Back In The Day I Ate Raspberry Muffins

When I was in college, the "fast food" joint (DKs) on campus carried muffins in the morning. Starting as a first year, I discovered a muffin with some sort of red berry that was simply heavenly. I couldn't figure out what the red berry was, but was always thrilled when I found the red berry muffins. DKs did not often carry the red berry muffins, I discovered when I began to get a daily muffin senior year. As a senior, I still didn't know what the berry was. 

Nor did anyone else I bothered to ask. 

I didn't figure it out till my last semester. I was sitting in the coffee joint (Java Joint), eating my muffin and drinking my tea between my morning classes when I realized what the berry was: raspberry. 

And boy did I feel stupid.

The reason I liked the muffins was that they were sweet and tart, reminding me of rhubarb. But there was a bite missing that rhubarb has, so I knew it wasn’t rhubarb. It wasn’t a strawberry, because it wasn’t sweet enough. It was in between. I don’t remember how I realized it was a raspberry, as it honestly looked like a muffin with some red goop. It had no discernible characteristics other than it was red, sweet and tart, and fruit-like. 

But, that day in the Java Joint, I realized it was a raspberry. Or it was in a former life before it’d come in contact with whoever baked the muffins for Beloit College. 

Fast forward ten years, and I’m scrolling through Pinterest looking for “healthy” breakfast muffins to bake next week to take to someone who just had a baby. I was getting frustrated because all the “breastfeeding” muffins have all sort of “healthy” things you cannot find in the middle of nowhere. (Or I don’t want to buy it because it costs 12 dollars for a tiny bag and I’ll use it this once and I don’t even know if she’s breastfeeding because I haven’t spoken or seen her since before she had the baby and also I still live in the middle of nowhere.) 

ANYWAY

So, I gave up on the whole breastfeeding muffins and looked at what foods breastfeeding mothers should be eating. (You’d think I’d remember as I was at one point a breastfeeding mother, but I didn’t actually pay any attention till my milk dried up and I was pumping an ounce a day and freaking out and that was when I learned about low flow and suddenly everything made sense and I gave up.)

ANYWAY

The point of this post: I found raspberry muffins. I know I’ve looked them up before, fondly thinking of those muffins I stuffed in my gob throughout college, but I’ve yet to actually try any of the recipes I’ve pinned. Since I had a lemon, when we went to the store, I bought some raspberries (and blueberries. Those were in the breastfeeding muffins someone brought me shortly after EMO was born) and greek yogurt, as I used most of ours last week making the fail at life greek yogurt brownies no one can stand. (Proof: it’s been four days and they are still in the tin and I’ve only had one, Pilot Boy two.) I’ve not had much success when baking with greek yogurt. (The Cake Cookies and the failure at life brownies.) I was a bit iffy to try these, but figured this time it’d go better as there was more liquid than the failure at life brownies.

They turned out pretty good, though they did remind me why I usually do not bake with berries: melting berries went everywhere. And folding the berries into the batter in a uniform manner was hopeless due to the fact it was so thick, but unlike the Cake Cookies, the thick better made a pretty good muffin. Also, while it seems strange to zest a whole lemon (to me), the lemon flavor isn’t really all that strong. Next time (when I make them for myself), I might zest another whole lemon in there. 

Without further ado: the recipe.

Adapted from here. 

Raspberry-Blueberry-Lemon Breakfast (or Anytime Really) Muffins

Ingredients

1 lemon (seriously, you’ll need the whole lemon or another if you really want a lemony flavor)

1/2 cup sugar (white, unless you really want to use something else, but I used white)

1 cup plain nonfat greek yogurt 

1/3 cup oil (I used veggie, but I’d think any cooking oil would do)

1 egg

1/2 tablespoon vanilla extract

2 cups flour (I would have loved to use white whole-wheat, but tragically, had none so I used all purpose plain flour)

1 1/2 teaspoon baking powder

1 teaspoon baking soda

1/4 teaspoon salt

1 cup fresh raspberries

1 cup fresh blueberries

Directions

1. Preheat oven to 400 degrees F. 

2. Peel the skin off the lemon. You want to peel, so it doesn’t have to be pretty.  As once you’re done getting the rind off, you’re going to put it in the food processor (or blender) and chop it up into tiny bits. Do not zest, as you want more flavor, so peel that lemon rind off the lemon. (With a veggie peeler, not your fingers.)

