And in the margins, in red pen, I write: Too much internal and external conflict.

On the ride home from work today, I decided that I'm not really living my life anymore. Instead I'm trapped in a short story that is being written by an amatuer writer. The writer thinks: okay, now the main character is going to...have an anxiety attack. Now, she's going to write websites. Now, she's going to lose her job and have to ride the bus to a different job. Get it? She doesn't like the bus. This is very out of character for her. I'm putting a character in a foreign environment.

He keeps having to start over because one idea doesn't work, so he rips out pages of the story at a time and starts over.

And, seriously, without even realizing it, I've blogged the plot to Stranger Than Fiction. I suppose that's how that movie idea started. Anyway, the point is that I'd assumed by Christmas I'd be feeling a little more comfortable in the shoes of my own life, and I'm really not. There is no way that today is the day after Christmas. No way, just because it couldn't feel any less like Christmas was yesterday rather than just some random Sunday-like day with a big snowstorm. Seriously? It was Christmas yesterday? No. No, no, no.

It was an emotionally difficult holiday, which I won't get into now. It wasn't because of my sister, who is getting sued by the hospital for unpaid bills, or Craig, who kindly dropped a Target giftcard in my lap 4 hours before we opened presents on Christmas Eve, it wasn't because I had to sit in the back at Christmas mass and was the only one who sang (but only could half-sing because I didn't have the hymn book). My family ate dinner together, played Life together. I got everything I asked for, which was mostly a bunch of needs like socks and a electric mixer, but also surprises, like a robin's egg blue box from Tiffany's from David, who has great taste in jewelry. It just didn't feel like Christmas, and there wasn't enough time for it to be Christmas.

Anyhoo-di-do, I'm still walking around in this fake-life in somewhat of a cloud, which was only heightened by the bus ride home on 5E today. The bad bus. They're all bad. The 133 didn't come, so I wandered over to 8th street to catch the 5. Oh, 5. While the 133 is so quiet and calm and everyone noses around in their books, the 5 is full of people screaming into cell phones and starting conversations with strangers. Today a one-toothed man sat next to the bus driver for the sole purpose of talking to her during the entire ride--much like the student who always sits in front of the class and asks you questions during your lecture that only you can hear. He talked and talked and I wanted so badly for him not to talk. He went on about how he knew downtown so well, I been down dere for fi'deen or six'deen years! And when he got off a man with a shovel took his exact seat. Then this man talked to the bus driver for the rest of the ride about his cable TV plan and monthly bill, and about how he had to pay for a month that he didn't even use, and he talked until a bunch of people got on the bus and walked in front of him and interrupted his story, making him visibly annoyed. Everyone else around me started talking and talking, much like a movie scene full of floating heads that happen before the main character goes crazy.

And then I started seeing the bus in the big, wide windows of the buildings we passed, all wavy and snowy, and I started getting seasick. Now it was a dream sequence. Everyone was talking and talking.

Emails I'm putting on here with permission from neither X nor Liz.

Dear Miss Christina,

My friend Liz says that sharks don't sleep because they need to constantly move to get water through their gills. Is this true? Is this why sharks are so angry all the time?

Yours,
Concerned Shark Lover

Dear Concerned Shark Lover:

You’re both right ... sort of! Sharks don’t sleep in the sense that humans do. There’s no eyeshades or warm milk, and there’s certainly no bed or an alarm clock. But it is hypothesized that sharks enter a relaxed state. Their eyes are still open, and your friend Liz is correct in that the shark must move a little to keep water in its gills.

Some sharks, such as the nurse shark, have actually developed a complicated set of spiracles that move water across the gills for them, so they can enter a restful, stationary state. Now if only we could do the same!

Yours,
Miss Christina

Got a question that stems from you and your roommate talkin’ shit to each other on the morning bus commute? Ask Miss Christina!

p.s. As for sharks being angry all the time, it’s thought that their extreme crankiness stems from horrible, searing hot, uncontrollable diarrhea. Yuck!

Dear "Miss" Christina,

I am writing in response to your posting dated Dec 14, 2007, 9:24 AM, in which you answered a "very" important shark question. I was disturbed by the cavalier manner in which you replied, as the Bible "clearly" states that Sharks are God's chosen sea creature and the guardians of Israel.

