Art and Its Artist

I've been on a French Revolution kick, which stems from wanting to learn French, which stems from being French—genealogically. I also love the 1700s and early 1800s. Add these two factors together, and voila: I've been strategically reading all things French.

This project started with a second attempt—and I would like to stress the word attempt—to read Tocqueville's Democracy in America. I've enjoyed it (the whole five to ten pages I've actually read), but I have to be in the mood for a mental workout with that book. It's a disciplined read. When I force myself to pass a concept I don't fully understand, I am compelled, by perfectionism, to go back and research it anyway. I read every footnote, if I have time—and even if I don't. Footnote reading in most books has lead me to some pretty sweet discoveries, but the bottom line is that if I don't understand the material or have a background with it, which is the case with this book, it takes forever to finish. It's been a slow and painful process, but I want it.

Les Misérables was the next read, but fortunately it was an easy one. Caleb gave this to me for my birthday in 2008. I read it over Christmas vacation two years ago, while in the Dominican Republic, while not understanding a lick of Spanish spoken around me—literally. So I read. And I loved this book. Anything that makes me cry gets an automatic pass to the good-read list. Amazingly crafted by a fine artist.

Most recently, I finished reading The Count of Monte Cristo. This, too, made me cry, and on the metro of all places! I thought I was pretty good at containing my emotions, a recently rebuked assumption. At very least, not many people were on the train. (Phew.) This piece was also amazingly crafted by a fine artist.

Crafting art takes time. It's painstaking. You feel when your art is done. Sometimes the art is good, and sometimes it's not. Either way, you know when it's complete, and you obsess until it's there. I don't consider myself an artist, but writing is the only medium I attempt to use as art. Whether the final product merits that title or not is another story. Last week at work, I got a call from the corporate office. They've seen my writing and like it, at least enough to commission me to write a blurb for our social media initiative. Ok, corporate office people, not a problem. I spent time thinking about and refining my work and sent it to headquarters. I felt like it was mediocre, but good enough to do the job. Then it was published, and I knew I'd have to brace myself before looking at the final product. I gave them permission to change it if they wanted to. I don't have anything against my writing being changed for the better (on the contrary, I deeply appreciate advice on how to improve), but I prepared to cringe because I had a feeling about this one: I've had three years' experience with the punctuation of the person in charge of manipulate my writing, and that experience isn't pretty. I saw the final copy. Ugh. Holy editing rules being broken. I wasn't even in love with what I wrote, and it hurt. I politely sent some suggestions to this person noting the good changes the person made (and there were some) and noting which ones might need tweaking. No luck in effectuating change. The final product stands.

At first sight of my tortured work, I thought about an editor's motto: "never make anything worse." It's better not to change something than to make it worse than its original form. I try to adhere to this. My mind then jumped to the adaption of Les Mis. as a musical—which was a nine and a half out of ten in my eyes, even though I couldn't help comparing it to the original work—and the most recent movie of The Count of Monte Cristo, which I have conflicted opinions about. One amazing in its own right, and the other probably good by most people's standards, but both tortured forms of the original. May I continue to be dramatic? One a truncated version of a magnum opus, which is practically impossible to capture on stage, and the other a kaleidoscope version of a simulacrum (noun: an insubstantial form or semblance of something : trace) of original art work.

So what is fair to do to/with a piece of art? I'm sure this has been debated in art classes throughout centuries, and I have no exposure to those debates, and I have no doubt I could be persuaded in any direction with a strong enough argument. However, when strictly consulting my feelings, I feel the following: if other artists have any attachment to their art work like I do to my not-even-worthy-of-being-called-art art, to see a mangled version of their original art would be almost as bad as if someone were to walk into the Salle des États in the Musée du Louvre, remove the bullet proof glass from the Mona Lisa, and cut a big X through the face of the painting. Dramatic, I know.