3. Put the peel and sugar into a food processor (or blender) and pulse (seriously, pulse, do not blend) until lemon peel is tiny and combined with the sugar. (This will smell awesome. Take a moment and sniff.) 

4. Add the yogurt, oil, egg, and vanilla. Once again, pulse, do not blend, until combined. (This will also smell really good. A different kind of good, but still worth a good whiff.)

5. In a big mixing bowl, combine dry ingredients. Add the wet to this and fold together with a wooden spoon, plastic spatula, or something that is not a motorized mixer. 

6. Once batter is almost combined, add berries and continue folding until there’s no more loose flour. Batter will be super thick.

7. Get out your muffin tins.

8. Spray muffin tins with cooking spray, grease with butter then sprinkle with flour, or line with muffin cups.  Just do something so the batter does not stick to the tin. 

9. Using a spoon, divide the batter among the cups. Fill the cups as full as you can get them, as the batter will rise only a little. (I got a total of 18 muffins out of my batter, filling the cups full.)

10. Bake until edges are golden brown, which will occur around the 18 minute mark. Do not bake for longer than 25 minutes. (Mine finished before the 18 minute mark, but since my oven is usually slow, I set the timer for 20 minutes. Luckily, I checked them shortly after the 18 minute mark, as if I'd left them in there for 20, they'd've burned.) 

11. Remove muffins from oven and cool for five minutes before transferring to wire racks. 

12. Enjoy warm. (Not hot, as the berries will burn your tongue.) 

The World Turns, I Get Older

Last year, I kind of freaked out about turning 27. And by freaked out, I spent the whole day feeling old and...unaccomplished. Or I guess disillusioned would be a better word.

Well, I'm 28. And...I'm pretty much in the same spot I was last year. Only, I have more hair. And five pounds around my middle. (It comes with getting old, or so I am told every time I complain about it.) We also have more snow on the ground than we did a year ago. And I didn't shovel it. Unlike last year, when I went outside in a thin sweater and shoved the driveway without gloves. I whined this morning I can't find my gloves, so I can't do it.

Like last year, I am thinking about ten years ago. Why? Because I remember being 18, just as I remember being 17. When I turned 17, I honestly didn't remember being 7, as I don't remember much about being 8. Other than I had long hair. Useful, I know.

Anyways, when I turned 18, the following happened:

1. Monsters Inc came out. It was the ONLY thing I wanted to do for my birthday. Really, I want to go see a movie? On opening night? That's a cartoon, fine. It was all I wanted. I didn't get it. Due to teenage drama, the showing I wanted was sold out. So, I didn't see the movie till the following weekend and I was cranky. Because...of teenage drama. Today is Wednesday. No movies come out today I want to see. I have no desire to see movies. Because...I am old. And I am a hermit, so I'd rather stay in my house and use Netflix.
2. My best friend gave me a SUPER SIZED Hersey's bar. Seriously, it was like two pounds of Hersey's bar. And I kept it under my bed. Why? Because that is where I kept junk food when I was 18: under my bed. Gross, I know. Now days, at 28, I keep plastic bins, suitcases and boxes of junk that never got unpacked because it should have been left in Del Rio. (The Hersey's bar remained under the bed till the spring when my mother was like, WILL YOU DO SOMETHING WITH THAT?! So I made cookies. Or something. I don't remember. I just remember it was under my bed for the longest time and I was honesty tired of chocolate by the time I finally smashed it up to make cookies.)
3. I got my blue book back. Which I am currently staring at. Because a few months ago I had my mother send it to me along with all my other journals. I was a writing fiend as a teenager, especially at 18. I don't keep one now. I tried, but, I'm so boring and...not filled with teenage angst. I find keeping this blog hard enough.
4. I remember what I wore that day. And the fact I spent three hours curling my hair into tiny, tiny cork screw curls. The very ones one of the teachers asked me, with a look of awe on her face, "How long did that take you?" It took three hours and by the end of the day, my head hurt from the tug of the ponytail I wore my hair in with the complicated rolls I wore on top of my head. It was a very complicated style and I only wore it twice in my life. It was a total pain. And actually, kind of looked stupid.
5. I had never been in love. I thought I was in love at 18, but I really wasn't. I read a book last night that described falling in love perfectly. (Well a few, but this book really resonated with me, I'm not sure why, but I'm going with it.) You fall. You do not think about it. I just happens and requires no thought or doubt. At 18, I was filled with thoughts and doubts (I have five volumes of journals telling me so much). At 28, I just know. The first time I fell in love, I just knew. It wasn't dramatic. It was the simplest thing in the world. (The falling part, after that, not so simple.) At 18, I felt no relief, only angst and drama. I worried. I was paranoid. I listened to songs and the more angsty the lyrics, the more dark, more drama...the better. I...don't do that any more. I don't see relationship with Pilot Boy in angst-ridden, dark, dramatic songs. Now, I just see CHARACTERS that are in my head in songs I like. Seriously. I no longer have songs, my characters have songs. Stories get songs. My life, not so much.
6. Point six is mixed in with point five.
7. 18 was the first birthday I viewed as a total disaster that I remember. I honestly don't remember turning 15, 16, 17 or anything before that. Those just happened. 18 is the first birthday that burned itself into my mind and refused to let go. And until I turned 21, I had horrible birthdays. They were just...horrific. I always had a horrible day, there was always some sort of drama that unfolded that left me feeling like total shit by the end of the day. When I turned 21...nothing happened. I am serious. I was also deliriously happy, but on the actual day of my birthday, honestly nothing happened. Well, things happened, but nothing that happened due to the fact I was turning 21. I got up late, missed my first lecture, walked to my room in the early morning cold, changed for lunch and then just went about my day till I returned to my room on a hill and fell face first into my bed and fell asleep for an hour. I then woke up, made a Chinese instant meal, ate it in my freezing cold room, was dragged to a party downstairs for like five minutes and then fell asleep. It was...the best day ever. It was the day I fell in love with Glasgow. From that day forward, Glasgow was the best place on earth as far as I was concerned. So much so, I still write love stories about it. And...it's Glasgow.
8. I have something in common with my 18 year old self, though. At 18, I still thought, deep down, I'd be a writer some day. I was beginning to give up this goal, as I had realized sophomore year there was no money in it and I wanted lots of money, but I didn't really give up the writing dream till much later on in my life. And I didn't pick it up till roughly a year or so ago. And since then, I've been working. While Pilot Boy might not think I am "working" I think I am working. I might not be getting paid at the moment, but I write, edit and revise daily. I read for research. Hell, I do research. I never did that before. I just wrote. I thought writing was just about writing the story. I always wrote what I knew, but even doing that...research is needed. I have spent the past year researching colleges, cities, staring at maps of Glasgow, London, Dublin and Chicago. I research names, last names, first names, middle names, back stories, houses, floor plans, and meanings of words in dead languages that no one knows how to speak. I draw maps, I look at maps, and I create entire universes in my head. I spent a whole day figuring out the Scottish schooling system and then another four hours making a freaking class schedule for a character. I spend time scouring the internet for snip its of Scottish/English/Irish/French/Southern American/Etc in order to be able to write out what I hear. I read books I would never read in the name of research. My 18 old self...read Harry Potter.
9. I didn't feel any different when I turned 18. I was an "adult" and yet I did not feel very adult like. I honestly felt like I was not old enough to do the things that 18 year old kids are allowed to do. I didn't think I was old enough to be voting in elections and I had no desire for cigarettes or any of the other things 18 year old kids can buy. I still don't honestly feel like I am old enough to do some things. Something happens after you turn 25, though. You forget how old you are. I walked around this past year, when I was 27, thinking I was 28. Pilot Boy tried to convince me the other day he was only 25 and I was 26. I had to actually do the math to figure out how old I was. And was really confused to find out I was 27. I did the math like five times. At least, this year, while thinking I am 28, I'll actually be 28.
10. 18 year old me burned herself with the curling iron. Often. 28 year old me burns myself, but not usually with the curling iron, as I don't use one as much as I used to. I do, though, usually burn my fingers because I refuse to wear that stupid heat proof gloves that came with the rod thing I bought and use because it makes the most natural looking curls. No, 28 year old me (who was 27 when most of these things happened) just burns herself on the oven, the stove, and the iron. And sometimes the hair dryer. But not as bad as when I was 15 and I dropped it on the back of my neck. I used to balance it in a tissue box over the side of my dresser and then sit under it and blow dry my hair straight and flat. (This was before I knew what a straightening iron was.) One day, the blow dryer fill, right on my neck when I had my head bowed to dry the back of my head. (This was the year of the mushroom hair cut, so I had short hair.) Least to say, I had an ugly red mark on the back of my neck that looked alarmingly like a hickey. And I had no boyfriend to give it to me. I had to go to church and everyone saw it, as I didn't know it was there till I got to church. No one believed I had burned myself either, as it was on the back of my neck. How do you drop a hair dryer there? I had no clue why no one believed me, either, as I thought it was rather well known I had no boyfriend.