As you will find in Psalm 121:4, Behold, he who keeps Israel will neither slumber nor sleep. This explains why sharks are constantly moving: they are the protectors of the faithful, warriors of the sea. Your reader's assumption that sharks are angry all the time is her misunderstanding of their protective nature.

If I may quote the Reverend Nathaniel Wardinski, "noted" Shark scholar, Their immovable gills are only the physical manifestation of the true purpose of these magnificent beings. Sharks' lack of sleep is not a mistake. It is the Lord's "supreme" will and part of His "master plan", and by joking about this, you are demeaning not only sharks but yourself as well. I pray that you will "see" your error and print a retraction.

Yours in Christ,
A Disgruntled Sharkist.

Dear Disgruntled Sharkist:

While your argument is clearly thought out (how much time do you have on your hands, anyway?), I do believe you are mistaken. You state that "sharks are God's chosen sea creature and the guardians of Israel."

But in 2004 alone, there were a reported thirty-eight shark attacks off the West Bank. Why would God's chosen sea creature attack God's chosen people? The answer: sharks are not God's sea creature.

No.

Sea lions are.

If a fish is an average person, and a shark is Dr. Phil, sea lions are the John Belushi of the sea. They're fat. They're funny. They have whiskers. And they smell like fish. God loves these chubby, charming mammals, and He smiles upon them.
As we all should.

Sincerely,
Miss Christina

Got a questions about the relationship between the sharks of the sea and the sharks of the delis? Ask Miss Christina!

Dear Miss Christina,

Since you responded to my last letter with such eagerness and knowledge, I have another very important question for you. Yesterday on the bus, my friend Liz and I noticed that a mysterious graffiti artist had taken a black sharpie and drawn an amazing outline of a shark, with gills and a fin and pointy teeth and everything! I found this not only to be an amazing coincidence, but also very inspirational.

Then, last night, I had a dream that my friend Greg had taken a piece of notebook paper and drawn a shark on it and taped it to my front door. This seems to me to be a sign. I feel that God is telling me to somehow send the message of sharks!

So, I guess my question is, do you know of other ways that I could promote sharks in my community? The dream I had last night made me think that my new shark campaign could consist of me drawing pictures of sharks, taping them to neighbors' doors, ringing doorbells, waiting until the neighbor answers, and then screaming: YOU GOT SHARKED! when they look at the picture.

Do you think "You Got Sharked!" is a good way to get people in my community excited about the amazingness of sharks? As always, thank you for your inspirational words. It's just that I care so much about sharks.

Yours in Christ,
A Concerned Shark Lover


Dear Concerned Shark Lover:

Still stuck on sharks, huh? Completely understandable! They have big teeth and are distant cousins of dinosaurs.

The “You Got Sharked” campaign is a good idea ... if you’re a ten-year-old boy! Psyche! This idea smacks of unprofessionalism. Ever hear of “ding dong ditch”? That’s what you’re suggesting. Or worse yet, the ol’ “flamin’ bag of poo” trick. Spreading the word of sharks will require a little more forethought, preparation, and yes, expense than your average prepubescent douche bag.

First, gather as much money as you can. If there were ever a case of go big or go home, this is it! Don’t be afraid to steal any funds. Since God is a shark, He will understand completely. I’d dare say you are going to earn yourself a fucking throne in Shark Heaven for this one ... if you do it right.

Next, buy as many guns as you can. It will be necessary for you to arm yourself in the next steps. At the same time, try to recruit as many people as possible. You are building a militia, which is completely sanctioned by the Constitution. You may consider using a small portion of your funds to woo people to your army, but a better idea is to convince fellow sharkists to join. You want a special brand of crazy, too: think Waco cult. Think “Fight Club.” Not only do fellow sharkists work for free, their rabid fanaticism means that they’re far less likely to concern themselves with the number of laws they’re breaking in spreading the work of the shark. And yeah. You’re going to break a few laws here. Just a few. But don’t worry—they’re only U.S. laws, not shark laws.

It will beneficial to your mission later if you happen upon a few Sharkists working in the U.S. military. See what you can do.

