Every-other week I run a behavioral modification group for girls who are overweight and obese.  It's through a multi-dimensional program (diet, exercise, behavioral modification) and because I am trained in psychology, I work as a behavioral specialist.  These girls are hilariously amazing and make me laugh every time I see them. They are obese or overweight, but they are, obviously, like any other adolescent girl.  Boy crazy, school hating, music loving, makeup wearing.  The only difference is that they also have to deal with some additional self-esteem issues, extra thinking about their every action, judgement from ignorant people who think they know what's best for someone completely foreign to them, and stigma.  They also weigh in every so often and have parental involvement in the program so...no pressure or anything.

I have a friend who has cancer.  He was a friend in college, or more like a friend of a friend.  He was diagnosed fairly recently, and since his diagnosis he and his wife have experienced a well-deserved outpouring of love from their friends and family.  Like I said, well deserved.  Today on Facebook said friend posted something to the effect of "we're not awful, it's cancer that's awful" and it got me thinking.

Why is it that a health condition like cancer is one from which patients separate themselves and others see as distinct from the patient, externalizing the disorder, whereas obesity, another health condition, is internalized by patients, viewed as a part of the patient by outsiders, and stigmatized accordingly?  You don't hear people saying or accepting the words "it's not me who's awful, it's the obesity that's awful."  It's unheard of.  If a person were to say that, the world would turn against them, ignorantly saying "you are the obese person so you are awful!"  No one would tolerate that way of speaking about cancer patients.

Well, hate to be negative here, but cancer is not an outside being.  It is not something that is external.  It is something that is very internal.  It is made of the patient's flesh and blood.  So much so that to get rid of it consumes the patient's entire body and all of their energy. John Green, via  Augustus Waters, said it perfectly.  In the book The Fault in Our Stars, Augustus says, "My cancer is me. The tumors are made of me. They're made of me as surely as my brain and my heart are made of me."

So, I get it if you feel the need to tell one of my teens in group that they are obese and that their obesity is part of them.  It will offend them, I am sure, but it will be true.  But if we're going to do that, we need to do it to everyone with a disease.  We need to face the truth and understand that obesity is no different than any other disease.  There is no less bodily ownership or personal association with obesity than there is with cancer, or high blood pressure, or eczema, or kidney disease, or the flu.

So please, stop cherry picking your stigma.  It's not fair.

Keep on thinking,
Josie

There are some things in this world that are undebatable:

1) Ellen Degeneres is hilarious
2) Ice Cream can cure any ailment (unless you're lactose intolerant in which case the ailment is only the beginning of the problem when Ice Cream is involved)
3) Moving is the devil's creation
4) There's nothing like a good home-cooked meal
5) Cat videos are highly entertaining

Another undeniable truth, and the one that I have most recently come to appreciate is that red lipstick makes a statement.  

I recently attended a good friend's wedding. It was an outdoor wedding, nothing too formal, but still formal.  For this wedding I bought a new dress.  I took a risk and went with a chiffon maxi.  If not properly accessorized it could end up looking like a gown, but I wore some formal flip-flops (yep, they exist) and my hair down.  As for the makeup, well the dress was bright red (another risky move), so, logically speaking, a red lip would be appropriate.

Here's the thing, never before, in my entire life, had I worn red lipstick.  Yes, maybe a dusty pink color, or a coral, but never red.  Red was for other people, more confident and stylish girls, not for me.  Red lipstick belongs on a runway and on the red carpet, not on my lips.  But, given that the dress was red, a dusty pink just wasn't going to cut it.  It had to be red.

So, I did my research, as I do, to determine which shade of red was appropriate for my skin tone, if red lipstick really did make sense for the occasion, how to properly apply red lipstick...by the time I bought the lipstick, I was thoroughly aware of the risk I was taking.  But I did it, I bought the lipstick.  It was more terrifying than any non life-or-death situation should be. Standing there, grabbing one shade of red, looking at it for a while, thinking, putting it back, only to grab another, to look at it, think, put it back.  For around 20 minutes.

 But I did it, I bought it.  Then I trial ran it.  I put the dress on, put the lipstick on, stood in front of the mirror.  You know, like a dress rehearsal.   Looked in the mirror for 20 minutes.  At this point my confidence was growing a bit.  I had the lipstick on.  It didn't look awful, in fact, it looked pretty good.  Matched my dress.  Didn't make me look like a street walker.  All good things.  After my 20 minutes in the mirror I came to the realization that the lipstick was sending me into a downward spiral of narcissism, self-consumption, and materialistic tendency.  All three things I am not and pride myself on not being.  So I put it all away until the day of the wedding.

But D-Day came.  Rehearsals in my own room were one thing, but wearing red lipstick in public, with an audience, well that was a whole other thing. As I held the lipstick to my face my brain developed all sorts of images, what-if scenarios.  Everyone in the room staring at me.  Everyone in the room thinking that I thought I was prettier, or cooler, than I actually am.  Everyone in the room thinking I wasn't being authentic to myself, or I was trying to be someone else.  Images of judgement came to me.  It was almost enough to make me put the lipstick away, if it weren't for the fact that I had mentioned to a few people that I was planning to wear red lipstick.  I didn't want to look like a coward.

So I did it.  I applied it with precision.  I lined my lips with foundation to keep the lines clean.  I puckered my lips against a paper towel to blot off excess.  I drank my soda through a straw, and then I headed out the door with a slight sensation of terror running through my body.

Guess what...people loved it...or they said nothing.  No judgy eyes.  No whole room staring.  No detriment whatsoever except my over attentiveness to reapplication of the lipstick.  All of that stress for nothing, except, surprisingly, a really high sense of self-esteem.

I felt great!  Like I was sexy.  Confident.  Feminine.  Bold.  And it wasn't alcohol induced because I was the designated driver.  It was definitely lipstick induced.

So why had I waited so long to try this magical red lipstick?  Almost 25 years of my life without it.  Fear.  That's why.  I was afraid.  I was afraid because somewhere along the way I got the thought in my brain that only women who were better than me wore red lipstick. When, in fact, women just like me, I, can wear red lipstick.  You don't have to be a model or the cool girl to wear red lipstick.  You just have to wear it.

So don't let society, or fashion magazines, or preconceived notions, tell you what to do.  If you want to wear red lipstick, wear it, because it feels pretty darn good when you do.

Keep on thinking,
Josie

Six word story:
"There's no star to wish upon."

I am a person who believes in a strange combination of Disney magic and scientific realism.  There's something comforting and childlike about believing that things happen on their own, without any control on my part, except for the control I have to wish on the shooting star that a fairy god mother sends me.  Is that weird?  Yeah...it is.  But the other side of me, the side that is grounded in scientific theory and empiricism, knows that the only way to make things happen in our lives is do so actively not passively.  To actively make our dreams come true we have to do something.  We have to put forth effort beyond that required to make a really good wish.

Sitting stagnantly, hoping for the things we want, only gives us really vivid imaginations, images of what could be, and dreams.  Thinking and wishing only get us thoughts and wishes.  To make those thoughts and wishes real, we've got to take action.  We've got to make plans, step outside of our comfort zones, take chances, allow ourselves to feel awkward, do new things, learn new things.

Because that is how you make your dreams and wishes come true-- not by sending them up to the stars.  Stars do not grant wishes for us, nor do fairy godmothers (thought a part of me will always think they do). We grant wishes for ourselves.

We grant wishes for ourselves by getting our heads out of the stars and into our lives. Because "there's no star to wish upon."

Keep on thinking,
Josie

Weird people are the best.  As a grad student in psychology and an academic advisor of a couple thousand psychology majors, I'm quite accustomed to weird.  Psychology majors tend to be weirder than most...we always say "research is me-search" and given that the topic of psychology research is generally abnormality in human thought and behavior..yeah...we see a lot of that in our students.

