#16 - Getting Good News!

Yesterday, November 9th, I was invited to join the 2011 Teach For America corps in Phoenix, Arizona. It was one of the most exciting things that's happened to me in a long time. I've spent the couple of weeks neck deep in grad school applications, and honestly, I'd almost forgotten about TFA. As soon as I got the acceptance email, that changed. I've been thinking non-stop about how great this experience is going to be. It's going to be difficult - I am under no illusions about that. But I also think it's going to be a really rewarding experience. I'm very, very excited.

The great thing about getting news like this is that it makes your whole day better. Almost immediately after I found out, I went to a meeting with a professor of mine who is writing me recommendations for grad school (which I am keeping as an option on the back burner). He is a brilliant man, but cranky as hell, and I knew as soon as I handed him the list of recommendations that he would refuse to complete the ones that are online. He asked me to switch all of those to paper recs, which I can do, but will be a GIANT pain in the ass. But I was so happy about getting into TFA - so high on the thrill of being wanted - that I didn't even care. It's been like that ever since. I'm really happy, and the world looks a little bit brighter.

#15 - Leftover Halloween Candy

As I type these words, I'm thinking about the big bowl of candy sitting on my kitchen table. My roommate's boyfriend - who is a real adult, and lives in a real house, and so had trick-or-treaters come by - had extra candy after Halloween last Sunday, and brought it over.

Halloween is one of my favorite holidays for two reasons: 1) I love watching kids getting dressed up to go trick-or-treating; and 2) I. Love. Candy. Especially "fun size" candy, the kind people give out on Halloween.

Fun size candy is made for people like myself, who love to eat but are terrified of reverting back to their fat-kid days. If I buy a normal-sized piece of candy, I'll eat the entire thing. I have absolutely no self control when it comes to candy. Fun-sized candy provides a tidy alternative. Eating one fun-sized candy sates my appetite for delicious sugary goodness, but won't turn me into a whale.

The bowl of candy the roommate's boyfriend brought over has fun-sized Skittles, Milky Ways, and Reeses. All solid Halloween choices: Skittles for the people who don't like chocolate, and Reeses for the people who don't like Milky Way (although who doesn't like Milk Ways??). My personal favorite is Snickers, but there are none of those in the house. It's a good thing, too - I'm going home in a few weeks, and I need to look fantastic!

#14 - Family reunions.

I'm currently sitting in front of the TV watching the rescue of the Chilean miners, and I'm on the verge of tears. Watching these men come back to the surface to be reunited with their families is so inspiring. The first man who came up was greeted by his wife and son. The son burst into tears the second he saw his father. It was absolutely the sweetest thing I've ever seen. Watching family reunions such as these always tugs at my heartstrings. The video compilation of returning soldiers that's been circulating lately has a similar effect. There's nothing in the world more important than family, and things like this prove it. Totally inspiring.

#13 - Baking!

I am, by nature, an anxious person. Most of the time, that anxiety is manifested in stress over schoolwork, or, more recently, in applying to grad school. Over the years, I've learned how to turn my anxiety into energy, forcing my self to work instead of panicking. That hasn't been working too well lately. The other day, I was on the phone with my father, asking his advice about my Teach for America interview, and something he said sent me into a full blown panic attack. If you've never had one of these delightful experiences, consider yourself lucky. Sitting in the kitchen, talking to my father, I was convinced I was going to die. My throat constricted, my heart started beating unusually fast, and I felt like someone was stacking bricks on my spinal cord. Not fun.

My panic attacks are short-lived (usually less than a minute long), but they happen with alarming frequency. I've tried just about every possible method for making my crazy go away, but so far, only one thing has worked (at least, in a preventative sense): baking. My father is an amazing cook, and my grandmother and sister are both really great bakers, but among my family members, I am notoriously lacking in the kitchen.

Up until this year, that is. Baking has become a major hobby of mine lately, mostly because when I bake, I don't think about anything else. I find a strange comfort in the clinical directives of recipes, in the knowledge that a few simple ingredients can make really delicious food. I've taken to baking when I'm emotionally overwhelmed, and that emotion is sometimes translated into really delicious mistakes. A few weeks ago I made Carmel Apple cupcakes following a grad school-induced panic attack, and, hands shaking, poured way too much nutmeg into the mix. I didn't want to start over, so I went online to try to figure out what would temper the taste of nutmeg. The answer? Mace, of all things. So I put mace in the cupcakes and hoped that they wouldn't taste awful. And you know what? They didn't. They were delicious.