Next step: use your newly founded (and armed) militia and secure a large number of container trucks. Once you have your truck fleet assembled, liberate as many sharks as you can. This will entail raiding Sea Worlds, the Mall of America aquarium, and as many captive sharks as possible. The exception will be the centrally located Cleveland Sea World, which you will storm and capture. It will serve as your new headquarters. The trucks, obviously, are what you and your army will use to transport the sharks to Cleveland. For the time being, it will be acceptable to store the sharks in tanks together. Normally sharks would attack each other in cramped quarters, but you will sing them your plan, and your song will soothe their savage breasts. They will refrain from hurting each other.

Once your sharks are assembled, Operation Shark begins in earnest. I don’t need to tell you that at this point speed is of the essence, since your so-called illegal activities will be under much scrutiny of the government. (But not God —remember, He’s a shark.) What you now need to do is steal transport planes and helicopters. The best source will be the U.S. military—this is where you Sharkist contacts will assist you greatly. Load the sharks onto the planes and spread out so that all your cargo planes, filled with sharks, are in the air spaced evenly over the continental U.S.

Some sharks will not survive the flight. Take those sharks and cut them into tiny little pieces, then blend them to make a thick slurry. Hold this slurry in reserve in barrels on the cargo planes.

Then, at your signal, push the sharks out of the planes.

Ding dong, here come the sharks! Sharks will rain from the sky! They’ll clog traffic on Omaha freeways and crush rooftops in Seattle. They’ll land on schoolchildren in Boston and destroy markets in Chicago. The sky will brim with sharks, big heavy sharks falling to their glorious deaths with jaws snapping. The sharks will be frightened, in part because they will be falling from a great height, but also because your song lied to them! This will cause them to enter a heightened state of agitation, so they’ll fall with their teeth bared and tails thumping. The damage will be multiplied! What’s more, the sharks that do land and live will attack people in the streets. There will be much blood! And teeth!

While the country reels, dump the slurry barrels.

Talk about getting sharked: the U.S. won’t know what hit it! And what better way to spread the glorious word of the shark that to ensure that every single person is displaced by, or covered with, shark! What the shark bodies won’t hit, the slurry will! The U.S. will be aswim in glorious shark goo.

And you, my shark-loving friend, will have spread the word. God will smile down upon you and your people, and your place in [Shark] Heaven will be assured. Hope this helps!

Yours in Shark,
Miss Christina

Dear Miss Christina:

I am a part-time filing clerk, but my friend Jean is a college professor! I was riding the city bus with her when we encountered a question. We immediately thought of your column! So here's the question: You know Cliff Tracts (or whatever), those cartoon Bible verses? What if you picked a really ridiculous one - something very offensive that no one could possibly believe in, like one that says that AIDS is God's answer to homosexuality - and brought it into class as an exercise in argument? The students would have to be completely objective while looking at the logical fallacies, evidence (or lack thereof), and construction of the argument. This could also work for a discussion of the rhetorical triangle. So our real question is this: If we did this, what are the odds that a student would feel insulted, report us, and get us fired? Thank you for answering our pressing bus-related questions!

Sincerely,
Liz

Dear Liz:

Cliff Tracts? What the hell are you talking about?

Sincerely,
Miss Christina

Today I learned that

nobody--no matter what year they graduated and where from--has ever gotten higher than a C in Western Civ. Nobody.

New Obsessions.

Transcripts. I'm starting a new process in the Registrar's Office were I'm required to look at official university records. They're sent over from institutions across the country and scanned into the computer and sent to me. Then I open them and look for important information like degree conferred and GPA.

But the problem is that I get too excited about college classes. Instead of allowing my eyes to scan for the information I need, I instead find myself reading the courses. "History of Teaching and School"? I want to take that class! "Speech Improvement"? Sign me up, please! (Unless it's a MWF class at 8:00. Then I'll take it next semester.)

What really gets me excited, though, are the older transcripts. Yesterday somebody applied for a faculty position and had an undergraduate transcript from 1961. It was half-typed and half-written. It noted his graduating class (151), had a blank spot where one would fill in vocation, and had a blank spot to fill in his religion. Religion on your transcript! How interesting that that goes on your record! Neat! (Have I been living with Liz too long? I'm calling transcripts neat? Come on, now.)

So when I look at the older transcripts, I spend my time daydreaming. I just imagine that spring of 1971 when the transcript-holder was taking his Psychology class. Weeks before the semester ended, that morning wetness in the air as he walked to class in his tight jeans, the sky starting to turn the color of honey (or is that because I picture this like an old photograph?). What was psych class like in 1971? Was it all about those wacky Lithium pills and their severe side effects and the horrible results of ECT, like in the movies?