While I am now comfortable sitting in the weird, this was not always the case.  As I've shared before, I like order and predictability.  I prefer coloring in the lines, following the rules, complying with social convention, and using my manners over making waves and standing out.  That's my shtick, and I like people who do the same.  They're predictable and easy to be friends with because they don't challenge me or make me feel uncomfortable.  Weird people however, weird people do weird things.  They are unpredictable, they take chances, they speak out of turn, and they have atypical social skills.  Weird people make me profoundly uncomfortable.

So how did I, despite my fear of abnormality and obvious dislike of discomfort, become a person who embraces weirdness and weird people?  I made myself do it.  I made myself sit with it.  Sit with the awkward, the out of place, the profoundly uncomfortable.  Actually, I can't say that I made myself do that, it's more like I was forced to do it.  In my daily life surrounded by entirely abnormal amounts of abnormal, I had no choice but to interact with people who put me on edge and made me wonder what was going to happen next.  And when I was forced to tolerate the discomfort of not knowing what was going on, and not being in control, I realized how AMAZING weird people are.

Weird people are the ones who say the things we're thinking.  They go out of their way to be friendly (most of the time overly-friendly) unlike the "normal" people out there.  They have the most fascinating interests, life experiences, and hobbies.  Weird people make me think when I talk to them.  They make me wonder why I believe and like the things that I do, which I would otherwise take for granted.

Best of all?  Best of all is that weird people always leave me wondering if they were even that weird to being with.  Actually, I usually end up wondering if it's me that's the weird one.

It's funny how tolerating discomfort can be so rewarding.  Who would have thought?

Keep on thinking,
Josie

Apologizing seems to be inappropriately common among my female peers. They apologize for everything and anything.  Being too loud, being too quiet, being too skinny, being too fat, being too happy, being too sad, being too assertive, being too passive.  They even apologize for not apologizing: "Sorry not sorry."  What the heck is that?  If you're not sorry then don't apologize.

This is infuriating to me, that women are constantly apologizing for BEING THEMSELVES, and the fact that any large amount of any emotion, or experience, or response, is "too" something. It's like we expect of ourselves that we walk around like zombies with no reactions, emotions, or opinions that are too big or too little, only just right.  Perfect little Goldie Lockses.  Well guess what happens to Goldie Locks? She runs away, never to be seen again!  Why would we want that for ourselves?  Why should we blend into our surroundings and if we don't (God forbid), apologize?

Nope.  I refuse to apologize for being myself.  I will not apologize for being incredibly passionate about psychology, or feminism, or social justice, or Catholicism (yep--you read it right, I'm a big flaming CATHOLIC!), or musical theater, or fanfiction.  I will not.

I will not apologize for having opinions. I refuse to cower in the face of those who do not agree with me or do not believe that my opinions should be shared, or are too controversial, or are "not as well informed" as their's simply because they disagree.  I refuse to dampen my beliefs, and my thoughts, and my INTELLIGENCE!  I will not.

I laugh in the face of social convention which expects that I will apologize for my appearances, for not wearing make-up, or for wearing dresses everyday, or for never wearing my hair down, or for never wanting to get my ears pierced, or for not shaving my legs or plucking my eyebrows.  I will not.

I will not apologize for what I choose to put in my own body or not put in my own body.  To eat junk or eat healthy.  To have sex or to abstain.  To drink or to stay sober.  I WILL NOT!

And I refuse to apologize to anyone who believes that my asserting this philosophy or any philosophy is "too loud," or "too manly," or "too direct," or "unladylike."  I will not apologize that as an independent, strong, intelligent woman, I make you uncomfortable. I will not apologize for being confident enough in myself to label myself an independent, strong, intelligent woman. And I will not feel guilty or apologize for not apologizing.

I will not apologize because I do not owe any man, woman, person, an apology for being authentic to myself.  And I will never request, demand, or expect an apology from anyone else who is choosing to be his or her authentic self. I'm NOT SORRY that I'm NOT SORRY!

You can be not sorry you're not sorry too.  If you want to be sorry though, don't make it my, or anyone else's, problem.

Keep on thinking,
Josie

Familiarity is an interesting creature.  Most people cherish it.  Flock to it. We keep our familiar routines in our familiar surroundings with familiar people.  We maintain the status quo because it is comfortable.  I certainly like familiarity.  In fact, I thrive on familiarity.  When my life follows a predictable and normal schedule, I am at my prime.  I am the most productive and the happiest.

 In fact, over the last three days I have had a significant amount of free time.  Summer is special because of this--there's more free time.  Along with familiarity, I really value my free time, so I try to use it as efficiently as possible.  You will never meet a person who spends so much of her free time thinking about how to best spend her free time...kind of counter productive. So, when I have free time, I like to spend it doing things I know will be enjoyable and relaxing.  This usually means watching TV or movies, but as I am a creature of habit and familiarity, I am hesitant to try new things, new shows, new movies, new books, out of fear that I will not enjoy them and they will be a waste of my time.  So, despite my monthly payments of $7.99 for almost endless access to television and movies, I revert to my favorites.  I've re-read and re-watched more books, movies , and TV shows than anyone probably ever should.

The problem here is that with all of this watching and re-watching, yes, I'm enjoying myself, but I'm also missing out on all of the great new TV shows and movies there are to be enjoyed.  When I could be learning new things,  vicariously experiencing different situations, understanding different kinds of people, I choose to stick with what I know.  There are so many opportunities for expanding my horizons and entertainment  choices, that to stick with what is familiar, and comfortable, is simply doing myself an injustice.  Not only that, but maybe while I'm rewatching shows I already like, I'm missing out on shows that I may like even more.  I'm completely limiting myself.

This is what familiarity does to us.  It limits us.  We stick to the familiar stuff because it's comfortable and predictable, but, in turn, we lose adventure, learning opportunities, and maybe just the best show, or movie, or book, we'll ever enjoy in our entire lives.

Are you willing to sacrifice that for familiarity?

Keep on thinking,
Josie

On Kim Kardashian's lost-earring-reaction and our own lost-earring-reactions

There are very few things in life that make me literally laugh out loud a third or fourth time.  The above video is one of them.  It makes its rounds on the interwebs and as a result I have watched this ten, maybe twenty, times (it's short).  Every time I laugh hysterically. Why is it so funny to me? Well, there are few reasons, and most of them come down to the fact that they're talking about earrings!

First, you've got Kim's reaction. Panic over a lost earring.  That is a fairly normal reaction for a person who has [foolishly] invested the majority of his/her net-worth in one pair of earrings, but not so much a normal reaction for someone who probably has eight other pairs of diamond earrings and just fell into an ocean wearing a multi-hundred dollar outfit, at a private resort in Bora Bora.  You'd think there were enough other good things going on for Kim that her reaction would at least balance out to appropriately disappointed.

The next hilarious chain in this chain of events is that Kim approaches her mother like a small child, crying, and Kris responds as the mother of a small child would, coddling.  Most hilarious by far, however, is the burst of reality we get from Kourtney who, upon hearing Kim's over-the-top reaction to her lost earring, questions the chaos and then appropriately states, "There's people that are dying."  Not, "there are people in the world dying" or something even more specific like "children are dying of starvation in Africa as we speak."  No, "There's people that are dying."  Which makes you wonder for a short second whether these people she speaks of are in her immediate presence, struggling for life just of camera, or if she is speaking of the hypothetical individuals who are probably dying as happens in the Circle of Life.  Regardless, I appreciate the sentiment and I'm sure it was especially appreciated by Middle America viewer #2,894 who was thinking the very same thing that Kourtney expressed.

And, [perhaps surprisingly] Kourtney is right on the money [that paid for an obscenely expensive earring].  "There's people that are dying."  There are people out there whose problems make a lost diamond earring [no matter what the cut, clarity, and color], look like a literal piece of cake. But, Kim is not the only person who needs a little bit of Kourtney's perspective. We all need it from time to time.  You see, we all have our own diamond-earring-in-the-ocean reactions.  Things happen.  Bad things.  And we get angry, or sad, or frustrated, or anxious.  We react.  And that's okay.  That's normal.  In those moments, however, what we need to remind ourselves of, is that "there's people that are dying."  Our problems, yes, they are problems, but they are (usually) not insurmountable.  These problems we have, that make us angry, sad, frustrated, anxious, they are temporary, and most of the time, do not kill us.  We survive.  One earring less, but we survive.