This morning I made Sour Cream Blueberry Muffins. I wasn't exactly stressed at the time, but I anticipated that I would be later today. The recipe was adapted from the Sour Cream Raspberry Cupcakes on my favorite cupcake website. I used almond extract instead of vanilla, and used a little less sugar and a little more flour to make them more muffin-y. They were delicious. Maybe even better than my Dad's. And that's definitely Something To Be Happy About.

#12 - When things go better than you'd expected

I'm retaking the GRE on Friday, and I've got a ton of work to do, so this is going to be a short post. In fact, I was planning on continuing my illustrious tradition of forgetting to post, but today has been the best day. Last night, I told my dad a secret I'd been keeping for a month or so. I'd expected him to be angry, or disappointed. I'd expected him to yell. But he didn't - he was calm, and understanding, and everything a dad should be. I woke up this morning feeling as though a huge weight had been taken off my shoulders. I also came to the realization that I am incredibly blessed. I have an amazing family, and I am loved. If that's not Something To Be Happy About, then I don't know what is.

#11 - Google Books!

I'm currently working on a research for a paper I'm presenting at the Arizona Center for Medieval and Renaissance Studies undergraduate conference in Tempe, AZ at the end of this month. You can check out the conference, and the Center here. The paper is essentially a translation and interpretation of an Old English poem called "Wulf and Eadwacer". It's an infamously difficult poem, and I have absolutely no idea why I find it so intriguing. For decades, people much smarter than I am have been trying to understand what, exactly, the poem is about; I'm not entirely sure why I think I'll be able to figure it out, but I'm trying.

In any case, my research on the poem has been difficult. The text I'd really love to get my hands on is a 10th century anthology of Old English poetry called the Exeter Book. It is housed at Exeter College, Oxford, and for obvious reasons is entirely out of my reach. However, there is another book, called Codex Exoniensis, which I believed would be slightly more accessible, and just as useful. Codex Exoniensis was written in 1842 by a man named Benjamin Thorpe, and is the first printed copy of the Exeter Book. It contains translations of each poem with notes on syntax and interpretation. It is, essentially, the earliest printed record of Anglo-Saxon scholarship. I'd very much like to read it.

Unfortunately, the U of A is not a hotspot for Anglo-Saxon research, and my library doesn't have a copy of the Codex. Fortunately, there's always Google Books. On this wonderful website, I found a scanned copy of every single page of the original printing, complete with citations and notes. It's the closest I'll get to the real thing (at least for a while), and it's been the most useful text I've found so far.

I'm sick, and I'm exhausted, and until I found this Thing To Be Happy About, I was feeling pretty down about my lowly position on the research totem pole. Things are looking up, thanks to Google Books.

#10 - Getting out of class early.

Are there any words more beautiful on a Tuesday afternoon (or any afternoon, for that matter) than "class is going to end early today"? And is there any day more beautiful than a day in which those words are uttered not once, not twice, but THREE times in three separate classes? Of course not. Even in classes that I love (and yes, I do love some of my classes) the chance to leave early is welcome. It makes the day instantly better.

That said, short classes do not necessarily equal less homework. So adios!

#9 - NAPS.

I remember hating naps growing up. My parents told me to nap ALL THE TIME, and I never did. Growing up, I'd usually go to my room and pretend to nap, while really reading or playing with Barbies. I was a really cool kid back in the day.

These days, there's not much more I love than taking a nap. I nap more often than just about anyone I know, except for maybe my roommate. My bed is, I believe, specially designed for nap-taking. It's big, and soft, but not too soft, except right when you lay down, when it just collapses under you and takes you in it's arms and begs you to go to sleep. And when you wake up from a nap, you get a hint of what my friends and I call "nap-sweat" - the thin sheen of sweat on your neck and forehead that reminds you of falling asleep in the car as a kid. Or is that just us?

All of this talk about naps is making me sleepy. Guess what time it is?