Well, there. My birthday entry. Today has nothing speical in store. Other than some eating. I ought to eat lunch today before three pm. Which was when I ate yesterday. Because I forgot. 18 year old me always ate lunch at 10.30 am. As I had fourth hour lunch. 28 year old Ireland, has no lunch time. Sometimes she forgets to eat lunch.

Containers of Presents

Holiday season means boxes.  Boxes are usually addressed. So you see said box and are like, "OMG! THEY SENT ME A PRESENT! THEY REMEMBERED ME!"

Then, since the invention of the internet, you get random unmarked boxes. By unmarked, they are from places like Amazon, Kohls, Bed Bath and Beyond or Target. You stare at the box and think, "I did not order that....or did?"

So, duh, you run into the house and rip it open and then stare at the object inside and think, "What the hell?"

I have done this a few times, especially since moving away from home. A few times I stare at the thing for a while, then remember there are these things called recipts and they usually tell me who paid for the item. Usually these types of boxes come from my mother. Or brother. Or my father. Okay, I could have just typed my "Family" there, couldn't I? Oh well.

I got a box like that today. I came home from finishing my shopping for Pilot Boy (YAY SALES!) and saw something on the front stoop. I was like, "OH MY GOD. THERE IS A PACKAGE ON THE FRONT STEP!" I figured it was Hubert coming back from his extended vacation in Georgia. (Herbert is a laptop that was parted with Pilot Boy in Georgia. Pilot Boy hated him so much (Herbert, but Georgia) that he simply decided to leave Herbert there and took Hewie (my laptop) and got me a MAC, who is nameless. Sorry MAC. Anyways, the other day, Pilot Boy announced Herbert was returning, as the person/people/place that had Herbert was like, "Hey, we've got your laptop. We're going to send that to you now." BTW, they wouldn't' send it to him before, which is why he was like 'WTF, I am buying a MAC.")

Seeing I live in frozen Alaska, I was like, "OMG IT IS FROZEN!"

So, after falling down the driveway in the Monstrosity (I had to use the 4Wheel drive to get IN the garage) I ran to get the package, only to find Kohls has sent me something.

"I didn't order anything from Kohls..." And if I did I would not have addressed it as PILOT BOY IRELAND SCOTT. Seeing it is that time of year, I was like, OH CHRISTMAS PRESENT!

Upon arrival inside, it was indeed a present, so thank you present giver.

However, one time, I got something and I had no clue who sent it to me (this has happened twice, but the story I am going to share isn't creepy, like the red ball incident of 2006.)

I was living in Glasgow. It was September, and I was still dating/not dating/having no idea what was going on with Not Boyfriend. (That is what I call him.)  L and I were walking up the stairs after getting our mail and I suddenly realized I had no idea who had sent me this small box and pen. I opened the box while we walked up the NEVER ENDING STAIRS OF DEATH. I was like, "Its a bracelet?"

"Yes, it is. Why are you asking me if its a bracelet? Who is it from?" L asked.
"I don't know. There is no note." I shoveled the papers in my hands.
"Do you think its from Not Boyfriend as a way to say sorry?" L asked.
"I don't know."