So, next time you lose an earring in the ocean or [INSERT DAY-TO-DAY ANNOYANCE HERE], remember, "there's people that are dying." You will survive. Just be happy that you're still in Bora Bora.

Keep on thinking,
Josie

I am generally proud of my life.  You may see this as a boastful thing to say, but I do not.  I think we all have the right to be proud of our lives.  We've all worked hard to get to wherever we are right now, so why not own it?  Despite how proud I am with myself, my accomplishments, my possessions, there are a few things that I am not proud of (for example, the fact that I am currently listening to an *NSync song--oh my lord, I just Googled them and they still have a website which is fabulous).  Spice girls just came on.  ***Dance Break*** Anyways, along with my shame of listening to bad 90s pop, I am ashamed of some other things.  Some of my most used, and appreciated possessions are also some of my possessions of which I am most ashamed.  Since I'm so willing to own all of thing things I'm proud of, I figured I should also own the things I'm ashamed of.  So here is a...

...list of things I am ashamed to own:

1. An antenna: When I moved into my current apartment I magically had cable--nothing fancy, but it was the basics.  I was able to watch Honey Boo Boo and Breaking Amish on a regular basis, so I got what I really wanted.  After a year of living in my apartment, someone caught on and my cable disappeared.  As I am both obsessed with television and incredibly cheap, I went searching for an antenna as a reward to myself for sitting through the worst date I have ever been on in my entire life.  This antenna now stands as a tall and proud eyesore, with its massive rabbit ears (on top of my box TV), in the middle of my living room, as a symbol of my thrift.  It is inevitably a conversation starter when friends see it...and judge me.  Judge away, but I watch TV for free! (Mmmm Bop just finished playing...Alanis Morissette just started singing about un-ironic things)
2. The Twilight books... and movies:  I've got them all and I actually enjoy them.  I think the fact that I enjoy them is more embarrassing than the fact that I own them.  I have read the books twice each and have watched all of the movies multiple times. I will NEVER claim that they are well-written but so entertaining!  I'msorrypleasedon'thateme!
3.  Dry shampoo:  The dry shampoo sitting prominently next to my sink is a constant reminder to visitors (and me) of my laziness and subsequent need to band-aid over my poor hygiene.  At least I make an attempt to cover for my dislike of cleaning my hair (Backstreet Boys...Quit Playing Games...genius...I am now singing along).
4. A very large sheep-looking, pink, fleece, zip-up:  The  only way to describe this piece of "fashion" is as an eyesore. It is hideous.  In my defense (OH MY GOD S-CLUB 7) it is one of the warmest pieces of clothing that I own and served me well walking to classes at my North Eastern college. That being said, it probably would have been better off unpurchased.  To maximize the shame, I also have this same jacket in white.  If I don't look sheep-like in the bright pink one, I certainly do in the white one.  BAAAAH.
5. A collection of Nicholas Sparks books.  There are currently six of these beauties on my bookshelf, but there are more where that came from.  I left a number of them at my parent's house when I moved out. For the same reason I am ashamed of these books I also love them...that is, because they are so sugary sweet, unrealistic, and angsty (Floorfiller!, A-Teens, **DANCE BREAK #2**).  It's nice to step out of reality for a while and step into a semi-realistic fantasy world where men are romantic and women conform to female stereotypes that I usually abhor.  I need to get my fill of horrible social convention somewhere.
6. Approximately 50 stuffed animals: ("This is a story about a girl name Lucky"--this may be my favorite Brittney song of all time).  I started this collection the day I was born.  I blame my parents and grandparents.  My "Teddy" (very original, I know) was given to me on the day of my birth.  I have since brought in a second string of "Two-ey" and "Not Teddy" and sent "Teddy," who is old and decrepit, into retirement.  Along with "Teddy," "Two-ey" and "Not Teddy" I have a collection of stuffed beings that I have curated since birth.  Every important event of my life has been commemorated by a stuffed creature...an I don't plan to sell-off the collection any time soon. ("I'm. giving you eeeverything.  All the joy you bring. Yes I sweeear!")
7. 3 very dead plants:  A basil plant (the third of its species that I have executed), a campunella-get-mee (the devil's plant), and some very sad looking flowers with more of their petals scattered across the table on which they sit and the floor below the table, than attached to the stems.  I can't be trusted.  Plants practically scream and run in the opposite direction when they see me now.
8. An empty carton of cookies:  I ate them all in a day.  Again, I can't be trusted.
9. Fake Ugg boots:  Despite the many unsubtle cues from friends and family that I am simply too old to be wearing Ugg boots, let alone wanna-be-Uggs, I continue to wear these boots.  They smell.  They are old.  They have salt stains on them and holes in them.  But they are sooo warm!  (Oh DANG!  Ace of Base!)
10. A cat calendar: The calendar that hangs in my kitchen, and holds all important due dates and travel dates is, first, a freebie, and second, covered in cats.  Each month is accompanied by a photograph of a kitten, posed to reflect whatever holiday or season is taking place in that month.  It is an ode to my future as an old spinster cat lady.  I am allergic to cats.

So, there you have it.  A list of the things I am most ashamed to own.  Let me tell you something though, you should all make a list like this.  It's so therapeutic.  I'm almost over my embarrassment.  Perhaps it was the dance parties that were most therapeutic thought, not the airing of my dirty hair to the world.  (OOPS I DID IT AGAIN!)

Keep on thinking,
Josie

P.S.:  I have no explanation for the insanity and stream-of-consciousness that is this entry...sorry not sorry. Remember, OWN IT!

For the soundtrack to this post:
http://8tracks.com/soundtracks4life/im-90s-b-tch
http://8tracks.com/allonsymelissa/90-s-pop-mix

"New Kids on the Block had a bunch of hits..."

Somebody stop me!

Final note: I just Google searched "ashamed" and the majority of the pictures of ashamed women are naked pictures!  What is that?  Why do men get all of the clothes!?

If I have ever been unclear about my rabid obsession with all things musical theater, then I apologize for my lack of clarity.  Just so we can be sure we're on the same page, if Broadway were a person, I'd marry it, have its babies, and lock it in a tower so it could be all my own (after being sure its hair is cut short, of course).  I'd actually consider doing this even if it Broadway weren't a person...anyways!  My love for musical theater is so passionate that I am often caught off guard when people do not share similar passion.  For example, normal things in my everyday life will cause me to think of lyrics from Broadway musicals, which I will then sing.  After singing [what are always beautiful lyrics], I look around excitedly at whoever is with me, in hopes that they will laugh or at least give a nod of understanding.  This almost never happens.  What usually happens instead is I sing, look around, confusedly say "anyone?," and gain in response expressions of equal confusion or absolute disinterest.

What follows is usually a conversation about my love for musicals and the other person's hate for musicals.  I like to think I'm a fairly open person.  I try to learn things everyday, and especially try to learn about things that people like, dislike, believe in, when these likes, dislikes,and beliefs are different from my own.  Case in point, I always have a conversation with the Mormons who stop me on the street to evangelize. I certainty do not believe in the same things as these Mormon missionaries, but I do want to know about their beliefs.  So, just like I do with the Mormons, when someone tells me that they dislike musical theater, I stop to have a conversation about it.  Usually what it comes down to  is that people find musical theater unrealistic or silly. "Why would people just break out in song in the middle of the day?" they usually say.  At this point, I get a little confused, especially since I just finished breaking out into song in the middle of the day. In my mind, random outbreak of song is realistic.

What I don't understand is why realism is an important factor in deeming musical theater entertaining or worthy of our time and attention when there are so many things that we find entertaining that are not realistic.  The movies and television we watch, the books we read, none of those are exclusively grounded in realism.  In fact, some of the best movies, television shows, and books are based in worlds that are so far outside of realism that reality couldn't touch them with a ten foot pole.  Lord of the Rings (from what I understand) is based in a world that is certainly not ours, but most people agree that the Lord of the Rings books and movies are entertaining.  Now, they don't randomly break out in song in the Lord of the Rings, but they do a lot of other crazy things--rings of power, middle-earth, hobbits, wizards etc..

