She's a good person. She's funny. She's smart as hell. She's strong. On the surface, an unemployed 55-year-old single woman without a formal education may not seem to have a lot going for her. But she does.

There's a lot of my childhood that wasn't easy. I've made peace with that. In third grade I won an essay contest for writing about "My Hero." The essay, laminated and protected from harm, was about my mother trying to find my father. In the best penmanship I could muster at the time, I neatly wrote about how my mother was inspiring. How she did her best to raise us. How she worked so hard. How funny she was. How she taught us to appreciate the little things. How she dried my tears.

No matter what has happened, no matter how much I learn about my mother, those things will always be true. They are true.

When I my friends met my mother when she was here, they took to her like my teenage friends used to. They reaffirmed all the things I've always said about her: she's awesome, she's hilarious, she's so cool. Yeah, she is. But some also revered in my courage to take on three weeks with the woman who raised me: good luck with that, man.

The thing children forget about parents, and parents forget about children is that we need you as much as you need us, even if we don't know how to express that.

One of my mentors said it best when she said, "Brianna, you'll never regret spending more time with your mother." She was absolutely right.

I'm glad you came. Thank you mom.

Mom and I at a Dallas Cowboys football game years ago.

Time saving strategies, CLICK HERE!

There's an interesting feature on my calendar at the mac.com website.

You can create all sorts of calendar categories, one for work, one for school, one for home. I have seven including a calendar for SDSU, Infinite Summer (I know, shutup I didn't read the damn book), GRE study schedule (uhhhhh....what?), Work, Home, Jazzercise (knock it all you want Iron and Ink it's a great workout), and Cancer Resource Center of the Desert . Lately with the house, and school starting up and my unexpected return to the workforce (although it is a short-time gig), that calendar has been off the charts.

When I can't fit into the little box on the screen everything that I'm supposed to do that day, I hit panic mode. I like all my to dos right where I can see them. It's when they sneak down to a bottom "and one more event" that things feel out of control. I'm the same way about my e-mail inbox. File, delete, or keep in there if it hasn't been addressed. But the days that I have to scroll down to look at all the e-mails, it's time to clean house.

The problem with my calendar is I don't have time to clean the house right now. Funds are always appreciated and working is an essential part of that. I tried to make money by staying home and doing nothing, it doesn't quite work. And some people call it "schlepping." The problem with Jazzercise right now is I'm working. School's starting on Monday and I can't change the move date into the new house because paying for rent and a mortgage just sounds silly. GRE? Uh, is it bleeding? Is it past due? Will it be disconnected? It's off the list all together.

Did I mention I volunteered (perhaps even jokingly suggested) my mother come stay for a couple of weeks to help with the house?

I discovered a neat little box that made me feel so much better today. Turn out by each one of those calendas, you click a button and it turns it off. Click. Just like that. GRE prep? Gone. Infinite Summer? Fuck it. But what about those obligations that you can't just click off?

Last year I started volunteering at CRCD, a local cancer organization. I offered to use my abilities to redesign, write and layout their newsletter that needed a personal touch. My offer was warmly accepted and the reception of my work in the last year has been tremendous. I'm so honored to be able to do that. This time, the newsletter sits there, waiting to be completed, waiting, waiting, waiting. That's the hard thing about obligations that I'd readily say yes to. Heck, I called them to volunteer. This is something I want to do, I like to do, it's something that's personal to my heart.

But I feel guilty. I feel guilty that the stuff with the house and work has pushed the completion another week. I feel guilty that I feel perhaps I could've finished it somehow, if I were a better time manager. I feel guilty that it's work not for me, personally, but for a non-profit. They certainly deserve better than an e-mail explaining it'll be one more week...

I don't know how some people manage to get it all done. I'm of the opinion that if you're doing everything 100% you're a total liar. Nothing gets done 100% when you have 100 things to do. Sometimes things like that newsletter are number one, the first thing on my list when I get up. Other times, job comes first, and it's my husband's day off, and I have to go grocery shopping, and I have to pack up the house because we're moving on Friday.