I kept looking at the receipt, trying to find who it was from, but it didn't have a bill to address on it. It was a very lovely bracelet too. And it had a matching fancy pen with it too. As we neared the fourth floor where we lived (Or the third floor as it was called), I was still trying to figure out who had sent it to me, because Not Boyfriend would never do anything like that. (Hence the Not Boyfriend.) As we were nearing our rooms, I finally found (in micro-print) at the bottom a note that read: HAPPY BIRTHDAY, IRELAND! LOVE, MOM

"My mom sent it to me!" I said, feeling relieved.
"Why do you sound so relieved?" L asked. "Wouldn't it have been sweet if Not Boyfriend had sent it?"
"Its from my mom. For my birthday," I announced. "Plus, Not Boyfriend would never send me anything. I'm pretty sure I only exist in the moment the phone rings."
L stared at me funny for a moment and then said, "Your birthday is in November. Did your mom forget?"

Later, after asking my mom about it, she said because the egg poacher she had ordered me from Amazon was taking forever (it never reached me, it went to Australia or something?) she ordered the present early, to make sure it arrived.

To this day I am VERY thankful she sent it to me and Not Boyfriend, mostly because it would have been so out of character for Not Boyfriend and by that point in time, I was so confused by him, him doing something like that would have made my head explode.

I still wear the bracelet and announce to people, "LOOK WHAT MY MOM GOT ME!" The pen, though, tragically, dried up from too much use. I am serious. It was such an awesome pen, I used it all up!

I am a 06 Alum. No matter what you do. So there.

Beloit college turned off my alum account.

I am serious. I realized this was why something was not emailed to me. And why I have less emails. I just thought my spam blocker was working better. But, no, Beloit decided I didn't graduate or something lame.

Or because I refused to tell them where I was. (I am not calling some 800 number to verify I am an alum and tell you where I am. Plus, that email looks like spam, hence why it keeps ending up in my spam folder.)

I am not a terribly proud graduate. But Beloit, do not feel bad, I am not full of school spirit for any place I have attended. Even Glasgow University, which I loved, I don't have much school spirit towards them either. I just don't like academics in general at this point in my life and I am very, very jaded towards the whole system. Why? I don't know...maybe because after I graduated I realized I had a useless piece of paper and the brand name on it wasn't the right one.

If you are going to spend money on college, go to one people have heard of. I have decided going to a major university gets you farther in life. It is like...say you show up at a designer purse function carrying a tote you got by 5th Avenue at JCPenny's while everyone is else is carrying Marc Jacobs, Prada, Hermes, and Coach. You kind of look out of place and people look at you funny when you say you're carrying 5th Avenue. Or, a childhood fear of mine, showing up on the first day of school wearing no name brand clothing while everyone else is wearing Abercrombie.

When I was tossed out into the job market, I learned quickly, no one had EVER heard of Beloit. I had gotten the free alum forwarding account because I thought it'd look prestigious and impress people, plus show I had graduated. Hard to be either when no one had heard of the place. No one has any idea what Beloit is or where it is. I have had the following conversation too many times to count.

"Where did you got to college?"
"Beloit College."
Blank look. "Where is that?"
"Wisconsin."
"Oh." Blank look. "Where?"
"50 miles south of Madison on the board with Illinois."
"What do they study there?"
"Liberal arts."
"What?"
"Everything. They do everything."
"Oh. So what did you major in?"
"Politics."
"Oh, interesting. What college was it again?"
"Beloit College. Its a liberal hippy school that pops out Socialist Fascists Communists."

This might be why I have no friends. Or didn't get a job.

Or why they decided to disown me. Because they realized I was really a non-existent Socialist Fascist Communist.

(Which cannot exists. I spent four years learning about all three things and they are not the same thing. Hence, why our president cannot be a Fascist Communist like Glen Beck keeps saying. Our president is also not a Socialist. But I all ready did a soap box post on that tirade.)

ETA: So, I guess Beloit turned off ALL alum accounts on 1 December. And at some point they told the whole world this information. They have moved to Gmail accounts that operate as actual email, rather than froward. Same basic address, but you have to reapply, and I'm over it.  As stated before, no one has heard of Beloit and someday I will go to a designer college to get a useless masters degree! (more than likely not. What do I need a masters for?)

Smelling April Fresh

My senior year of college, the fabric softener in my walk in closet decided it wanted to see if it could fly, so it took a leap. This leap, some five feet off the ground, informed the bottle of fabric softener that it could not fly, as it broke into a million little pieces and its guts went everywhere.