Naptime.

#8 - Rereading the classics

There's a joke in the English department about Mary Shelley's most famous novel: How many professors does it take to teach you Frankenstein? The answer: All of them, apparently. Since I began college three years ago, I've been assigned the novel no less than four times; at one point, I was reading it for two classes at the same time. So when the professor of my Fantasy Literature class assigned it yet again, I assumed that I could skip the reading, and use that time to catch up on all my other homework. When I got to class this morning, I quickly flipped through the pages were supposed to have read, hoping to jog my memory before the discussion began. But skimming proved easier said than done, not because I had forgotten the details of the novel, but because I'd forgotten how damn good it is.

That's the great thing about great books. Each time you read a great novel, you pick up on things you didn't catch on your first reading. For example, while I was flipping through Frankenstein this morning, I caught myself laughing out loud at the absolute egotism Walton shows in the first few pages. I had never recognized the humor in that opening section; it adds a touch of irony when contrasted with Victor Frankenstein's own God complex.

Anyways, I got to thinking about all the other books I need to reread - Blood Meridian and The Scarlet Letter, of all things, came to mind. Then I remembered that I have no time to read on my own. But it was a nice thought, while it lasted.

#7 - The NYT Obituaries Section

I've always been morbidly fascinated with obituaries. My roommate and I used to have the New York Times delivered to our apartment, and barring some massive tragedy on the front page, the first section I'd read every morning was the obituaries. We've now realized that we're poor college students, who truly can't afford to have it delivered ($15 a week! Those elitist bastards), and so I've started reading the obituaries online. The online edition of the Times has more obituaries than are printed, so I've got even more dead people to read about, which is great.

The thing is, it isn't exactly the deaths that fascinate me. What I'm fascinated with is the lives - more specifically, how the obituary writers condense those lives into 5 word phrases or epigrams. Here's an example from today's paper: "Jefferson Thomas, Who Helped Integrate Little Rock School, Dies at 67". Another example, from a few days back: "Corneille, Dutch Artist With A Lyrical Modernism, Dies at 88". I don't know enough about either of these men to know if these are sufficient descriptions, but I'm totally captivated by how succinct they are.

Some historical examples:

• "Truman Capote, Stylish Novelist, Dies at 59"
• "Richard Burton, Rakish Star, Dies at 58"
• "Florence Nightingale, Famous Nurse," Dies at 90"

What will your obituary say? They're short, so unfortunately, "Courtney Barajas, Pulitzer Prize Winner and Queen of Everying, Dies at X" probably won't be the best choice. But hopefully it'll be something along those lines. 

#7 - Being an English major

When people ask me what I'm an English major for, I tend to answer in one of two ways. If I'm in a good mood, I'll say something like, "It seemed like a good idea at the time." If I'm in a bad mood, my response will be more along the lines of, "Because someone needs to teach morons like you not to end sentences with f@*king prepositions." (I mean, really.)

Regardless of how I answer, I'm usually thinking the same thing: I'm just not good at anything else. For years this has been my rationale: I'm an English major because nothing else comes as easily. I've never been successful in Science classes, I don't really enjoy History or Psych, and I really truly cannot add numbers higher than 10. Reading and writing, on the other hand, have always been as natural to me as breathing. Why waste energy on the study of anything difficult?

The problem is this: studying English isn't easy anymore. The classes I'm taking this semester are, as a rule, ridiculously difficult. The sheer amount of reading I'm assigned each week is criminal. It's as if each professor thinks that their class is the only one I'm taking, and assigning literally hundreds of pages of reading a week is perfectly acceptable, because it's not like we have anything better to do, right? And the readings themselves have become more difficult. Gone are the days of reading a couple of poems a night; my readings so far this semester have been unbelievably dense - thick packets of literary theory, philosophy, or pure didactic criticism. My lit classes are harder than they used to be - and, most of the time, not as much fun. I go to class every Tuesday and Thursday expecting to bored out of my mind.