My Little Girl

I was walking along one day. Not in the park, and it wasn't the month of May. It was September, and I was on my way to the Kennedy Center to see a Chinese Opera after eating at Roti Mediterranean Grill. I'm not sure what put me in the frame of mind. Maybe it was all the internationalness (this is not a word) I was experiencing. Maybe it was finally talking to Diny, my younger sister from China. Maybe it was all the NPR female sex trafficking horror stories. Not sure.

Perfectly placed in my life was a man representing Children International. Some, like Mr. Kiyosaki, might consider this a financial liability (we'll go with the third definition on this one—noun: one that acts as a disadvantage). Had it been any other moment, I might not have chosen to support her. It was the perfect storm.

I went to breakfast with a friend today. As conversation progressed from tropics, earth tilts, wind patters, climate classifications to environmental determinism, human geography, economic progression, Hans Rosling, we landed on something that hit home: the girl effect. 

I hope that one little girl in India has a brighter future.

"The production may attempt to entertain audiences for an evening, but The Book of Mormon as a volume of scripture will change people's lives forever by bringing them closer to Christ."

—Official Church Statement on the Book of Mormon Musical

I was thinking about what The Book of Mormon is to me as I rode the metro home tonight. My thoughts were in response to the clarion (adj.: brilliantly clear ; also : loud and clear ) call I received today. The first thought that came to me was "Can I even express what I feel about that book in a way which comes across as real to my audience?" But the truth is, it doesn't matter because I mean what I say.

When I study the Book of Mormon, fireworks go off in my brain. I find myself making connections and finding answers to my questions unexpectedly, and in a way that I don't find with anything but scripture--ancient and modern. It amazes me everytime it happens and shows me in such an incredible way that God knows me and God answers me. There is nothing like it. You would think that after a while, it wouldn't surprise me any more, but it does. Somehow over night, I forget how incredible it is to find answers in that way and with such rapidity. And then the next day, when I'm studying again, I remember; and then I'm amazed at how quickly I forget.

I feel like a little kid again when I study that book because of the length and level of joy I have when I really study what it has to say. It's one of the few things in my life that can spark me and keep me lit. The Book of Mormon has no diminishing returns. Everytime I dig into it--not just read it, mind you--I feel something that nothing else can give me.

I wish I could write more because I have so
much more to say, but I'm writing this with my opposable thumbs on an iPhone; we don't currently have internet in our house because Verizon went on strike. So there you have it. Raw, unedited me.

Frozen Flamingos Falling from Frigidity

I flopped down on my made bed after a run to the temple. I was soaked in sweat. I knew I shouldn't be touching my cover in the state I was in, but I needed to be horizontal. The air had been as thick as butter, and Caitlin had rocked my trash. Normally I try to tone down my energy in the early morn' because I'm happy and excited to be up and ready to talk about life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, as well as the mysteries of the universe, and I realize most people aren't like that. 

That wasn't the case Monday. I was drained. I let Caitlin set the pace, and I just fell into it. I remember my friend telling me once that his brother ran an ultra marathon, and he had paced his brother through the most critical points of that journey at night. His brother didn't have extra energy to use on decision making. Like the crazy runners in the book "Born to Run," you need a pacer to do the mental part of running when things get tough; the runner doesn't have to think about how fast to go or where to turn or when to step. 

As we ran up the Safeway hill towards Connecticut, not talking at this point because we were breathing hot, liquid air, I thought about geese. They form a formation and the front runner cuts the air making it easier for the birds behind. Eventually the one in front moves to the back, and a new pacer steps up to break the air. I love how we each do this for each other in life. Sometimes we are strong and can help everyone around us, and sometimes we are weak and need pacers.

As we topped out on the hill, my brain took a sharp turn: flamingos falling from the sky in Siberia! Oh, NPR, you teach me so much: http://www.npr.org/blogs/krulwich/2011/03/07/134229725/flamingos-drop-from-siberian-sky-locals-mystified. So what if your pacer, ummm, goes north instead of south, and you fall out of the sky in Siberia because you're frozen? Well then maybe you just end up in the Krasnayarsk Zoo. And maybe that's not such a bad life! I'm sure these flamingos had no idea that's where they'd end up.