His teacher, I bet, had those long, thick sideburns that could be mutton chops. His glasses were brown. Nike shoes would show up next year. People were finally starting to get over breakup of the Beatles. And there'd been liberal progress in the last 10 years. At least he didn't have to put his religion on his transcript.

He was smoking cigarettes while typing Psych papers about the new thoughts of B.F. Skinner on his typewriter. When he came up with long strings of thought, words and words of genius, he stuck the cig between his lips and took drags and nodded his heads while his fingers moved on--until the long ash and cherry fell onto his lap and he swiped it away and kept typing on...

...and this is why it takes me, sometimes, 40 minutes to get through a transcript.

Today I tried to figure out a Canadian transcript pre-2003, meaning that it involved a number system instead of a letter-grade system. They assign you 1-9, seven being satisfactory. Then they put a conversion chart at the bottom of the transcript so one can convert 9s to As. It was oddly satisfying to do this, although after 15 minutes of math I was told that I wasn't supposed to do the conversions. They hire someone else to do it.

What's really odd, though, is that after 1986 Canada Universities decided that anything below a 3 was unsatisfactory and this considered an F. Doesn't that seem pretty pointless? Get it? Point-less!?

Why do you even have a 2? So you can grade students and say things like--this paper is so bad, it's not even a 3. It's not even a 2. This research paper about Molson is certainly a 1, eh? You hoser, student. Those crazy Canucks.

And do they get grade points for bringing donuts to class? (Donuts, that's a shout out Shannon. To Dr. Hayes, also known as Captain Corduroy, also known as my Morality Plays and Shan's and my Bible as Lit instructor. He was Canadian, obsessed with donuts and the U of T, and while reading the Canterbury Tales aloud one day came across the word "netherpurse." He said, netherpurse? Netherpurse, netherpurse. Ah, yes. ... Underneath purse! ... Balls.

And continued on. He was also known for being spotted around Winona with his fishing cap, long khaki cargo shorts, sandals, and per usual his round John Lennon glasses.)

Anyway, I could look at those manuscripts all day. Oh wait, that's my job.

*
Which leads me to obsession number two, which I could also look at all day. Thanks to Darren bringing Freaks and Geeks over to my house. Someday, I will have 100 of James Franco's babies.

I'll stop acting like a 12 year old girl when he stops looking so sexy, yet cuddly and puppy-like at exactly the same time.

And...awkward. Jewishly awkward.

When I work the register at the bookstore and the store is having a book fair, I am required to ask every single customer—before I start scanning their items—if they are shopping with the book fair taking place that day. That way, a portion of the proceeds can go to the school.

No problem.

However, we are not allowed to use the words “book fair,” because it is considered soliciting. We do not solicit. Instead, we must ask the customer (you know what, I’m really glad we don’t call them “guests”) if they are shopping with the school. As in, “are you shopping with _____ school today? … Great.”

No problem.

Yesterday, the school had a rather, well, leading name. I know that around the holidays people get a little awkward with how to wish people greetings. You can’t say “Merry Christmas” to people. “Happy Holidays” is fine, although, if they are atheist, there is only one holiday, which is New Years’. (I really don’t have an opinion on these greetings. You can say Happy Hanukkah to me all you want. I’d love to have a Sabbath on Saturday.)

But the name of the book fair school last night was “Risen Christ.” I’m Catholic, and this is one of the most awkward things I’ve had to do.

So one of my options was to say, “are you with the Risen Christ today?” Which wasn’t about to happen. I managed to arrange my greeting as, “are you shopping with Risen Christ schools?” And nearly every customer who wasn’t shopping with the Risen Christ looked at me like I was standing at their front door in a short-sleeved white shirt, a black tie, the book of Mormon in my hands, and a convertin’ eye.

They might as well have named the school “Jesus is the Lord and Savior and the ONLY School.” They might as well have named it “My God is the Only God and Your God is Phony School.” They might as well have named it “Hanukkah Sucks, Doesn’t It? School.” (Great. Now someone is going to google “Hanukkah sucks” and get my blog. If that’s why you’re here, this blog is all about tolerance, friends.)

So when the curly-haired, wire-rimmed glasses-wearing man came up to my register and plopped down a big roll of blue, menorah-clad Hanukkah paper on my counter, I was a little uncomfortable.