And then my professor starts reciting Chaucer, or Wordsworth, or Didion, and I remember why I love English lit. He passes out a poem I haven't read since high school, or a short story by an author I'd all but forgotten, and I feel the swelling in my chest, and I remember why I'm here. I'm not an English major because it's easy, or because there's nothing else I'm good at. I'm an English major because there's nothing else I love more in the world than reading, or talking about what I've read. Nothing excites me as much as 15th century English lit, except for maybe 18th century English lit, or maybe 19th century American. There's no man alive I love quite as much as the long-deceased Samuel Taylor Coleridge, no one who makes me laugh as hard as Chaucer.

To be sure, nothing frustrates me as much as reading these men, or any number of other writers. Like everything good in life, spending time with all these texts is difficult, and like everything difficult, the struggle is worth it. This semester is going to be more difficult than the past two years of college combined, and I really couldn't be more excited.

#6 - Rearranging my room.

This post goes out 100% to my father, who sent me both an email AND a facebook message telling me to update. He can now share my mother's frustration in only being mentioned in a negative (?) sense on this blog. For the record, my dad is A) the smartest person I know and B) the hardest working. So his frustration in my total lack of posting is understandable

ANYWAYS, I spent about three hours today rearranging the furniture in my room. Last year, I lived in a really old, tiny apartment that exactly two fantastic features. The first was an amazing brick patio, which was almost as big as the apartment itself. The second was the fact that it had solid concrete floors, which made rearranging the apartment (something I tend to do when stressed and/or avoiding real work) a piece of cake. I now live with a roommate in a much bigger, much nicer apartment with carpeted floors, and rearranging furniture was a bit of a hassle today.

The whole project began when I decided to do laundry, a Herculean effort in and of itself. For the past few weeks, the stress of studying for the GRE and beginning my senior year of college has left me lacking in the organization department. Pretty much every item of clothing I own was on the floor at the bottom of my closet, and I had just about run out of things to wear. In the act of doing laundry, I realized that my closet was all but designed for disorganization. I don't have enough shelves or hangers or drawers or anything of that nature. So I decided to tear down a set of cabinets I had and put it in my closet. That, in turn, left a big empty space on one of my walls, which just wouldn't do.

To describe the rest of my rearranging would be pointless, since the people who read this blog (HI MOM AND DAD) haven't spent enough time in my room to appreciate the improvements. Actually, I don't think anyone but my roommate and I have. The point is this: rearranging my room is an inexplicably comforting process. One of the things that's scariest about being an adult is the fact that there are still so many things over which I have absolutely no control. I guess I thought that growing up meant no one could tell you what to do, or when or how to do it. That's not the case. I've still got a hundred people telling me to do a thousand different things, and I don't think that's going to change anytime soon.

And yet, no one can tell me that my bed HAS to be up against the western wall, or that it doesn't look good centered underneath the south window (although, to be fair, that's because it does look empirically awesome there). No one can tell me that I HAVE to put my TV on my dresser, or that a kitchen table is an unacceptable substitute for a desk. I don't have control over much, but at least I have control over the place where I sleep. Now if only I could figure out where to put my guitar...

PROGRAMMING NOTE: Wow, senior year is difficult. I'm going to get back on track. I promise!

#5 - People trying to cheer you up

I know, I know. Less than a week into the blogging project and I'm already behind. But, to be fair, it's been one hell of a weekend. Yesterday (Saturday) was test day. Because the test is given on the computer, I was able to learn my score right away, which is nice, I suppose, if you're one of those people who likes to confront their fears head on. 

I didn't do as well as I'd hoped to. Out of a possible 800 points (per section) I scored 680 on verbal and 640 on math, for a combined score of 1320. I'd been hoping for at least 700 on each section, and I left the test feeling totally defeated. By the time I made it from the testing center to my car, I was in tears. The combination of disappointment about the scores and relief for being done was a little overwhelming. When I got back to my apartment, I collapsed onto the couch and spent a little while feeling sorry for myself. After about fifteen minutes, my roommate came into the living room and asked me about the scores. When I told her, she could tell I was upset, but refused to let me dwell on it. She threw a bag of potato chips (see blog #4) and a Wii remote at me, and we spent an hour or so playing Super Mario Brothers. By the time we'd surrendered to Bowser, I was feeling much better. I checked my facebook and found that another friend had sent me a link to a website claiming that my verbal score put me in the 96th percentile. He insisted that my scores were good enough to get me into any program I wanted, and at a party later that night, had several people confirm that theory. 