I've thought a lot recently about what to believe and who to follow and how to form opinions and ideas, when so many float around, and what to think about the sexy zeitgeist (noun: the general intellectual, moral, and cultural climate of an era) of our time. I have developing conclusions, but what I do know is there are very few things that are sure in life. And there are some things that I've learned are constant: change and God, and I'm so glad I've learned I can trust Him.

An Accent Aigu over Her E

Yes, there is another Ginette Methot in the world, and, yes, she does have an accent over her surname e, and, yes, it's an accent aigu (noun: The accent aigu ´ (acute accent) can only be on an E), and, YES, I'm jealous. My name is cool, but her name is cooler. Why did we drop our accent? I want it back.

It as the first minute of the first day of the first grade at Saint Rafield's. Sister Luciel, yes, a bona fide nun—with a habit, was calling roll. She got to my name. "Hmmmm, Ginette Methot. Ginette, do you speak French in your home?" (French is still the second most spoken language in the home in New Hampshire.) Little Ginette, "No." "Well, then, how would you like your name pronounced? Jee-net or Jin-et?" Now even as a first grader, I knew the significance of this moment. Squirming in my seat, I realized eternity was expanding before me, and there were two parallel universes, and I could only choose one. Which life was I going to live? Was I going to be Jee-net (French Ginette) or Jin-et (anglicized Ginette)?

Paralyzed by decisions even in those early years, and with the weight of the crux of my first day of first grade in front of me, I realized everyone was looking at me. "Ginette!" I blurted out, trying to get out of the spotlight. I had to make a decision, and there it was. From now on and forever, anglicized! Chapter one of my very own choose-your-own-adventure book decided. What would life have been like if I had chosen little French Ginette? I would never know. Why can't we cheat on our choose-your-own-adventure books of life and read all the other chapters? I always cheated on the fictional choose-your-own-adventure books and read everything.

I love the uniqueness of my name now, while at the beginning of life, I didn't like being different. I don't mind not finding my name on those kitsch racks of blinking key chains. And I enjoy when other people are surprised by its spelling. Now, if I could only reclaim the accent on my last name, it would be even cooler. The other Ginette Methot wouldn't mind, right? Operation accent reclamation.

Big Kid Buys

I've never really felt like an adult before, but I feel like I'm starting to become one. I'm buying a fridge. Yup. I really thought only a lawn mower purchase would do the trick, but then again, I never thought about buying a fridge!

So we have seven girls in a large house, but only one fridge. Rachel has dubbed (verb: to call by a distinctive title, epithet, or nickname) me, or I have chosen to be dubbed, the refrigerator researcher—probably because of my current career. Ha! This is going to be AWESOME. 

Movin' to the Country: Gonna Eat a Lot of Peaches

We're moving! I knew this day would come some day, and August 4 is that day. Melissa, Lynn, and I are moving to Virginia (gonna eat a lot of peaches). The house is a little highfalutin for me, but it's time to change. Seven girls, four and a half bathrooms, two blocks from metro, one stop from DCA, one year until state residency—cheaper graduate tuition, and walking distance from everything. Plus, I don't have a car, so no property tax for me. And I'm getting away from Maryland's ridiculous locality tax.

Change is healthy and good and inevitable. Sayonara, Maryland! I will miss you.

Updated life plan:

• Work for a year and save like a banshee (noun: a female spirit in Gaelic folklore whose appearance or wailing warns a family that one of them will soon die). Yeah, I don't know what they save like.
• Stop working next July, and convince Andrea to travel Asia for two months. I'm going to find my soul; I'm pretty sure it's in Nepal.
• Graduate school in August of 2012.

Life is good.