The thing is, I didn’t have enough time to address the situation. I was laughing in my head at the same time I was supposed to come up with a solution. The solution, of course, would have been not ask him. I mean, my manager wouldn’t yell at me for not asking an assumedly Jewish man if he was shopping with the Risen Christ. Would she? No, she wouldn’t.

But I, well, instead choked out “Risen Christ School?” without any context around it, while half coughing, yawning, and turning red. I don’t think he understood me. He certainly couldn’t have been reading my lips, because my face was locked on that menorah-paper. And then I really broke the rule and just asked him if he was with the book fair. (He wasn’t.) I mean, I don’t think he’d get mad at me for soliciting him for a book fair. I’d already performed a worse feat and asked him if he’d been with an organization that stood for everything he wasn’t for. I might as well have baptized him and blessed his purchases with holy water, or asked him if he’d heard any news about the Pope. I might as well have asked him to confess his sins. I might as well have hummed “Jesus Loves Me” while scanning his books.

Oh, Jesus is laughing at me right now. He sure is.

Jean and her second skin.

As I explained in an email to Christina and Jenny today, I've started wearing a second skin.

It's long underwear.

At work, I've found that I'm constantly freezing. I'm allowed to bring in a blanket, which I wil do tomorrow, but for the last week and a half, I've just been shivering. I've been sitting on my feet to keep them warm, rubbing my hands over my thighs hard enough to start a fire or a spark, blowing hot hair into cupped hands over my face to warm the tip of my nose. It's just cold in there. And it's even colder waiting for the bus. I only have one pair so far, and our washing machine isn't working--surprise!--but so far so good. The clunky thermals make my regular pants look too tight, but it's sort of nice to wear two pairs of pants. It's comforting. And Christina has even suggested the silk ones so the layers don't feel as thick.

*

Today I am starting the first of a twelve-day-in-a-row work stint, which is unbelievably depressing to think about. On Sunday I dropped the Good Doctor off at the airport. He flew to Miami, and then he got on a giant cruise ship full of fruity drinks and personal butlers. While I'm ankle deep in snow, he's stopping at random small, tropical islands and eating exotic, expensive foods, and I hate him, and he better buy me something, and I can't believe he went on a cruise without me.

*

I've come up with a metaphor that compares this late fall to the mid-summer troubles I was having earlier. Unfortunately, and what I cannot deny, is that I have been having a difficult time being out of school. And there's no reason to pretend it's been going easy. It's weird, and hard, and I don't feel like myself, and my emotions continue to rise and fall by the day or sometimes by the hour. I will sit, do work, read, watch TV, I'll be fine. And then I will sit, do work, read, watch TV, and be miserable. This summer, I was depressed, and it was a crippling depression. It had taken over, and I'd lain in bed. I was depressed and desperate for an answer. I was in the mentality of being so depressed I could call myself sick. I knew what I was. And now, I don't know what I am. I am comfortable being sad, maybe. When I'm happy, I sometimes question why, which is backwards.

Anyway, the metaphor is that the sadness this summer was like being pulled over by a cop. He just shows up, he puts his lights on, and he makes you stop driving for awhile. You literally must stop driving and moving forward, unless you're willing to suffer some serious consequences.

And the sadness I'm feeling now isn't enough to pull me over. There's a cop tailing me. He won't put his lights on, but he's watching me and he's following close. He's certainly making me drive slower; I'm certainly allowing my gaze to lift up into the rearview mirror to see if he's going to turn on his cherries. And I'm not exiting anytime soon, and he's got nowhere else to be.

*

Liz and I put up the Christmas tree yesterday; Darren's van got towed by the city of Minneapolis. We moved my furniture back into my room and found damage. I emailed the new landlords (we have new ones now, the old ones sold the house just days after the flooding) and asked for compensation of my lost items. My new furniture set. Clothes and books. Bookcases. I don't know what they'll say, and I'm crossing my fingers. I was happy to have the furniture. I bought it myself, I put it together myself, and it was mine.

And for dinner yesterday, like true adults, Liz and I made exactly this: mashed potatoes and cookies. She said, dinner's done! And she brought me my plate, which was half filled with homemade mashed potatoes and other-half-filled with four warm peanut butter and turtle cookies. I wanted exactly nothing else.