I don't know if my scores are good enough for the programs I want, and I don't know if my scores will go up when I take the test again next month, but I do know that I could not have made it through this weekend without the support of my friends. They're the greatest people in the world when it comes to confidence boosters, and they know exactly how to cheer me up. I'm thankful for them every single day of my life. In fact, I'm going to cut this entry short and spend some quality time with Mario and my roommate. Bowser calls!

#4 - Buying food your mom would disapprove of

Today's post is, by necessity, short. The test is TWO DAYS AWAY and since I'm cutting my self off (study-wise) at 3 o'clock on Friday afternoon, I'm taking every opportunity to study. I'm currently sitting on my couch with my GRE book, a brand new pack of pencils, and, unfortunately, a very serious stomach ache. I've never been one of those people who starves themselves when stressed. I'm don't eat my feelings (thank God), but I do, occasionally, eat my stress. The past few days have been particularly bad for my health. I've been indulging in cheap, quick food, and that rarely translates to low-fat, nutritious fare. But in shopping for study food recently (Helloooo calories!), I've found a new Thing To Be Happy About: buying food your mom would disapprove of.

My mother is a wonderful, brilliant woman who has always supported me and my siblings through everything we've done. She's also a bit of a food Nazi. She recently accused me of only writing bad things about her in this blog, so let me be clear: my mom would never call me fat, or tell me not to eat something, or suggest that I go on a diet. She's not that kind of food Nazi. But she is, traditionally, very particular about the kind of food she buys. Going home to Texas is a wonderful experience for many reasons, and my parent's fridge - full of fresh produce, tasty meats, and, invariably, a big bowl full of red seedless grapes - is one of them. But you'd never find Coco Puffs in my parent's pantry. Or Pop Tarts. Or Wonderbread, or beef jerky, or any number of delicious yet wholly unhealthy foods. My mom's most recent crusade was against high fructose corn syrup, and let me tell you - that stuff is in everything.

Going to the grocery store on my own, then, has become a bit of a challenge. On the one hand, I'm a bit of a hippy, and I've become my mother's daughter. I love buying organic vegetables, and low-fat m ilk, and healthy things. But I also have these impulses to buy things I know she'd hate. And in times of stress, those impulses become even stronger. Case in point: last night, my roommate and I went to Walgreens to buy lots of Diet Coke in order to stay up late and study. We came home with Diet Coke, Fruity Pebbles, Ruffles potato chips (and not the low-fat kind), and Pop Tarts. My breakfast today? A bowl of Fruity Pebbles washed down with some Diet Coke. For Lunch? Pop Tarts. My mother, I'm sure would be horrified. But they were quick, cheap meals, and I got some twisted satisfaction out of imagining my mom's face.

I have to admit, she has good reason to be horrified. All that sugar caused a serious energy crash in the late afternoon, and I've got a wicked stomach ache at the moment. So there's another Thing to Be Happy About, I suppose. Moms being right. They usually are.

#3 - Really bad (and really brilliant) rap lyrics

So yesterday (Tuesday) was my first day of class. And what a day it was. I slept through my alarm (of course), broke one of my brand-spanking-new shoes while running to class, and got caught in a mid-day rain storm that came, quiet literally, out of the clear blue sky. On top of my 9:30 - 6 schedule, I had Kaplan Teacher Training from 5:30 - 9:30, which means I was on campus for about a million hours today. I had planned to blog about crotchety old men of the grammar nerd persuasion, a species I have grown to know and love in my time in the English department.

When I finally got home, however, I realized that I had neither the mental capacity or the strength of will to write an actual blog entry about an actual Thing To Be Happy About. So I turned on some music and stared at the screen for a while, waiting for inspiration to strike. Luckily, the music I turned on was 500 Days of Weezy, an absolutely brilliant mash-up of Lil' Wayne songs at the (500) Days of Summer soundtrack. If you haven't checked it out yet, do so immediately. Seriously. Put it on and then come back. We'll wait.