So, why is breaking into song so difficult to manage with musical theater when we embrace fantasy other forms of entertainment?  Perhaps it's the difference in the medium.  Specifically, in theater, an audience member or patron has a much closer proximity to the actual events being portrayed.  In theater, the audience is separated by a maximum of a couple hundred feet, and experience the portrayed events in live action, at the same time as they are being performed.  In movies and television, the audience is separated by, possibly, thousands of miles, and many many years.  A similar distance occurs in books, except this is even more distanced as there are not even human beings acting out the events when we read.  Everything that we experience in books is in our own minds.  So, because there is more realism built into the medium of musical theater (you are actually experiencing the events up-close-and-personal, perhaps the threshold for fantasy is lower.  Maybe because people's brains are in a "real gear" (if you will) it is harder to accept unrealistic things like breaking out randomly into song.
 
Further, perhaps the people who enjoy musical theater most are the people who are more flexible and open.  The people who more malleabley maneuver the fine line between realism and fantasy.  Who can more easily suspend reality for a few hours and just accept that the actor with painted green skin, in a black dress, elevated 20 feet above the stage is flying, and is actually a witch who is fighting for animal rights.  That the dancer with a head-dress and some paper-mached costume parts on them is actually an antelope bounding across the savanna.  

(The more I think about this, the more I think this would make  a really great psychological study...don't get any ideas scoopers.  It's mine!)

So, with the understanding that an appreciation for musical theater requires mental flexibility, I think I can let it go when people say they don't like musical theater.  I'll just re-frame the situation.  Instead of hearing "I don't like musical theater," I'll hear "I can't flexibly approach the line between fantasy and reality like you.  You're special because you can."  Really, it may as well be a compliment when people hate on musicals.

Fair enough.  They can consider it a compliment when I say I don't like sports because the rules are too complicated.  I'm probably just not rigid-minded enough to appreciate them.

Keep on thinking,
Josie

Six Word Story:
"Part of me is yours.  Always."

As I do when I look for six word stories to write about once a week, I considered the meaning of this week's story to me.  Usually many meanings to a six word story come to mind, and more come to mind the longer I think. The first thought I had about this particular six word story was that it was probably written about a romantic relationship.  It was probably intended to imply that the writer was so in love with someone (a partner, boyfriend, girlfriend, one night stand) that there was a piece of themselves that they had forever given away to someone else.  Their love.  I tend to think that's a pretty universal experience with relationships.  When we love someone we give a piece of ourselves to them forever.  We give them our love forever.  Even when the relationship ends, that person still has our love, or at least the absence of our love.  If we haven't left them with our love or the absence of love, then we've left them with our time, or our thoughts, or our annoyance, or our grief, or our anger.  We have given them something.

The more I thought about this though, I realized that this giving part of ourselves to someone is not exclusive to romantic relationships, or even relationships of love that are more familial in nature.  It crossed me that with every single interaction that we have, everyday, we give a part of ourselves to someone else, and gain a part of that person as our own.  These transactions leave us with permanent gains and losses.  We will always posses that which we gained, and we will have forever lost that which we have given.

Think of all of the people with whom you come in contact everyday. I'll use a typical day of my own as an example.  On a typical day I encounter professors, other graduate students, undergraduate students, advisees, supervisors, the check-out person at the grocery store, the person who got to the stop sign at the same time as me, the man on the corner asking for money, the man outside of his bodega, the person who walked past my window...etc..  I have interactions with hundreds of people everyday.  From each of these people I gain and lose something forever.  From a professor I gain any information that he/she teaches and he/she gains any insight I share in class, or even just the sense that they are needed and valued.  My students gain from me (hopefully) helpful words, support, and direction in their academics.  From them I gain the satisfaction of helping someone and usually some perspective.  From the grocery store clerk I gain food and assistance.  From me, they gain a smile, gratitude, and (indirectly) a pay check.

Once we gain something from someone, a part of them, their hard work, or knowledge, or gratitude, or perspective, they never get that back.  It is ours forever.  This works in the reverse as well as anything we give is theirs forever.  After each interaction that we have with another person, we are irrevocably changed, for better or worse, in a minuscule way or a massive way.  We have gained and lost parts of ourselves with each interaction in a beautiful and symbiotic manner.  This is how we progress as individuals-- by giving parts of ourselves away to others.  Always.

Keep on thinking,
Josie

The world of academia is an interesting one.  It's composed of many parts, but the three primary parts are the teachers, the administrators, and the learners.  All three parts are necessary to the healthy functioning of academia. We need the teachers to disseminate the knowledge, the learners to absorb the disseminated knowledge (and pay for their absorption), and the administrators to manage the money and business side of things.  This is great that we've got so many ideas and values in one system. That's a really valuable part of academia.  The problem is, sometimes this system falls apart because people are out of touch with realities aside from their own.

Moving through our worlds, we experience events from our own unique perspectives.  It's like we each walk around the world with goggles on, seeing the same things through those goggles, except everyone's goggles are tinted a different color.  Mine would be pink, of course.  So I'd see the whole world as tinted pink, but my colleague might see the world tinted blue.  Seeing the same things, just slightly differently.  That's how academia works.  The teachers, the learners, and the administrators each wear a different colored goggle, everyone seeing the same thing, but seeing it slightly differently.  

The teachers see academia as a noble profession, the purpose of which is to learn for learning's sake, research, and experimentation.  They see their profession as one of developing knowledge and disseminating knowledge in a fluid and flexible manner.  They see their field as a continually progressing one. Most prioritize research and publication over teaching and meeting the needs of learners.  As they feel that they are doing the learners a favor by sharing their knowledge, they expect that learners are mature adults who are equally interested in learning for learning's sake, and for the betterment of themselves as human beings and contributors to the world.  They expect that administrators are supporters of their missions to teach for learning's sake and to disseminate knowledge to anyone who wants to know, and that administrators will allow flexibility in pursuit of this mission.

The administrators see academia as a business.  While they appreciate that the business is to educate and to develop knowledge, they see this as a pursuit that must be funded.  Thus, they see research as a way of increasing revenue through grants and notoriety.  They see educating learners as a way of making money to fund more research for more notoriety, and to fund improvements of the educational setting so that more learners can be educated thereby increasing the money made by the school and so on.  The administrators see teachers as a product and learners as the consumers. Administrators expect that learners will pay for their education, follow the policies created by administrators, and ultimately, if they do this sufficiently, gain a degree.  They also expect that learners who gain degrees will donate back to the school some of the money that they make as a result of their degree.  Of teachers, administrators expect that they too will follow administrator-created policies.  They also expect that the teachers will find money of their own to put into the school and that if they do not find that money, they may be limited in what they may request of administrators.

The learners tend to be a more internally diverse group.  Some of them are in academia for the sake of learning.  Usually they are the Philosophy majors, the English majors, the History majors.  They enjoy learning, and especially enjoy learning from the teachers.  They are willing to pay the administrators and follow the policies because it is a small cost for the opportunity to learn. These students align more with the teachers.  Some learners, though, align more with the administrators.  They seek knowledge through academia as the degree that can come from academia is a product that they can then sell to employers.  They are willing to do work, and learn, but only if learning is going to gain them something: employment.  Learning is not their main priority in seeking an education, sustaining their lives through an ultimate income is.  These students align with the administrators begrudgingly as they understand the necessity of policy and money in academia, but do not see that policy or prices, are created with them in mind. Learners expect that administrators will consider their needs and values when they create policy, and that the cost of their education will be assessed fairly.  Learners expect that teachers will provide them with as much knowledge as necessary to gain a degree, but no more that, as more knowledge is often burdensome.

All three parties are aligned toward the same goal of education, but with different perspectives on the purpose of education, and the expectations that they can have for their counterparts.  This is where the education system collapses.  This is why none of these parties feels satisfied with their role and the abilities of the other parties to meet their expectations.  There is a fundamental lack of communication between these parties and until each party recognizes that they are seeing the same things through their goggles as the others, but that their goggles are tinted only one of three colors, academia will continue to flounder to the disadvantage of all.