I was sitting at my desk, more than likely not working on anything important, when the bottle tried to fly. I heard something fall in the closet. I turned around and saw nothing, so I turned back around. However, in a few minutes, I began to smell fabric softener. Granted, my room was above the laundry room, but usually I did not smell laundry, dirty or clean. The only time my room smelled was during the weekends when the trash got out of control, then it smelled horrible. Other than that, it was the first time I had a smell free room.

I stood up and followed my nose to the walk in closet and discovered the floor was covered and soaked in fabric softener. The whole bottle had shattered (even thought it was plastic) and there was a whole bottle worth of frabic softener all over the carpet. It was a brand new bottle too. Brand new, shiny and broken.

I had no clue how to clean up the massive puddle of fabric softener. All I knew was it smelled REALLY strong and I was getting a headache. I think I used my towel to clean it up and then ran down to the laundry room with a pile of quarters and washed the towels and anything else I had used to clean it up. For months, though, there was a dark spot where the bottle had fallen. For months, the room totally reeked of fabric softener. You'd think after smelling the smell for months, I'd remember the sent. I do not. I have no clue. All I remember is that when Pilot Boy came to visit me the first time he commented how nice it smelled and when I moved out my dad asked me what had spilled on the floor.

Last Monday, I was doing laundry. Pilot Boy was home and I had been rather angry at him because he refuses to put his dirty clothes in the basket and thus I never know what is clean or dirty. I was doing the last load for the night and picked up the bottle of fabric softener to shake it. (Its the fancy stuff you have to shake for some reason.) I guess I had failed to put the cap on right because one aggressive shake and I was covered in pink goop. I had been talking and ceased, so Pilot Boy came to check it out. I was standing there, covered in pink goop. And of course, he laughed at me. I began laughing too, as it was totally my fault. My sweater was soaked in fabric softener, as was the shirt on under the sweater. I had it all over my face and in my hair. I went upstairs, washed my face, changed my clothes and cleaned up the mess that did not get all over him.

Throughout the night though, I kept getting wiffs of the fabric softener. It seemed to have seeped into my skin. I was worried I'd smell like fabric softener for weeks. I don't. Skin doesn't hold fabric softener like fabric does. In college, when the bottle fell in the closet, my clothes forever smelled like fabric softener. I no longer needed it to make them smell, because they just smelled like it. It over powered my perfume it was so strong. I have yet to see how my sweater fared after I washed it. I bet it'll forever smell like spiced whatever.

the grass is always greener...in the desert

When I was a freshman in college, I spent part of my spring break in Atlanta, Georgia. This was my first trip into the Deep South and I was sorely disappointed not to find people with Southern accents. They all sounded like me.

However, the grass in Atlanta was violently green. Seriously, I have never in my life seen grass that green. I freaked out and cried out, "OMG! Look at that grass?"

"What about it?" my friend who was driving me somewhere asked.
"IT IS GREEN! Like vividly green! Like, florescent green!"
"Yeah? You're point?"
"Grass is not naturally that color! But its all that color here!"

My friend logically rolled her eyes at this point and ignored me, but I could not get over the bright green grass. It was even sort of soft. (Yes, at one point I had to touch some just to see.)

In Scotland, the grass was also bright green, but it was a different sort of bright green, it was not blinding, it was just GREEN! Thus, I never got truely excited about it, plus after six months, I was as numb to the constant green as I was to the lack of sunshine and frizz free hair.

I was walking the dog today and as I rounded the corner, violently green grass caught my eye in the world of shades of yellow. It is spring time in the dirt hole, so there are tiny bits of dull green color coming to the few lawns being watered for 12 hours a day. There are leaves coming back to the trees, buds appearing on other trees.

As I walked closer to the violent green color, I came to realize the trees in this yard were also brilliant green in color, as well as certain sections of the front lawn (the side yard and back yard look like the rest of the yards here....yellow and dead). I came to a stop and the dog sat down.

"Basil Dog, look at that yard. How the hell did it get to be green like that? It hasn't rained in years," I said.

The dog stared at me blankly.

"It looks like the grass in Atlanta!" I exclaimed.

The dog continued to stare at me.

I resisted the urge to go over and touch the grass to see if it felt like the grass in Atlanta. One, because it would have been strange and two, the dog was getting impatient with me to continue her walk.

So we walked on, but I still couldn't get that vivid green color out of my mind.