Anyway. I've always had a soft spot for really awful rap lyrics, and Lil' Wayne is no exception. He can be horribly offensive and almost absurdly obtuse. And yet, the juxtaposition of Wayne's lyrics and the melodies of Simon and Garfunkel songs (for example) actually brought to my attention some lines that seemed (at least, in my delusional, exhausted state) to be really clever. Which got me thinking: if Lil' Wayne can write semi-intelligent lyrics, who is to say that other modern rappers are ridiculous all the time? That, in turn, started me on an unnecessarily complex search for lyrics, which brought me to this Happy Thing: really bad (and really brilliant) rap lyrics. So here, presented with minimal comment, the best and worst rap lyrics from my 3 favorite (and I use the word loosely) rappers. Lyrics are necessarily NSFW-ish. Obscenities have been removed, but the contexts are obviously questionable. Comments/additions are appreciated!

KANYE WEST

BEST: "...You would think I ran the world just like Michelle's husband." 

A perfect example of a clever lyric, at least in my mind. Kanye says "Michelle's husband" and we all know exactly who he means. He might not have an entirely accurate idea of what it is the President actually does, but you have to appreciate the reference.

WORST: "...I come as correct as a porn star."
#1 - Ew. #2 - You come correctly, Kanye. Not "correct". We use adverbs to modify verbs, not nouns. # 3 - Ew.

LIL' WAYNE

BEST: "...my mind shines even when my thoughts seem dark." 

This, to me, is what rap should be about. Dark, scary, controversial subjects expressed clearly and, as in the example above, almost poetically. 

WORST (In a song about having sex with a policewoman): "I make her wear nothing but handcuffs and heels and I beat her like a cop, Rodney King baby, I beat her like a cop..."

Okay, first of all, someone needs to re-teach the Civil Rights Movement to our friend Mr. Wayne. Rodney King didn't beat up a cop; in fact, I'm pretty sure it was the other way around. Also: advocating domestic violence? Charming.

EMINEM

BEST: "When it's going good, it's great. I'm Superman...she's Lois Lane."

This lyric comes from "Love the Way You Lie", which, if you haven't heard it, is a really brave and moving song about domestic violence. And while the rest of the song is actually really depressing, this line gets me everytime.

WORST (in a verse about his fans): "...nuts they go, macadamia, they go so ballistic."

Alright. I sort of see where he's going here. Macadamia is a type of nut. And people can, metaphorically, go nuts. So I suppose they could, by proxy, go macadamia. Still: what?

And, of course, my favorite rap lyric of all time, courtesy of the immortal Young Money:

"...call me Mr. Flintstone; I can make your bed rock."

Pure poetry.

P.S. - Crotchety Old Grammar Nerds are truly my favorite people in the whole world, and I have two of them teaching me this semester. Rest assured, they will get their own post.

#2 - Playing Mario Kart Wii

In the midst of the chaos that is studying for the GRE, I've realized that I don't exactly respond well to pressure. The combination of hours spent staring on practice tests and the conviction that my entire future rests on this one score has taken it's toll. My body feels like it's literally falling apart - I've got nearly constant headaches and I don't think my hands have been steady since July. There have been days in the past few weeks where the mere mention of Saturday morning (test day!) has brought me to tears.

In the past, I'm ashamed to admit, I've used times of overwhelming stress as an excuse to be mean to my younger siblings, who serve as an effective - although maybe not entirely deserving - outlet for my aggression. No such luck this time around. My siblings are safe in Texas, halfway across the country, and I'm pretty sure that if I tried to replace them with my roommate, I'd end up with a black eye. 

And while I might resent the fact that she won't let me yell at her, I can't help but love her for bringing her Wii to the apartment. It's become my lifeline. Was there every a better invention for relieving stress? And is any game more perfect than Mario Kart? I've played no less than six Grand Prix tournaments in the past week, and I've realized that it's the perfect outlet for my stress and aggression. I've also realized that there are very few social situations in which four adults screaming obscenities at the TV and/or each other is considered acceptable - other than a Mario Kart tournament, of course.

Luigi is shocked at Mario's language. He really shouldn't have
expected any better.