Keep on thinking,

Josie

The great composer and pianist George Gershwin once said, "True music must repeat the thought and inspirations of the people and the time." Looking back through history, the music of the times provide us with snapshots of the values, culture, and desires, of a time period.   The 1940's is a prime example.  The 1940's was a time of war, women in the workplace, rationing, the GI Bill, the television and the baby boom.  All of this was reflected in pop (Bing Crosby, Glenn Miller, Frank Sinatra), Jazz (Ella, Billie Holiday, Louis Armstrong, Nat King Cole, Benny Goodman--I could go on forever!), and Country (which I know nothing about). Music of this time was joyful, lively, generally positive.  It brought light to difficult times.

The 60's, full of peace, youthful rebellion, drugs, civil rights, and war, produced music reflecting these themes--folk (think Joan Baez and Bob Dylan), folk rock (think Simon and Garfunkle), psychedelic rock (think the Doors, Jimi Hendrix), and blues rock (think Janis Joplin and Allman Brothers).  This music made statements.  Requested thought and change of its listeners.

More recently, the 1980's, with a focus on "Me!Me!Me!," status, credit, labels, the birth of modern technology, the war on drugs, the AIDS epidemic, big hair, the Berlin Wall's removal, and the birth of MTV, brought pop music (Michael Jackson, Prince, Madonna, Whitney, Janet, NKOTB, Cyndi Lauper, The Bangles), Hard Rock (Def Leppard, Bon Jovi, Guns N' Roses), Alternative Rock (R.E.M., The Pixies),  Singer-songwriters (Bruce Springsteen, Tom Petty, Stevie Nicks), Hip Hop (Run D.M.C, LL Cool J, Ice-T).  

It seems that these past times have distinct cultural representations through their music.  The wartime exuberance and hard-work of the 40's, the life and rebellion of the 60's, the attitude of the 80's. Previous generations have made statements, used their music to reflect their values, and wants, and needs.  They've asked for change, demanded it even, through their music. Spread joy and fun through dance and free spirit.     
This leads me to think about my generation, my lifetime. What will our legacy be?  What will our music say about our modern culture to our children, and their children. What will the 2000's reflect? As of now we're looking at a lot of violence, sexism, drug culture, hate, anger, angst, and fluff in our music.  It doesn't seem that we request or demand change to occur, that we use our music to bring about positive movement in our lives.  Instead, it seems, we use it to either complain a whole lot or wax and wane poetic about unimportant fluff.  Unless, of course, you consider Kelly Clarkson's  "A Moment Like This" and N*Sync's "It's Gonna Be Me" calls for vast societal change or reflections of a generation's values.

Of course, the 2000's haven't been a walk in the park.  As far as I can remember some of the more monumental images of the decade included the themes of fear, disaster, and maybe as a result, distraction. Y2K, the home computer, 9-11, the iPod (and a lot of other iStuff), the invasion of Iraq, social media, natural disasters, the economic downturn, high oil prices, and smartphones, are signs of the times. 

Of course, this is not all to say that there is no music of value being produced right now.  No, of course there is some.  What I do intend to imply, however, is that the vast majority of the music that gains popularity with people of my generation serves no purpose but entertainment.  Entertainment is an important purpose of music in our lives, but I've always believed that music should do more than that.  It should take the times, and make them better somehow.  In the 1940's that was by spreading joy.  In the 1960's that was by requiring change. In the 1980's that was expression of rebellion and individuality. 

Millennials, what will we choose for our statement?

Keep on thinking,
Josie

I woke up late today.  Not so late that I had to throw on whatever clothing I could snatch from the floor of my bedroom before quickly running out of the house sans coffee and lunch-box.  No, I was only as late as required me to dry shampoo my hair, miss a spot shaving my legs, throw random things into a lunchbox, and wait to check my email until I got to work.   Everything that had to be done was done, but luxuries (like cut fruit in my lunchbox and fully shaved legs) were foregone.  This is not an abnormal occurrence for me.  Despite setting no fewer than 15 alarms every night--no, seriously, 15--I inevitably ignore all but the final 3 alarms that go off in the morning.  My rejection of all things alarm is usually a result of a late night, but sometimes it's just a result of my being the very opposite of a morning person, whatever you'd call that.*

I also sleep incredibly deeply.  I'd say I sleep "like the dead" but apparently I breath very heavily and dead people don't breath.  Just ask my sister who, when we share a bed, periodically violently throws her fist in my generally direction, throughout the night with a frustrated but sleepy "you're breathing too loud!"  The frequency of this statement is only surpassed by "Stop pulling my covers!"

So this combination of factors, my late night, heavy sleeping, delayed rising, all culminated into one highly perplexing moment this morning.  I stepped out my front door, took a right at the bottom of the stairs, walked to the corner, where I waited for the little white man-light to show up indicating that I could cross the street.  All very typical of my day, though slightly more rushed and anxiety-ridden, given my crunched schedule.  It was then, however, that my day took a plunge into the weird. You see, just as I stepped up from the one-way street I had just crossed, and onto the curb distanced no further than 20 yards from my apartment, something caught my attention to the right.  Something looked out of place.

There sat a dilapidated car with it's entire hood peeling back from the passenger side to the driver's side.  I was running late, and didn't have time for further inspection, so on I went with my day, wondering for the next 7 hours what that very bad looking car was doing in the middle of the road.  Shouldn't they have towed that to a repair shop or something?  Around mid-day I decided that I needed more information and that on the way home today, I would stop and take a closer look.  At this point I was feeling like Nancy Drew in her reincarnated and slightly less appealing form.

So, as planned, I took a closer look at the poor car on the way home.  There were people around, so I had to be sneaky. No one wants to be known as the nosy girl.  Whoever the car belonged to probably lived nearby and I didn't want to be that girl. So I was sneaky, looking over both shoulders I checked the area for pedestrians.  Coast was clear.  I walked nonchalantly past the car, taking in all of the visuals I could.  Melted.  Missing tire.  Black soot below the car.  Looks like it caught on fire.  No way. This couldn't have caught fire right here in the street.  Not a chance. Further data was necessary to verify this supposition, so I, again, looked around and took a U-ey.  This time I caught the missing puzzle piece clue...the back bumper of the car in front of the poor car was melted!  That could only mean one thing, the car caught fire parked on the street.  The street right outside my window.  

I know the car wasn't all melty the day before which means that not only did the car catch fire while parked on the street, but it caught fire overnight.  That means it happened while I was sleeping.  I somehow managed to sleep through what looked like a very large car fire.  The sounds of the car itself, the light it must have given off while burning, the smells of the car parts burning, the sirens of the emergency response vehicles!  None of those woke me up.  I slept through it all!

Terrifying!  I am officially a danger to myself.  Unable to self-protect by responding appropriately to environmental ques.  Like a zoo animal who no longer acknowledges the tapping of slimy, germ-infected, little fingers on her glass cage.  I've said it once and I'll say it again:  I am not an adult. Usually I perceive that as a good thing, but what I learned today is that while adults may be more boring than me, they are probably a lot safer.

Keep on thinking,
Josie

*I don't believe that just because I'm not a morning person I'm a night owl.  There's no way that those are mutually exclusive.  Nope.  That's why I assume, somewhere out there, there are words to describe the opposite of "morning person"  and "night owl" that are not "night owl" and "morning person".  How about just, person who really likes sleep regardless of  the time of day. That would be me.

I do not listen to rap music.  I don't enjoy it.  It is not at all appealing to me because generally the culture expressed in rap music is offensive to women, violent, and full of substance abuse (again, generally).  However, when I am in the presence of others, I do my best to be open and willing to learn about new things.  This is how I have happened upon the song "Turn Down for What" (I use the word "song" in the loosest sense possible) by DJ Snake and Lil Jon (who should probably have an apostrophe in his name somewhere).  While swapping music with a friend, they unfortunately decided to swap this beauty my way.  Thus began my semantic adventure.