Jessica Simpson stole my drive

From the time I was about 12, I operated under the assumption that I was going to be something. I was never sure what the hell I was going to be, but I knew I was going to do great things and be famous. From 12 until 19, I was sure of this. I was very sure. I would plot out how I was going to do this in my journal. By the time I as 16, I assumed my writing would make me big and something.

I have no idea when I saw the VH1 show "Driven: Jessica Simpson." I remember I was sitting near the window in the family room in the chair near a table. And, tragically, I realized something about myself that would hinder in my ablity to become something big. What was this? Well, ambition and drive. I lacked those qualities in myself. I knew this, as I watched the show about how driven Jessica Simpson was to become a famous singer. I knew, I had none of that drive to do anything with my writing.

However, I still operated under the assumption that my time would come and fame would find me, or at least a publisher. After watching "Driven," I figured I would meet someone who would take me places at Beloit, because I was led to believe that important people came and went to Beloit, people with connection.

They do not. Or at least I failed to find anyone like that. I was unable to do anything really worth while professionally while I was at Beloit. I tried, do not get me wrong. I applied to a ton of internships all four years of college. I never got past the first interview. I always figured this was due to my lack of ambition and drive and one could simply tell that by my voice.

At Beloit, I also lost that assumption I'd grow up to be something big and successful. Everyone it seemed at Beloit wanted to be a writer, or something having to do with writing. Many of these people wrote better than me and they had that ambiton and drive in them to do something. I lacked that. I was sitting at my desk freshman year when I realized that I had been operating under an assumption for years that wasn't true. I wasn't going anywhere, I was not the girl going places like I had been led to believe by myself and others. I bounced from one profession to another while I was at Beloit. I arrived thinking I wanted to be a writer, then I wanted to be a lawyer, then I thought I'd try marketing and finally, by the time I was a junior I gave up trying to figure out what I wanted to be. I just knew what I did not want to be. I became listless and less driven for anything than I had been before. Everyone around me knew what they wanted to be: screen writer, dig in the dirt and find stuff, editor, puppeteer, art historian, pilot, teacher. What did I want to be?

I wanted to be Ed Whitacre. Yeah, you read that right. It was one of those random decisions I made my senior year to get people off my back about what I wanted to do with my future. The answer "I don't know" does not seem to fly when you are a senior in college and not planning to go to grad school. I took it so far to come up with a plan to become Ed Whitacre, which included a year of bumming around New Zealand. However, my mom did not like this idea in the least because it included working any sort of job for a year and then leaving. She reminded of health insurance and student loans and proceeded to crush the idea of ever becoming the CEO of AT&T. Not that I seriously thought this was a goal of mine. I lack drive and ambition, two things all CEOs have.

I graduated from Beloit with an expensive piece of paper that was in reality rather useless for anything I wanted to do. I tried to find a marketing job, they were all sales jobs in disguse. After three months of "job hunting" I gave up trying to find a good paying job that I'd like. I just wanted a job, so that was how I ended up being, for lack of name, an Administrative Assistant. This made me sort of sad because in the back of my head I still had all these allusions of gradure and Administrative Assistant didn't sound to me like a job title I really wanted (though, my job title was really Informational Servies Assistant). The job bore me at times, and after I left the job and went to do actual Admin work, I was still pretty bored most of the time.

I still have no idea what I want to do. I do not think I ever will know what I will want to do with myself. There are days this doesn't bother me at all, then there are days where it annoys the crap out of me because there is that little part of my brian that still believes I need to be someone big, famous, and influential.

But, in the end, Jessica Simpson stole my drive.

Now, do not get me wrong. I am happy in my life for the most part. I've got a great, annoying, cute dog and a great husband who I love. I wouldn't trade being famous for any of it. I wouldn't even trade fame for leaving the dirt hole. It is just that sometimes I wish I knew what to do with myself once I left this dirt hole.

The Truth About Jess the Mess

When I was a senior in college, my last semester a took a class about dogs. It was an English class and we read books about dogs. I cannot remember the name of the class, but it was catchy because it was a Tom McBride class and I think he spent a lot of time naming his classes. The final paper for the class was to be about how we like dogs (and cats too) because they bring us closer to nature due to the fact we name them thus giving them agency.

