Here is a little about my brother: His perfectionism is tedious. His mood is thrown by the slightest upset. He runs with convoluted ideas, skipping that initial step of weighing the likelihood of success. It wears quickly on those of us who love him, because we fear the letdowns like nothing else in our lives. Sometimes his ideas pay off, and we are relieved and a little less sure of our own perspectives on how the world works.

We were best buds before we moved to South Carolina when I was four. Then he turned into a sad little person at the devastating age of seven, and it has only been a few years since we became able to converse genuinely with each other.

I am emotional about few things- most of them somewhat unfitting, like piano music and that Mother’s Day Best Buy commercial that came on during Lost tonight. I would kill for my brother, though. It is like a Whitney Houston song up in those emotions. Like a Whitney Houston/Mariah Carey duet.

These are some of my favorite photos of Asher.
He was so blond.

My grandma loves to knit, but there is no way it was ever cold enough in Florida for this outfit.

While all my friends were playing house, I was ducking Asher’s imaginary bullets and trying to blend in with the shrubs.

there have been greater successes than today.

Hard to believe!
But kind of not.

my half of the bag

now i am going to do organize, read and do whatever i want for the rest of the day.

Jenny
1990
USA

Anna, Daniel and Sam let me use their oven and utensils from time to time, since the kitchen in the house I share with seven relative strangers has no room for less practical baking equipment.  This morning it was pumpkin bread.  I like giving things away, and quick breads are usually popular.

I like my new job a lot so far.  It is fun having kids around again, and I was really impressed with how smart they are.  The kids divided themselves into three groups: Team Taco, the Brainstormers, and Power Functions.  In Japan, my kids usually named themselves things like Flower Girls, Cute, Beautiful, Pizza, or Ghost.  Sure, there was a language gap, but my immediate reaction to working with these little native English speakers is to be incredibly impressed all the time.  But the real reason I like my job, is that I get to wear a lab coat. 

Margot is waiting for me to shower.  Sometimes it is hard to get going.

Yeah.

I am getting a little, tiny bit better at saving money.

I have been going to the Y at least 3 times a week.

I got a second job: Science Theater Assistant (at the Creative Discovery Museum Science Theater in…Hixson).  My job description takes up the better part of a single-spaced page, but I’ll mostly be helping, sometimes leading, workshops and demonstrations for school groups and birthday parties.  Tomorrow’s workshop is called Rockin’ Robotics. 

I am going to maintain some connection to Japanese culture, by attending the monthly Japanese Language and Culture Meetups.  Luke is being a real sport to accompany me to my first meetup this Wednesday.  Something about having dinner with a bunch of unfamiliar Asians and Anime geeks intimidates me.

I am going to read.  Niedlov’s and Greenlife are my spots.

I am going to try to stop making eye contact with the lady leaving the toilet stall I was waiting on.  It makes me feel awkward, because the lady always seems to want to say something like, “I’m sorry I took so long,” or, “Here you are,” or, “I didn’t do that.  It was like that when I came in!”  All the facial expressions bring me discomfort.  So I will try to look at my phone instead, or at least fix my gaze to the side wall.

And finally- and this is a big one- I am going to take public transportation, which, in Chattanooga means the bus.  If there is anything that stresses me out more than demanding tables who tip poorly, it is driving my Honda Accord through Chattanooga’s narrow lanes.  I am not observant enough to drive with peace and confidence.  The bus stop is a block from my house.  Also, it is less damaging to the environment to take a bus already in transit.  And now I am working 3-4 days a week in Hixson, which is practically like driving to Cleveland but is even worse, because there are two speed detecting cameras and like 78 traffic lights between my house and Northgate Mall.  I am buying the monthly pass tomorrow.  I feel like I will have some stories.

Topics consistently include, and I am not kidding: farting, pooping, something disgusting that happened on my bad aunt’s honeymoon, how much we just generally dislike my bad aunt, being constipated, my brother’s ritual of producing a giant holiday turd, broadway shows, the president/recent presidential candidates, and prank gifts.  It is like spending the holiday with five 12-year-old boys (my teenage cousin and I are above all this.  We shake our heads, and occasionally scold).  

Some recent excerpts:

Me to my mother: “Please keep your privacy under your nightgown.”

Mother to me: “Show me more photos of Lukie!”

Aunt to me: “I’ll pay you five dollars to massage my feet for 15 minutes.  Just be careful around my bunion.”

During this time, I also have a lot of questions directed towards me.  These often involve my love life, but are otherwise queries into lackluster pots of information such as the population of Chattanooga or the level of satisfaction I obtain from my career at Sticky Fingers.  

Christmas has always been with my parents and my mom’s good sister and her husband and daughter.  I love this time.  I also go completely crazy at several points in the holiday due to the many questions and group activities.  This is the family I am closest with, and we see each other just once a year.  This year, we are in a cabin near Blue Ridge.  There is board game bonanza downstairs, which no one has yet agreed to join me in.  Luke is coming tomorrow, and I’m sure he’ll be game.  

Let me leave some space for that one.  Come back to it later, maybe.

For once, I have actually found decent presents for every member of my family.  This Christmas, I went with books.  For my dad, a book by Click & Clack.  They crack him up.  For my mom, a desk calendar with pretty flowers.  For my brother, Stuff White People Like.  And for my Aunt and Uncle, the book Farts: A Spotter’s Guide.  It is funny and actually well-written, but I think the part they will most enjoy is imagining ME purchasing it for them, in an actual store, testing out the audio samples.  I got my cousin 4 packs of Pocky, which means she’ll be happy for a week.  

Soon we will be opening presents.  Several years ago, the elders of my family decided that each person should have an individual present-opening session.  I think this is a terrible idea.  Structure does not belong in Christmas morning.  I want it to be madness, total chaos.

Basically, I want to be a child again, just for the day.  Also, I want to and am able to eat a lot of dessert.  

Merry Christmas, everyone.

Per their request, I began buying my own presents when I started college and was less able to drop hints as to my Christmas wishes.  If my parents didn’t have any help, I would probably be getting a miscellaneous collection of 75% off casual summer items from my mom, and a book on personal finance from my dad. 

He gave me this book at Thanksgiving to aid my plan to buy a house once I have a job.  It also came with a DVD.  He swears it is a great book, although obviously, I have my hesitations.

So I’ve got my books, now I just need a job!  Easy.  Pie.  Cake.  Shit, I hate that I am still looking for a job and also that this morning I did an assessment for a teller position and passed but was told that there aren’t actually any positions currently available.  

Then I made borscht and took a nap.  Now I am listening to popular music videos on Youtube, because I am going through a phase.  

While scanning the popular video section, I noticed that the video of Bush getting a pair of shoes thrown at him appeared many times and is by far the most watched video.  Yesterday I watched a CNN reporter say that she has watched the video over and over and still can’t help but laugh.  I have disliked Bush for six years and wanted to throw a shoe or two myself, but really?  It’s not funny.  It is sad that that is the gut reaction rather than sadness for Iraqi victims’ families, or, hey,  even upset that our President was publicly humiliated.  

Well, here is something sad in, I think, a better way:

It is okay to laugh.