The thing about playing Mario Kart is that it brings out the absolute worst in people. Some of the sweetest, kindest, most sophisticated people I know have become absolute animals in front of the Wii. Previously unheard-of combinations of swearwords ("douche-hat" and "son of a d*ck" are my personal favorites) are the unintentional fruits of Mario marathons, as are seemingly ridiculous - but deadly serious  - personal feuds. I'm currently caught in the middle of a cross-generational competition, the logistics of which are slightly too complicated to explain. Suffice it to say that when my friends and I play Mario Kart, we play for keeps. Shells and banana peels are thrown with a fury that recalls soldiers tossing grenades over enemy lines.

Last night I won a Grand Prix tournament by such a large margin that I actually felt sorry for my opponent. I say this not to brag, but to explain why the vulgarity and aggression that comes with playing Mario Kart is a Thing To Be Happy About.

Yesterday was a really awful day. I woke up at six in the morning after an entirely restless night. I had planned on riding my bike to campus, but soon realized that it was about 192 degrees outside, and that any strenuous activity might actually kill me. So I threw my bike in the back of my roommates car and rode to campus with her, planning to study at the library all day, then ride home in the afternoon when it was only 150 degrees. Can you see where this is going? My bike broke down in the middle of an intersection on campus. All THREE of the pens I brought ran out of ink. I got in a stupid fight with my mom for absolutely no reason. My brain felt like it was swelling inside my cranium. And it stayed unbearably hot all day.

But when I got home, I knew that pressing the start button three times in quick succession would give me a power boost at the beginning of each race, and that if I flew off the track after the first turn of Rainbow Road, I'd find an awesome shortcut and absolutely destroy my opponents (try it!). I knew that no matter what score I get on Saturday, shaking the Wii remote when my character is in the air will cause her to jump off her bike and do a trick, which will, in turn, give me a boost of speed. When it seems like I don't have control over anything in my life, at least I know that the combination of three adults, a bottle of wine, and Mario Kart can create some serious Lord Of The Flies-style drama. Even when the entire world seems to be conspiring against me, at least I know one thing: Peach is on my side.

Well - that and the fact that I could bat you three times in a row if I wanted. Yeah, you. Want to test that theory? Talk to me on Sunday. Any earlier and I might bite your head off.

#1 - The infinite re-readability of the Harry Potter series

Want to feel old? Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone was first published on June 30th, 1997. On September 1st, 1998, almost twelve years ago, it was published in the United States under the title Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone. I was eight years old at the time, and far too cool for anything as pedestrian as reading, and so was late to the phenomenon that would come to define my generation. In fact, I didn't even pick up the book until some years later, at the age of 11, on a family trip to Seaside, Florida.

Needless to say, when Harry and I finally met, I fell totally, dangerously in love. I devoured the book in about two days, and insisted that my mom buy me the second book, Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, the minute we got back to Chicago. I bought each of the next five books on the day they were published, and have seen every movie but the sixth on opening night. The first part of the seventh and final movie, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows comes out on November 19th, 2010, and the second part comes out on July 15th, 2011. I plan to be at a midnight showings of both. As with the release of the book version of HP7, the release of the second part of the final movie - over fourteen years after the release of the first book - will be a bittersweet thing. I don't think it's an exaggeration to say that my generation grew up with Harry Potter. What will we do when the series ends? How will we navigate the post-Potter world?

The answer, my friends, is the inaugural Thing To Be Happy About: we will simply read the series again. And again. And again.

I spent a significant portion of this summer re-reading all seven Harry Potter novels, and was absolutely astounded by how much I still enjoyed each one. At the ripe old age of twenty-one-in-less-than-three-months (!!!), I probably shouldn't have been as completely engrossed in the series as I was. I am, after all, an English major, and spend the majority of my time reading Serious Adult Books. And yet, from the moment I picked up the first book to the moment I set down the last, I was a woman obsessed. After all these years, the books are still as entertaining, captivating, and inspiring as they were when I first read them. And, in the manner of all over-achieving English majors, I think I've figured out why.

In the Harry Potter universe, "kids" aren't just kids. Harry, Ron, and Hermione are eleven years old when first meet them, and they still manage to outsmart and outfight every "adult" bad guy they encounter. Consider the plot of the first novel. Professor Dumbledore has decided to hide the Sorcerer's Stone at Hogwarts, and enlists the help of several other professors in making it as safe as is humanly possible. Harry and the gang begin to suspect that someone is trying to steal the Stone, and decide that it is their responsibility to protect it. Keep in mind that less than a year prior to this decision neither Harry nor Hermione even knew that Hogwarts existed. Keep in mind also that every adult they encountered assured them that: 1) the Stone was safe; and 2) no one was after it.