In all honesty I was not all that into this class for various reasons, one simply being it was an English class and I had found out a few days into my first college English class that I hated English classes. I took the class for two reasons: 1) I needed another class to round out my schedule and 2) It was Tom McBride and I knew he'd let me into the class because he liked me (even if I thought for a long time he was freaked out by me because he found me one spring day my junior year murdering a paper with a pair of scissors). Anyways, on the last day of class, Tom McBride began talking (and talking) about how we humanize dogs (and cats too) because we name them, making them like us and thus bringing us closer to nature.

And the only thing I could think was: OMG! I totally made my computer humanized because I named it! My computer (who is named Jess) had agency because I named it. I have it a personality! I connected the the computer a deeper level because I gave it a name! However, as I laughed at this in my sleep deprived state on late May, I realized that Jess did not bring me closer to nature by giving it a name, which was why Tom McBride claimed we named dogs and kept them around. And, no matter how much social construction I give the computer, in the end he is still a computer no matter how much personality he displays to me (and my dad). I went on with the final paper babbling about how dogs and cats connect us to nature and tragically no matter how many electoric items I name, they will not bring me closer to nature.

This paper seemed a fitting end to my college career for various reasons. One, senior year was the year I began naming things left and right. I had always sworn objects (almost all objects) had some sort of personality. My first cell phone had a mind of its own, thus it was nicknmaed the Getto Phone (spelled wrong because that was how strange the phone was). It would claim I had text messages, when I was unable to recieve them. For days on end it would claim I had voice mail, when I never did. It would turn itself off, ring for no reason, and once for a whole week it just stopped working all together for no reason that was ever explained. Since I was a small child I talked to things that would not talk back. I have always spoken to the computer, the printer, the radio, the car. However, one day while trying to figure out why my laptop of a year was acting like a teenage, broody boy it hit me he was acting like the Jess character from Gilmore Girls. Thus, I just started calling him Jess. My dad started calling him Jess. My friends started calling him Jess. We all acted like Jess was a person, as I swear to god he can hear me.

I came across a few people in my days that do not believe that Jess has a personality. I have had many arguments with them that my electoric objects do have personalities and they just think I am nuts. I think maybe Tom McBride thought I was nuts while reading my final essay of my undergraduate career. It was about my computer. And dogs. I ended the paper with the suggestion that I maybe should get a dog or cat, as all Jess did was bring me frustration rather than joy, as a cat or dog would.

It is three years later. I still have Jess (he seems to behave better in his later years now and gotten over the fact he is a Dell computer with an Apple sticker over the Dell logo) and I do not have a dog, or cat. I did baby sit a dog this past weekend (or dog sit.) Thus, it got me to thinking about my computer essay.

The Mindset List

At the start of every school year, these two guys at Beloit College put out this list that they call the Mindset List. They put this out every year, as you can hear about in that nice conference they give under that link. I had no idea what the Mindset List was until the year before I went off to college. That year, my dad shoved under my nose the Chicago Trib and said "READ THIS!" in his excited manner he gets when he is REALLY EXCITED about something. I read it and felt sort of silly, as half the things on that list I had no clue what they meant.

But that is the point of the mindset list. It is the mindset of the incoming freshman class of that year.

When I got the email about this years mindset list and read it, it made me feel old. I shouldn't feel that old, as I not that old, but it did make me feel a little dated.

However, that is truely not the point of this post. The point of this post is Tom McBride, one of the guys who put together the list. I went to Beloit for four years and had Tom McBride as a professor. Beloit is the type of school where you call the professors all by their first names. You have Georgia, Warren, Nancy, Bob, Tod, Emily, Sophie and on and on. However, Tom McBride was almost referred to as Tom McBride when you were not speaking to him. For awhile, I referred to him as Tommcbride. All one word as that was how I said it. I do not really understand why we always called him Tom McBride, but he was a full name professor. The only other professor that seeminly broke the first name rule was Krider, but that was only because he was Krider. You would never call him Emiel to his face. It just felt...wrong.

Anyways, so this Mindset List came out and I found myself face to face with Tom McBride again. Tom McBride is the flagship professor for Beloit. I am not sure how he managed to become the flagship professor of Beloit, but he is. Talking just like he has always talked, saying pretty much the same thing he always says.