For those who are unfamiliar with "Turn Down for What," as I was not long ago (and wish I were today), it is currently #4 on the Billboard Hot 100 music charts.  For about one minute, before I actually watched it, I considered leaving a link to the music video here.  Now, after watching it, I refuse to include a link as to do so would only perpetuate the stupidity expressed in the video. You can find it for yourself if you're interested, but in short, it is a compilation of highly offensive and vulgar images, with a number of those images verging on endorsement of sexual harassment.  However, that is a separate issue for a later time. What is pertinent to this entry is that the lyrics of the "song" consist only of these words: "Fire up that loud. Another round of shots. Turn down for what? "  That is it.  An entire 3 minutes and 36 seconds of those words only. Over, and over, and over, and over again. But, in three minutes and thirty-six seconds of listening to 12 repeated words, a person finds a lot of time to think.  What did I think about in those 3 minutes and 36 seconds, I thought about how I have no idea what "turn down for what" means.

Here is where my scientific curiosity comes into play.  Of course, after hearing these four words that have become quite the summer anthem, and realizing by ignorance with regard to their meaning, I felt that it was important for me to gain a clearer understand DJ Snake and Lil Jon's vision and intention.  I assume, as I think is fair, that all songs have intention.  To identify this intention, I first turned to Webster's Dictionary. That's the holy grail of vocabulary, so it's a good place to start (though I'm not hopeful).  To define this phrase I must first define the pieces of the phrase, those are, "turn down" and "for what."   "For what" is fairly self-explanatory, though its true meaning is dependent on its context (of which we have very little).  So we'll stick with defining "turn down" first.

According to Webster, "Turn down" could mean anything from "to fold or double down", to "to reduce the height or intensity of by turning a control," to "to decline to accept." So, we've got a few definitions to decide between. Context clues usually clear things up when we don't know which definition to go with, (which I learned in third grade while preparing for state exams), but we don't have many of those in writing (only 12 words).  What we do have are context clues from the [god-awful] video, which consists of a number of people uncontrollably gesticulating with their sex parts. This is not a hyper-intellectualized description of what happens in the video.  It is actually what happens in the video.  These people seem relentless with their gesticulations which leads me to believe that "turn down" is what they are not doing.  That would mean we'd be going with the Webster definition of  "to reduce the height or intensity of by turning a control."  It's the "turning a control" part that doesn't fit here.  There weren't any controls in the video.

So this leads me to the holy grail of pop-culture vocabulary--Urban Dictionary.  Usually Urban Dictionary gets me the definitions I need when I'm lost in a sea of slang and street language, and it hasn't failed me yet because according to this "dictionary" "turn down" means "to not get rowdy, remain calm."

Given the visual context clues and the definitions I've gathered, it seems that in saying "Turn down for what"  the song is actually saying "For what reason would we turn down?," or "For what reason would we possibly remain calm?"  Indicating that "to turn down" or remain calm, would be nonsensical and unnecessary.

So now I know,  "turn down for what" really means, "TURN UP!,"  "become very excited,"  "party!"  Good thing for context clues. Without those I still wouldn't know that "turn down for what" is actually a rhetorical question.  Context really does make all the difference. As a final thought, it seems that more words would have given the song more context and made the meaning a bit clearer.  Just a suggestion Lil Jon.  Plenty more where that came from.

Keep on thinking,
Josie

A few times a year I have to make a decision: whether or not to watch the Bachelor (or Bachelorette--depending on the time of year). This is a decision that I do not take lightly.  You see, there are many factors that go into my decision. What follows is some insight into that decision making process.  It is more complicated than you may assume.  Here are are the pros and cons to watching the Bachelor[ette]:

Pros

1. It is hilarious.  For all of the reasons you will see below in the "cons" section, I find the Bachelor[ette] incredibly funny.  I mean, really, am I supposed to take this show seriously?  There's nothing even remotely compelling about it except for the fact that it compels me to simultaneously dissolve into laughter and tears. 

2. My mother loves it.  Given my geographic distance from my mother, who is one of my very best friends (awww), I make every attempt that I can to have things in common with her so that we can maintain our relationship.  It's not like it's a fragile relationship, but making an effort to have things in common with the people you care about is good practice.  This is probably the primary reason that I seriously consider watching the Bachelor[ette] every season-- for talking points with my mother.

3. Sometimes there's nothing else to watch. I like to watch television every night.  It gives me something to look forward to on long days and something mindless to do when I want to relax at night.  Because of this I have a very intricate schedule of tv-time, at all times.  Dead spaces between the hours of 8pm and 11pm must be filled.  Sometimes the only thing to fill those dead spaces with is the Bachelor[ette].  We all have to make sacrifices.

4.  FOMO.  Everyone watches it!  I don't want to be the only one who's not watching!

Cons

1. Assumption that every man/woman loves the target love interest (the Bachelor or Bachelorette of the season).  Am I really supposed to believe that every single one of the harem of men/women that is cast as a potential husband or wife for the target love interest actually falls in love with the target in a week?  Am I to believe that they actually all want to marry her?  That they are all so invested in their relationship with the target (which is one of 30 that the target has in the span of approximately 4 months) that they are brought to tears upon not receiving a rose?  Nope.

2. Assumption that the guy must impress the girl and "make the first move."  It's constantly the man propositioning the woman on this show.  Even when it's a Bachelorette season and there is one woman who gets to choose from 30 men...still the men are expected to make the first move and the Bachelorette complains when they don't, despite her absolute lack of move-making.  Why can't the women be the first to make the moves and why is it that the women are considered sluts when they take their clothes off on the show, but the men are considered macho men.  This is especially problematic considering that most of the audience of the show is women...so much woman-on-woman hate happens...unless they all hate Juan Pablo together (the first time in the history of the show that the entire audience noticed chauvinism--it was pretty blatant...hard to miss).

3. Assumption of reality.  I don't need to explain how contrived every single situation is on this show.  I mean, really?  You got a private concert?  An ex-girlfriend showed up out of "no-where"?  Every single signature on each date card is identical?

4. Perpetuation of the fairy-tale of romance.  I really hate when we get these ideas in our collective head about what "romance" looks like and what a "romantic person" "should" do.  We have developed this crazy idea, as a society, that in order to have a loving and healthy relationship two people must make grand, extravagant, expensive gestures.  Without these gestures, we have grown to believe, we have not adequately expressed our love.  Not once in the history of the Bachelor[ette] have I believed that two people love each-other more than they love the scenery, or the food, or the helicopter ride they get while they're on their date.  We're doing society a disservice by perpetuating these cultural norms.  Romance can be simple.

5. It's very white...so much privilege.  There has been one minority bachelor/bachelorette in the history of the 18 seasons of the bachelor and the 10 seasons of the bachelorette.  Within each season's harem there are usually one or two minority individuals and the remainder are white.  This is a problem considering the fact that approximately 12% of the U.S. population identifies as Black and 12% as Hispanic/Latino.  

6. My poor feminist heart.  HOLY SHIT, THE SEX ROLES! In fact, as I write this, the Bachelorette has just mentioned how much of a turn-on a woman cooking "should be" for a guy (a guy who is apparently not turned on by a woman cooking). "Cooking should be romantic," she says. Similarly, God forbid men and women receive the same type of rose at rose ceremonies.  NO!  Men cannot have stemmed roses, they may may magically turn into women if they receive a stemmed rose.  Men must receive manly lapel-roses.  Also, why is it always the men proposing at the end of the season.  Even when its a Bachelorette season and the woman gets to decide who she wants to marry (or whatever) in the end, the men are still proposing.  So silly.  Women are so frequently offered an illusion of power on this show. A final note on this item, see above statistics on the number of seasons of The Bachelor vs. The Bachelorette.

7.  Where are the normal people? I get the whole idea about sensationalism on reality television (and television in general), but where are the educated  men and women?  Where are the average-looking women and men? Why does everyone look like they just stepped out of an issue of GQ or Vogue?  How did everyone get so much time off of their jobs?  SO MANY QUESTIONS!