Roundhouse to the Heart

Here's my casual-dating confession: sometimes I've been that girl. Yeah, the one you never want to be. The one you see yourself being in the very moment it's happening, and you don't want to be her, but it seems like it's beyond your control to stop being her. You see yourself not answering a text for days for every excuse imaginable, not returning a phone call for long periods of time, not entering a room so you don't have to confront a situation. Avoiding. I know I'm not alone in this, but it's inconsiderate at best, and extremely disrespectful to another person. This is supposedly under the guise that we don't want to hurt feelings. But really, does it prevent that outcome? No. It only postpones and makes something that's hard even harder.

So I owe the universe, and I've known that for a while. And I feel like some of that payment has been exacted (verb: to call for forcibly or urgently and obtain). The results of which felt like a roundhouse to the heart. A hit I'm absolutely willing to take because I know a taste of my own medicine is healthy and necessary. 

Here's to my progression. I went on a date a couple weeks ago. He showed up with flowers, and instead of thinking it was too much, which my former self would have done, I thought, "that's so thoughtful and nice." In the whole interaction, I tried to see him as a friend and someone I was trying to get to know, not someone I was evaluating. He sent a card in the mail afterward, probably because I didn't have a phone for an after-date text, and it made my day because it was a hilarious card and definitely way too much. But I think that's just his personality; he's an over-the-top kind of guy. I also found myself defending him when people thought maybe he was a creeper, and it felt good. Finally, he asked me out again, and guess what, I told him straight up no, in a kind way. I knew I couldn't go out again, and I was direct and honest about it. He thanked me so much for being honest, and now I feel I've gained a friend. Success!

The Compression of Vulnerability

There's a concept in dietetics called the compression of morbidity. I've always loved this concept. It goes something like this: we're all going to die, so why not die quickly? Some elderly people suffer from seven to ten years—or longer—and then die, while others, who live healthier lives, compress their morbidity into six months to a year and a half. So live healthy and strong as long as you can and then rapid decline.

I was talking to God one day right after the breakup with this concept in mind. I told Him, "Heavenly Father, compress my vulnerability (noun: capable of being physically or emotionally wounded). If it's going to hurt, make it fast and furious, and get it over with." Last night, as I walked along the platform at Farragut North to meet up with friends, lost in contemplation, I thought to myself, "I love my life." I was so content and happy again. I'm back, and my vulnerability has been compressed. Stage two of the breakup process, done.

Feelin' Like Huck Finn in Girl's Skin

There's something intrinsic in me that makes me like doing my own thing on my own time in my own manner, uninhibited and unfettered (adj.: free, unrestrained) by anything. It's fun when other people with the same inclinations join in—also independent and adventurous. The spontaneity builds.

As I was walking home from work yesterday, I traded out my business shoes for brown, frayed flip flops, and thought "these are so much more me. Business clothes are not me. Being a business person is not me." The fun thing about the business clothes is that people think I'm one way by first impression, but I'm not, and the sociologist in me loves experiencing the misconception. 

As I was walking away in my freeing foot covering, I could picture myself in jeans frayed at the bottom with my flip flops thrown on a bank, wading a river because I want to, because it struck my fancy a millisecond before that it might be fun. When I let my ideas take over, this excitement bubbles up and takes on a life of its own, sometimes only evident by the gleam in my eye.

Back to the Business of Being Me 

The past two and a half years have been awesome. I've had hard times (unemployment), but I remember thinking how much I loved my life and I loved my roommates and I loved being me (if only I could get Bassett to move back! Wendy's a lost cause at this point). I used to get on the metro and think, "man, these people look so sad. Life can be rough." They looked like they had little black clouds over their heads, and I felt for them, but I was grateful it wasn't me! (Is that selfish?) 

Then a couple Tuesdays ago, I had a black cloud over my head. For the first time in a long time, I felt next to normal; I was seriously hurting—and it persisted. It was heavy, intense, and constant. It wasn't something I could shake. But it's taught me empathy. I feel like I've learned volumes—not just relating to this specific life experience—and life lessons have just been poured into my brain. It was hard, but I wouldn't trade it for anything, and I'll never ask for it again either. That stuff is rough!