There are times in my life I love deadlines. For the most part, they keep me on task. The days that I don't have to drag and drop a to-do onto the next day and the next, that's a good productive day. But things get in the way sometimes. We didn't schedule ourselves to buy a house and it's taken so much more out of us than we thought, it's really f-in stressful! Most of it has been really awesome and some of it has been really hectic and we're not getting much else done because of the barrage of phone calls and paperwork.

Now that's all going to calm down, we're going to get into the house. But the calendar of things that have been clicked off await, their own deadlines quickly approaching. That CRCD newsletter should have been done already. That's on me. Infinite Summer? Maybe next summer. GRE? Well, that October test date isn't too far around the bend. SDSU starts on Monday.

Even tonight, I'm frantic, trying to sort out the rest of my week. Making lists are sometimes a task in itself, because it reminds you of everything you have yet to accomplish. Hey, how about writing down all the stuff I DID get done today?

Sometimes things have to wait and consequences will likely follow. Sometimes you will disappoint people, especially when  you volunteer, but that's the sideways nature of volunteering, it will not always be a priority. All I can do is keep those things on my list. I keep working towards getting it done.

As twisted as it sounds, in my opinion, that's a lot better than clicking that box and shutting it off permanently. Otherwise, you're left with nothing to do.

Preemptive strike against sarcastic comments regarding the time it took to write this blog: Uh, yeah, I could've probably cranked out a story during the time I took to write this. Writing is my therapy. This is where I talk it all out. So, technically, I would've been stunted from writing because all of this would've been going on in my head at the same time that I would've tried to write. Trust me, I've done the math, it works.

Greater than Fiction

Those who have never worked in a newsroom are sometimes fascinated and often disappointed with the way it really is. They imagine rows of shouting reporters on the phone with important people going, "Tell me the truth!" or "Where did you REALLY get that Mercedes?" and demanding justice on all fronts. When I used to work in the newsroom, I'd tell them about the desks, arranged in a random pattern, and there was very little shouting. At least between news sources and reporters.

The newsroom is like any other office in a lot of ways, you have a bit of office politics mixed in with the self-righteousness of a handful of people in a creative field that lends serious debate to who's "passionate" about their "career" and duties as a "journalist." But the office is also like any other- I sometimes had days when I didn't feel like writing, I felt like I turned in stories that were total crap, and other days I left feeling like even if one reader didn't call about a feature story, I still loved it.

Like any other office, there are the days you remember, the kind of days you longed for in the office (a good mix of breaking news, teamwork, and people on a mission to cover something from all angles) and the days you'd rather forget (the day I missed deadlines, the days stories fell through, the hours spent at some city council meetings that went on F-O-R-E-V-E-R).

 

But now that I'm filling in for a couple of weeks at the Press, what I miss the most is the random office discussions that come about while throwing around story ideas or commenting on national news gossip topics.

 

Stripper poles: empowering or sexist?

What five albums would you take with you on a deserted island?

If you had to karaoke or die, what song would you sing?

In my years previously in the newsroom, I had witnessed (and once been a part of) full-on shouting matches, a reporter throwing a phone or hanging up on a source, and uncontrollable laughter over some unrelated topics. On more than one occasion, my former cohort (Eric Galvan) and I used to decide which people in the newsroom would fit into the character/likeness/outfits of Star Wars. If you read this article, I guess you could say when I worked full-time at the Press I was partly on protege status. Only partly because our newsroom doesn't exactly fall into the "luxury" mold.

But the rest of the time, it was people with phone jammed between their necks and their shoulders, typing away. Or with headphones on because they were in the zone of writing a story. Or in my case, rewriting the lede four times to try and get the pacing just right.

I've been out of the newsroom for about a year and going back has been like slipping back into a pair of comfortable weekend jeans. Except they don't fit quite right anymore because either you changed or the jeans changed or both. Many things haven't changed, the people filling the desks are different. For the most part it's nice to be around people again when I'm writing because much of my school writing and stories in the last year have been written from home. Don't get me wrong, I love rubbing my feet on the dogs while I'm getting paid to write, but I think pets in the newsroom are still frowned upon.