8.  Why is everybody whispering? This is a Bachelor[ette] phenomenon that I cannot explain.  All I know is that everyone is constantly whispering on this show despite the fact that they are also constantly microphoned.  Not to mention the fact that there are cameramen and producers within 10 feet of the whisperers at all times.  We can hear you even when you whisper!  Is whispering innately romantic or something? Have I missed this boat?

9.  Speaking of boats, they're going to Venice next week.  Italy is too beautiful a country to be ruined by this insanity.  Mi dispiace Italia, per il Americani. There will also be a lie detector test on the show next week and there is simply no evidence that lie-detector tests provide accurate measurement.  Not enough of an evidence-base on this show.  Too much to ask for?

Given theses lists, one would assume that I would choose to not watch the Bachelor[ette], but, here is a vivid example of how practicality is not reality (or reality television).  In all practical senses I should not watch the Bachelor[ette] because really, the cons WAY outweigh the pros.  But, guess what's on my television screen right now...you guessed it, The Bachelorette, which I have yet to miss an episode of this season.  Like a moth to a flame.

What do we learn from this foray into my mothy mind?  I'm not perfect.  My list is not perfect.  The Bachelor[ette] is NOT PERFECT.  But perfect doesn't exist.  Lists can't always solve our problems and make our decisions clean and simple.  Life is messy.  Lists are messy. And so is reality television.

Keep on thinking,

Josie

As today is Father's Day, I Skyped my father.  Actually, I Skyped my sister and my father then spoke with me via her Skype.  He isn't quite technologically advanced enough to have a Skype account.  Facebook is his most recent, and very enthusiastic, endeavor.  We'll let him settle with that for a while first.  Anyways, the Skype conversation I had with my father went a little like this:

Me: Happy Father's Day Dad!
Dad:  Thank you!
Me:  Do anything exciting today?
Dad: Worked outside a bit, nothing too exciting.  What did you do this weekend?
Me: I cut a cantaloupe.
Dad: You cut a cantaloupe?  Anything else?
Me: I also went grocery shopping, took out the trash, tried a new dry shampoo, bought a bouquet of flowers for $.99, and put baking soda in my shoes so they wouldn't stink.
Dad:  Really exciting weekend you had...

He's right.  I didn't really have a very exciting weekend.  I didn't see any friends.  I didn't get any work done.  I didn't run any exciting errands, or go site-seeing.  I didn't do much of anything.  But to me, that's the greatest weekend ever.  Call me boring, or lazy, or tell me "what a life!" like my parents often do, but sometimes, I just need to take a break.

I think there's a belief that we hold as a culture, that if you are not doing something, I mean, actually actively moving and doing, then you are somehow "wasting" your time.  That because life is so precious and we have a limited amount of time on earth that the only way to have a "good life" is to fit as much into that life as possible.  To be productive.

It's like when my family goes on vacations.  They're the least vacation-like vacations you could ever imagine.  First of all, usually our "vacations" are to some historic location.  I'm fairly certain we've visited every major historic city from the Mid-Atlantic states north.  Second, when we go on "vacation" every second is booked solid with things to do.  On the one non-historic trip we go on, to Disney World, we still book solid.  The first few times we went we had an itinerary for each day in each park.  So by the end of "vacation," after all of the rushing around to stay on schedule, we were more exhausted than when we started, and everything was a big blur of Mickey Ears and light shows.

Sorry to be a contrarian here, but I object! Here's the thing, if we spend every waking second of our vacations and lives doing we run ourselves so ragged that the doing loses its value.  We stop enjoying what we're doing because we're so consumed with getting things done.  We lose the joy in living because we don't stop to smell the roses.

Sure, my weekend was unproductive and maybe a little lazy, but to me, that's great because when I go back to my hectic week-day life on Monday, I'm going to be ready to jump in feet first, rested.  My mind will be clear and I'll be happy.  I will have enjoyed my lazy weekend, but because of my lazy weekend, I'll also enjoy my hectic week.

Lazy weekends are good.  They allow us to slow down, think, recharge.  Don't be ashamed of your lazy weekends because lazy weekends, they're actually the secret to happiness.

Keep on thinking,
Josie

By now, you probably know that I write something everyday.  If you don't, well, there's your newsflash for the day.  Most days I write whatever comes to mind, but once  a week I write a list of whatever random thing pops into my mind when I sit down at my computer.  Today I was introduced to the idea of a "six word story."  There are some really great blogs that have people submit their six word story, and I have found a lot of them to be incredibly thought provoking.  I like to write about thought provoking things, so I thought it might be a good idea to use a six word story as a writing prompt once a week.   I'll be sure to link you to the original.  We'll see how it goes.

Six word story:
"Only feel small among the stars"

I distinctly remember a moment in my life, when I was about eight years old, when I first verbalized what is now an all too familiar thought.  I was at my pediatrician's office and had just been weighed. "Is that normal?"  I asked her, referring to the weight she read off.  "My cousins are all much prettier and skinnier than me,"  I said.  I had, for years, been observing, taking in the world around me, and of course, one of the things that I observed was society's expectation of thinness and "conventional beauty" (whatever that is). At the age of eight I was comparing myself to others and determining my own self-worth based on that.  I felt inadequate because I was not "skinny enough" and "conventionally beautiful."  Given that these types of things only become more pervasive with age, I continue to battle these thoughts; the thoughts of how I match up to those people who I admire most.

Comparing ourselves to people we believe are better than us can be incredibly helpful.  It's good to have tangible example of the goals we want to achieve.  Other people provide great tangible examples.  But the thing is, we will never be those people.  I will never be Mother Theresa or Kate Middleton or Elizabeth Cady Stanton, or J.K. Rowling.  This will never happen.  But that's okay.  It's okay that I will never be them, because no one will ever be them.  In fact, no one can or will ever be anyone that already exists.  Everyone's life paths, dreams, achievements, goals, families, friends, lifestyle, everything are different.  To compare myself to Mother Theresa is to set myself up for disappointment.  While I admire her, and her legacy, it's not gonna happen.

The really awesome thing though is that, while I will never be J.K Rowling, J.K Rowling will never be me either.  No one will ever be Josie, and Josie may be equally amazing as the most influential women in the world, just in very different ways.  I can do different, but still amazing things of my own.  In my own ways.  With my own body.  My own mind.  My own life.

I've realized since I was eight that comparing myself to other people is a fruitless endeavor, because it only leaves me feeling small.  It only leaves me depressed and wanting instead of excited and happy.  Comparing myself today to the me yesterday? That's a fruitful endeavor.  That will get me somewhere.  That will get you somewhere.

So "only feel small among the stars."

Keep on thinking,
Josie

When my mom entered my bedroom one day, looked to the corner, and noticed a pile of no fewer than 35 stuffed animals, she demanded that I get rid of some.  I refused.  "But they're all special!," I said.  She snickered a bit, disbelief littering her face.  "If you can tell me where they all came from, then you can keep them all," she said.  And so I did.  I explained the origin of each stuffed animal, one-by-one.  Gettysburg, an ex-boyfriend, a Christmas gift from my best friend, a birthday gift from my 10th birthday.  This is a talent of mine, remembering the significance of objects.  I like this about myself.  It keeps me in touch with my roots (and also makes me a bit of a hoarder).

I sit here at my desk, looking at the  pink-framed cork board sitting over it, papers covering every inch.  The cork board itself is one that I've had since the age of 10.  My father painted the border pink with the same paint he used on the bookshelves that he built in my childhood bedroom.  The mauvy shade of pink brings warm memories and feelings of comfort.

The stories behind each of the papers adorning the cork board race through my mind as I type this.  A few greeting cards, some flyers, scrawled-upon sticky-notes. Some other odds-and-ends.  There is a thank-you note from a client.  One of my first real clients.  A client who had a tough life, worked hard in therapy, but never quite achieved what I wanted him to.  It reminds me that despite my wishes and wants, it's not my opinion about other people that matters, it's their opinions of themselves.