As I've thought over my experience, I've looked back and seen so many places where I could have been helping hands to people, and I wasn't. I don't think I understood hurt, or at least I forgot what it was like to hurt. What persists in my mind is all of the people I know who are going through trials that I don't understand: my former boss whose husband is dying; my friend who unknowingly became an illegal alien and is now stuck; my friends who have broken off engagements; someone I dated who told me the breakup was really hard, and I wasn't sympathetic; a friend who has grappled with long-term depression; and all this I just didn't understand.

Thank goodness the black cloud has turned into a gray mist. And mists are pretty. You know you're coming out of it, and the sunlight reflects in beautiful and unique ways. I've been a pretty selfish person internally and so insular (adj.: characteristic of an isolated people; especially : being, having, or reflecting a narrow provincial viewpoint), and I've decided it's time to serve in a capacity I've never served before. 

I'm excited to have crazy adventurous ideas again and go exploring because I want to and do my own thing because I'm curious about life and dream up exotic exploritory travels and talk to my friends for hours and act on my spontaneous ideas and dance in my room with all my intensity and walk new neighborhoods because they're fun to see; I'm excited to get back to the business of being me—a better me.

Testing, Testing—1, 2, 3

I've noticed a trend with girls who have been in relationships that just aren't right. When the relationship is over, and they are healing, they say, "I'm starting to feel like myself again," often implying they couldn't be themselves when in the relationship. I think this in and of itself is a sign that it wasn't right. Authenticity (noun: true to one's own personality, spirit, or character) is where it's at. We tend to hold back in relationships, but it's not worth it. Be true to yourself. If they like you great; they like you for who you are, and that's the goal. If not, it's not worth continuing because there's a better fit out there.

Every now and again I test my emotional health—when I think I can hack it. Initially, it's important to detach completely. If I don't, I don't heal quickly and (more) easily. But then there comes a time where I want to know where I am—really. There are a couple tests for that. The hardest is picturing him flirting or on a date with a girl you could tell he was attracted to. Yikes. It is a rough test and reminds me of the first time I went through a breakup in high school. The song, "It Makes Me Ill" by N'Sync comes to mind. But I want you to know, that at least in theory, I've past the test a few times, and I'm feeling okay.

The second test isn't one that's easily controlled. It's when your heart is finally attracted to someone else. I believe strongly in locking the heart when dating someone. If there's attraction for someone else, avoid it completely, and be true to the person you're dating. But then there comes a day when you're not in a relationship anymore. And you can be attracted to other people. And then you are. It kind of happened last night. There's a guy someone told me was interested in me, and he got my number. He's definitely the type of guy I could be interested in, but it's still a little too soon to tell, and my heart's still weak, but when he came back into the room once, my heart responded. And I could tell I'm on the path to recovery!

How to Survive a Breakup

I'm not an expert on breaking up, but I have a little bit of experience. I think this is number eight officially and number who knows what unofficially, so here's my advice:
 