You know the rest of the story. Ron wins "the best-played game of chess Howarts has seen in many years", Hermione protects Harry from almost certain death with "the cool use of logic in the face of fire", and Harry...well, Harry uses "pure nerve and outstanding courage" to keep Voldemort from coming back; at least, for a year or so. These three eleven year olds single-handedly kept the most evil man in the Wizarding World at bay after less than a year of their magical education. This same pattern is repeated in each of the subsequent books. J.K. Rowling gives her young characters the abilities and confidence to save the world. If that's not inspiring, I don't know what is.

If you know me well, you know that right now I'm driving myself absolutely insane studying for the GRE. My self-confidence is at an all-time low, and I'm (foolishly, I hope) operating under the assumption that my entire future depends on the outcome of this single test. Last night, after studying for far longer than is healthy, I got in bed with my roommate's well-worn copy of Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince. I flipped to the last few chapters of the book, a section I knew I would appreciate. I'm not going to lie - (SPOILER ALERT, as if you haven't read it already) Dumbledore's death hit me just as hard as it did the first time, and I couldn't help but cry. But when I reached the end of the book, as Harry, Ron, and Hermione decide to drop out of Hogwarts and go out to find Horcruxes and fight Voldemort, I felt a swell of confidence. Are you laughing at me yet? It's a little ridiculous, I admit. But if a seventeen year-old Harry can defeat the most evil man in the world (and believe me, he can), then who's to say that I can't defeat this stupid test?

So here's to J.K. Rowling and the Harry Potter series. One of these days (hopefully many, many years in the future) when I read the series to my kids, I know that they will be as amazed as I was and continue to be. And that's certainly something to smile about.

The Beginning.

Today is Sunday, August 22nd, 2010. Tomorrow is the first day of my senior year of college, and I couldn't be more excited. It's been a very long summer. Rather than going home to Texas at the end of last semester, I made the somewhat foolish decision to stay in Arizona for all but two weeks of my vacation. Arizona is hot this time of year, and lonely, and I can't say that I've been especially happy this summer. Between work, and grad school applications, and the unbearable boredom that comes with living by yourself in a practically empty college town, it's been hard to keep my spirits up. There were days this summer when I all I wanted to do - when I all I did - was lie in bed and stare at the ceiling. And the more time I spent feeling sorry for myself, the more depressed I became. I began to spend time with similarly depressed and self-pitying people, and somehow convinced myself that it was okay to be miserable all the time because at least I wasn't alone in my misery, and at least I wasn't the most depressed person I knew.

Then, about three weeks ago, a good friend of mine found out that his father is dying. Suddenly, all of the things that had been upsetting me all summer seemed ridiculous. Yes, I spent an absurd amount of time studying for the GRE and applying to graduate programs, but that work would pay off in the end. Yes, Arizona in the summer is hotter than hell, but at least I was getting tan. Yes, I was lonely, but each day I spent missing my friends brought me one day closer to seeing them again. And yes, I fought with my parents on the phone nearly every day - but at least they were healthy. At least they're alive.

In trying to take care of and cheer up my friend, I was forced to ask myself a difficult question: why was it that I was so willing to spend energy trying to make someone else happy, but refused to spend any energy on my own happiness? If I could help someone else find reasons to smile, why was so insistent on being sad? Happiness, I decided, is a decision, and starting today, I'm deciding to be happy.

Every day for the 2010 - 2011 school year, I'm going to update this blog with thoughts on one thing that makes me happy, in the vein of 1000 Awesome Things or Things To Be Happy About. This isn't going to be an easy school year, and this isn't going to be an easy project. I've got grad school applications, and difficult classes, and tumultuous relationships, and any number of things to bring me down. But I've also got really fantastic application essays, and great friends, and a 21st birthday that's just around the corner. The world can be an ugly place, but I've got a million reasons to smile - and I'm ready to share them all.