There is another thank-you note.  One from my best friend.  It was written to me as her bridesmaid.  Another note from her on my cork board simply states "No one should live with a brown shower curtain" and accompanied a beautiful, butterfly-patterned shower curtain that she sent to me "just because."  The small, rectangular, green paper note on my board accompanied a box of brownies from an undergrad professor who, really, turned out to be more like my aunt.  "When the going gets tough, the tough turn to...chocolate!," she wrote.  She sent this to me after hearing that my advisor was switching schools and I was left in the dust. These notes remind me that I am loved and that I love.  That friendship, not matter the distance, can carry through.

The sticky-notes are exclusively work/school related.  Most are check-lists of things to do.  One contains my  now completed thesis in its most infant form; just a few key words scribbled upon it.  Another is an old check-list from the assignments I somehow completed last semester.  I wrote it at a time when the end of the semester seemed almost impossible to reach.  Now looking at it reminds me that that everything, especially stress, is temporary.  A third post-it on my board also reminds me of this.  It is my student ID number, written on my very first day of graduate school.  A lot has passed since that post-it was posted.

A fortune from a cookie procured on a particularly long night of group studying reads "Good things are coming to you in due course of time."  I hope so.  A list of contact numbers that my parents left when they traveled abroad for two weeks, the first time my parents had ever left me, rather than me leaving them.  I conveniently lost my cell-phone then and had to get creative to let them know before they panicked about my death from across the ocean.  That was the first time my best friend ever saw me cry.  She still talks about the event as if she had seen the Loch Ness monster.  An email address for what was at one time a potential new advisor, garnered during a particularly awkward meeting with the chair of the department, a tassel recently earned at along with my Master's degree, a button attentively and caringly decorated for me by a former patient.  I vividly remember the day she snuck up behind me, dragging her IV pole behind her, to hand me the princess-encrusted metal circle with a shy smile.  Despite it's obvious child-like origins, it is one of the most beautiful things I own.

These are the bricks that have built my life.  A bunch of scattered papers to some, but more than that to me.  These are symbols.  Symbols of people, places, experiences, friendships, family, emotions.

The stuffed animals in the corner of my adulthood.

Keep on thinking,
Josie

When I entered the world of academia I had a somewhat clear idea about what things would be like.  I knew being a grad student would be like being an undergrad but harder.  I knew that I'd have to work all the time, go to class, meet with my advisor, do research, do clinical work, work an assistantship.  There have been, however, some things that have happened that I could never have imagined happening. So here are...

15 things that happen when you become a graduate student:

1.  You talk about statistical analyses like they're a new car.  I was mediocre at math in high school.  It was the only non-honors class I took.  I was similarly mediocre in college when I got my first higher education A- in a statistics course.  Who knew that a few years later I'd be "talking shop" at work with my classmates, discussing the theory behind a new statistical technique, and looking forward to a third class in statistics.  It's a strange world and it does strange things to you.  My change in heart, I realized just today, is related to the idea that in grad school, statistics = power + independence.  Power to publish. Independence from stats geeks who slow you down with their busy schedules.  Those stats geeks are in high demand.

2.  You watch as someone slashes apart your paper.  I have a faculty collaborator who cannot review my work unless I am sitting in front of him.  So anytime I need him to read a paper in-progress I have to schedule an appointment.  Worse, I have to sit there, pretending to be open to constructive criticism, silently, as he excitedly dices my paper--which I spent no less than 48 hours writing--to smithereens.

3.  You look forward to revisions.  While the type of revisions in #2 are generally exclusively unpleasant, the types of revisions that come from editors....WOOOHOOO!  Yes sir, I will change the word "facilitate" to "increase."  No problem ma'am,  I'll re-analyze with an additional control variable.  You'll publish me if I mention your pet theory?!  Which study would you like me to cite?

4.  You wake up at 6am to do work before work.  The 14 hours available to you between 9am and 11pm are simply unsatisfactory.  You need the extra 3 in the morning too.  Goodbye sleep.  It's been real.  Hello dark mornings.  You suck.

5.  You praise yourself for being a normal human being.  Normal human-like behaviors are praise-worthy in your eyes.  Washing the dishes is a monumental achievement.  Washing the dishes after putting away the clean "still drying" dishes from four days ago?  God-like achievement.  Vacuuming?  I have no words.

6.  You regularly discuss how you are not actually a normal human being...or an adult.  Despite your qualifying age, you frequently discuss your lack of qualifications for adulthood.  Eventually your parents will stop paying your phone bill and co-signing your apartment.  Then, and only then, will you consider calling yourself an adult.

7.  You apologize profusely for absolutely no reason, at all times, to all people with Ph.D.s. Every statement is prefaced with "I'm probably wrong but..." and every small potential mistake is followed by an emphatic apology the likes of Kanye post-microphone-grab, pre-Kardashian (ugh...I just Googled that name to get the proper spelling...hope I don't catch anything).

8.  You have friends who refuse to talk about work outside of work.  This infuriates me!  How dare you tell me what to talk about and when to talk about it.  Have you no clue that the only thing I have to talk about is school?!  Rude!

9.  You spend 20 minutes proof-reading emails to faculty only to get a one-word response back a minute later.  There is nothing more anxiety-provoking to me than sending an email to a faculty person.  I sit there for 20 minutes, reading, re-reading, editing, changing the word "excited" to "thrilled,"  the salutation from "best" to "sincerely."  After all of this angst, the responses I generally receive reflect an emotion somewhere between absolute apathy and feigned disinterest.

10.  You and your friends celebrate more than anyone you know, while having less reason to celebrate than anyone you know.  First day of classes?  Cohort dinner!  Thesis proposal?  Dinner at a Chili's!  Thesis defense?  Locally grown, organic, grass-fed lunch!  Stats exam?  PARTY!  Thursday?  Sure why not.

11.  Your family wonders why you're not stressed.  "I'm surprised you're not more stressed than you are.  You're really holding it together."  These two sentences are frequently uttered.  They only serve to make you more stressed that you are not stressed enough.  Guilt is felt. Panic ensues. The days that follow these statements are the most productive days you'll have in your graduate career.

12.  "Vacation!?  Yes!  Time to work on my research!"  Sadly, "vacations" will turn into work time.  These times will provide you with the only uninterrupted work time you'll see.  Sometimes this uninterrupted work time will conveniently occur next to a pool or while sitting in sand, but don't fool yourself.  You're not relaxing.  You're producing.

13.  Your only response to the question "How long will you be in school?" is a hearty guffaw.  There is no other response to this question because aside from feeling like you'll be in school forever, you may actually be in school forever.  Graduate school lacks a definitive timeline.  Artistically reflecting this (art imitating life and all), your mental health will lack a definitive breaking point.  It's a gradual decomposition. #thestruggleisreal (#iactuallyhatehastags #whoinventedthiscrap?).

14.  You no longer fear the color red.  When you hand back papers to your undergraduate students you will feel perplexed by their tearful reactions.  "There's so much red" they'll say timidly, the effort to keep their emotions intact visible in their features.  You have grown callused to the color red. It no longer effects you.  It is simply data.  A representation of work yet to be done, but really, these days, what isn't a representation of work yet to be done?  You will attempt to explain this to your students.  They will simply respond with mixed looks of fear and admiration.  "This is what happens when you choose academia," you'll warn them ominously.  "This is what you'll become."

15.  Your cohort is your second family.  Amidst all of the red pen, guffawing, emails, celebrations, statistics, and writing, there is a shining beacon of hope. That is, your cohort.  These are the people with whom you entered your program.  The only people who really get you.  The only people to whom you can turn when shit has hit the fan, your advisor just switched schools, your thesis analyses sank, your grandma back home is sick, you're really hungry for a hamburger, and you need a good rant.  These are the people who will keep you sane.  They will talk to you for hours on end if you need it.  They will love you and you will love them.  You will become a dysfunctional family-like support system for each other faster than is probably normal.  But who cares.  I don't think I've met a normal family in my whole life.  Normal is overrated.

Keep on thinking,
Josie