• Pray, pray, pray. There is nothing more important than communicating with the Lord and asking for very, very specific help. And He will help. Also, don't forget to pray for the other person too! They need just as much help as you do. And be altruistic about it.
• Fast. Just like prayer, this has helped me leaps and bounds. Be specific.
• Read scriptures and conference talks about doing the Lord's will and bearing trials. It helps put and keep things in an eternal perspective. Especially the conference talk http://lds.org/general-conference/2010/04/all-things-work-together-for-good?lang=eng&query=%22all+things+work+together+for+good%22
• Be mature. In more recent breakups, I haven't had this problem, but initially it was easy to blame or be angry, but these are unhealthy thoughts and emotions. Be humble. Do everything you know how to do to be fair to that person because you care about them. 
• Accept how that person feels and how you feel, and move on.
• Keep yourself extremely busy—especially on Friday and Saturday nights, and make sure you don't see him on those nights, or you'll relapse for sure!
• I dated a guy once who had been engaged before. The weekend of the wedding, he realized that it couldn't happen for legit reasons. So he called off the wedding the night before. He told me that what got him through it was staying as busy as possible. Always have something to do.
• Clear your life of things that trigger thoughts about him. I know that's hard to do!—it really is because you care—but do it for your emotional health. You're going to have things that trigger thoughts no matter what, so minimize it. Erase the text messages and voice mails you saved (you know you do it, girls!).
• Listen to Ingrid Michaelson. So that's just my thing, but find music you love, and listen to it a lot.
• Dance like crazy in your room, and go dancing. I think it's one of the best ways to get emotional energy out, and it's fun to be with other people.
• Exercise. This is another important catharsis (noun: a purification or purgation that brings about spiritual renewal or release from tension)
• Let it hurt. When it hurts, put one foot in front of the other, and keep on going. You'll get through it; it's hard to realize while experiencing it, but pain is an emotion that compresses large lessons into short periods of time, so embrace the learning experience, and try to see it while it's happening.
• Write it all in your journal. You are going to learn so much. Keep those lessons for yourself, and your children, because most likely they are going to go through something similar at one point or another, and you will be so sage if you can relate to them and give them exactly what they need because you've been through it.
• Find out what your boundaries are and what you need in your support network, and ask your friends to help you in the specific areas you know you are weak. If you know it's about to happen, preemptively prepare them so they are ready right away. 
• Keep talking to your closest friends and people you trust about it. Get feedback because often we are so myopic in our perspective.
• Don't look at his Facebook page. When you realize you have the urge to know about him, exercise self control, and don't look for his car, don't look at his window, don't try to talk to his roommates about him, don't try to bump into him randomly, and don't try to find out about him through other people, don't communicate with him initially unless it really will help in the healing process for you or him. But if you do any of these things, don't get mad at yourself; just be stronger next time.
• Don't blame the other person. Don't blame yourself. Trust that you tried your best, and pick yourself up, and move on.
• Don't listen to melancholy music or love songs. Just don't.
• Finally, remember, time heals most things—if you let it.

 

An Ode to Wendy Wittwer Knell 

This will be simple because I have very few words to describe what I feel right now, but I love that woman. It was seeing someone you know well in a new context, where life experience should be separating you, and yet you rediscover that you know and love her for all the reasons you always knew.

And there they were, a newly married couple, so happy, and yet the same people I've known. She's still the same her, just progressed, and David's still the same him, just progressed. And I realized that I miss her. And it was beautiful. 

(So this was not really an ode [noun: a lyric poem usually marked by exaltation of feeling and style, varying length of line, and complexity of stanza form]; but the title just was.)

On Growing Strong

"I can do hard things." I saw that every day for probably a year when I shared a room with Lynn Smart. I didn't realize the power of seeing a printed word consistently. Andrea Bassett told me that she thought of that quote the other day too. We both laughed and said, "that one above Lynn's desk!"

This may sound strange because breakups are hard, but I love what I'm learning from this. I love that it's hard. I love that it hurts. I love that I can see growth in myself. I love that I feel stronger. I love that I lost my phone at the most poignant time and had to grapple (verb: to come to grips with) with everything alone with God. I'm seeing again in myself that I can do hard things. And after this, I will be able to do even harder things.

Logic versus Emotion

Observation #152: It's nice when you make it through phase one of the post-break experience. It's the point where you realize you are going to be fine, and you feel like yourself again. Of course logically you knew all along you'd be fine, but your emotions kept putting your logic in checkmate every other move. 

Initially you think your emotions have nothing on your logic; that's the numb phase right after the break up. You think to yourself, "this is right, and I'm totally fine. I've dealt with this before, and I can do it again." For three or four days, you're fine. Then, bam, the game begins.

Initially your pawns are picked off, then your horse, then—worst of all—your queen. Finally you're down to a mangy (adjective: having many worn or bare spots) team of chess pieces. You're in pretty sad shape. Check. Block. Check. Block. Checkmate? Then you remember the best move—switching the king and the castle. After a small go, game over. Your logic wins, your emotions subside, and you are back.

Truth be told, that move is sincere prayer. I felt His healing power today. The Atonement is real.