After this next week I'll go back to my old routine, and there's more than enough to keep me busy. We're packing, cleaning, and preparing to move into our first home. Working full-time, for some reason, is more tiring to me than spending time reading for class, writing papers, and attending class for countless hours a week. I've lived in the luxury of not having to punch a clock for a year, but it's more and more evident to me that the demands of working at a newspaper as a reporter doesn't wait, call you back, or stop because of the clock.

Already I got home later than I said I would- twice. That's just the nature of the gig.

I'd be lying if I said I didn't miss it. I'd be lying if I said I missed every. single. little. thing. about. it. As much as sitting around for two weeks sounds awesome, I'm really glad I'm in the newsroom even if it is just for a few more days. There's a part of me as a student that misses writing outside of the academic realm regularly. There's a part of me as a writer who wants to explore literary journalism and the Press gives me the freedom to develop my voice and style. There's a part of me as a wife that feels a bit guilty about not working full-time anymore, especially when my return to the workforce is up in the air.

The hardest thing about not being in the newsroom is the things that happened out of the newsroom that shaped me as a writer. The people I met, the people I interviewed, the people's stories I attempted to retell. Now as a student the people I write about are authors, some of them who are dead, many of whom would probably not even bother taking my call. I guess it's hard for me to decide what I love doing more: writing about what's been written and trying to do something new or creating something new altogether.

The wrap-up of my week is pretty typical of both working in a newsroom and a week in class. Some stories were throwaways (not something you particularly valued, but had to get done), some were interesting (interesting topic, interesting to write) and others something you'll remember for a while (a strong story with strong writing).

What I've learned is people's lives have stories that are greater than fiction. And some fiction is greater than anyone's life story. The art really comes down to relaying it on paper, whether it's in a bound novel or in newsprint. Good ideas are found everywhere. Great book ideas could be lost without the right voice. Having the courage to lay it all out there and take a chance can always be done. Writing it? Well, that is a whole other story.

Pinch me

Our mortgage got approved this morning.

And I hit my 40 pound weight loss mark.

Details forthcoming.

Life is Random

Why not post occasionally on random thoughts?

Sometimes, on the days I'm really struggling, the dog farts and it stinks so bad it makes me laugh.

"We're Almost Home"

The mortgage company gave us the green light today and I came home from a stressful long morning in biology class to flowers and this hand-drawn masterpiece from my husband. The rounder dog is Frankie (he's chunky) and the other is Pepper (she frequently looks confused).

He's my favorite part of my day.

How to let go

When I left the press, Todd Krainin made me a CD that included some random photos he had taken during the time we worked together at the Press and a few episodes of HBO's In Treatment.

I guess those two things go together, now that I think about it.

So, initially, I thought this photo was unflattering, showing me at my highest weight ever (I'm gathering the courage to talk about my weight loss here sometime soon), my head shoved back into my spine, creating what could be known as the Incident of the Fantastic Double Chin.

Too often I've hid photos like this, or even, I guess, myself from the world because it's not perfect. It does not portray what some would call a "flattering" image, but recently I rediscovered this photo. I was scrolling through my minute and obscure mess of iPhoto, sorting images into vacations, trips, gatherings, and randomness. And I happened across this photo and I had a completely different take on it.

This photo, it it's essence, shows PURE UNABATED HAPPINESS AND LAUGHTER.

In fact, it doesn't get any better than this.

I remember this moment, as a moment where I was laughing so hard, no audible sound was made, and my stomach hurt in that awesome way that is rare in this lifetime. Even thinking about it makes me laugh again. Seriously, I'm smiling right now.

Thank you Todd, for taking this photo, and reminding me that despite any kind of superficial appearances, there is such a thing as being fantastically IMPERFECT right down to that chipped tooth. This moment is great in its wrongness-- and for a while I wondered why Krainin would choose such a photo to give me in my departure from the Press. Now I think I finally get what he meant by it.

It's rare that I laugh this hard, but with my friends and especially with my sister (who apparently thinks I'm the funniest person alive), I come close to this several times a week. You know that really good laughter that starts in your head, goes down to your gut, and for several minutes you can't catch your breath because the waves of laughter pass back and forth between you.

For that reason, this portrait is a perfect reminder of how to let go. And right now, that's exactly what I needed.