Practicality.

Sometimes I wonder why I'm such a realist. And then I remember.

Me: "But, dad, what if I never fall in love?"
Dad: "Then don't get married."

Me: "Mom, there's a huge fire over the ridge that's coming our way. The firefighters can't control it anymore. We're evacuating down to sleep at the chapel!"
Mom: "Okay, well let us know what happens."

Me: "Mom, it hurts so bad. What if I never find someone who has as much charity as Justin?"
Mom: "You probably won't. But maybe you'll find someone else with other qualities."

Me: "Dad, do you have any life advice for me now that I am off my mission?"
Dad: "You have the Spirit. Follow its promptings."

Me: "Mom, Rob and I broke up last week."
Mom: "You always thought that X was a problem, though. Well, this is a change of subject, but my mission companion's sons are moving to Virginia. You should look out for them if you move down there."

It's genetic!
(adj. relating to or determined by the origin, development, or causal antecedents of something)

The Editor Unedited

Truth be told, one of the reasons I don't like writing is that I hate coming back and seeing mistakes I make. So I never publish; I only write, get frustrated about it, and then save drafts. No longer. You are going to get the raw writing. Good thing there are only eight or nine of you.

So there's nothing like a hard time to get you thinking about life again. We need hard times to grow; I need to grow. And it gives me something to blog about! Finally a little fodder—a break up. I feel like I'm thinking in manuscript style of A Grief Observed by C.S. Lewis. I'm my own subject for observation, and I'm going to blog about it, but don't expect any juicy gossip.

Here's something I've noticed about break-ups: we focus too much on the hard things about breaking up, which are a reality—I hurt; however, I want to focus on some perks for a bit—and there are some perks:

Here's the ultimate perk that I will briefly introduce to you tonight: the I-just-broke-up card. The power of that card is amazing (combine it with the I'm-on-my-period card, and you have it made). I have calculated that for every month of dating, you should get two and a half weeks of post-relationship card use. So that means I get about two and a half months, and I plan to put it to good use.

For example, if my roommates ever ask me to cook asparagus, as they are often wont to do, I can say, "no, probably not; I'm just broken up." And if I make a sad face, there's no way they can make me! And the truth is, it never wears out, even when they know I'm pulling the card. How can anyone with a heart say no to that? I couldn't. 

My roommates tried to put a cap on it already, but I told them that the card's powers are unlimited. They finally conceded (verb: to accept as true, valid, or accurate). (Do you like how I get away with picking out the definitions I want?) You can imagine, this is going to come in pretty handy. K, I'm out. Until next time.

I was meant to be born on a tropical island. I'm searching for a shangri-la (noun: a remote beautiful imaginary place where life approaches perfection).

One thing I've learned about setting goals is when a goal isn't working, revamp it. To add to that, when one goal is getting in the way of another goal, choose to work on the more important one (is that an aphorism?). I realized last night that my blog goal was actually taking away from my study time and sleep, and I didn't even finish the post I wrote! I felt like I was working on an assignment that I was passing in late. Not cathartic and actually counterproductive? Yes.

I haven't given up my goal of memorizing ten words a day, but I'll be remembering them with a different technique. And I'll still be getting up at 6:00 a.m. . . . wish me a good score!

Since I already wrote them out, here are yesterday's words:

1. Paean—(n) a joyful song of triumph, a hymn of praise or tribute
2. Evanescent—(adj) fleeting, tending to vanish; transient
3. Abnegate—(v) to deny oneself, to give up something desired or valuable
4. Imbroglio—(n) confused, complicated situation; entanglement
5. Deleterious—(adj) damaging, hurtful; harmful
6. Aphorism—(n) brief, often witty saying that states a truth
7. Myrmidon—(n) one who follows orders unquestioningly
8. Unctuous—(adj) oily, greasy, false and ingratiating
9. Sedulous—(adj) busy, hardworking
10. Salient—(adj) leaps out at you; conspicuous; sticks out; a salient point