The X in X-Mas

I initially started my last blog post complaining about the abbreviation of "Christmas" to "x-mas." It all flowed very nicely, and I felt that all of my points were fully conveyed. I was ready to post, so I sent it to a few friends to be sure I didn't make any grammatical mistakes. The feedback, however, was not at all what I had anticipated. The post started with me ranting about the lunch ladies at school wishing us a "Merry X-Mas." This really bothers me. Christmas is about Christ. You can't just shorten it to "x-mas" in order to save a little time and space. It's Christmas for a reason.

I was told that was too harsh, so I added that I do realize that the lunch ladies aren't intentionally taking Christ out of Christmas, but I also think it's worth the extra effort to go ahead and write out Christ instead of writing an X. This made it a little better, but my friend still had some feedback to give.

The term X-mas comes from the Greek symbol ☧ meaning Christ. Many other words use the same symbol (Wikipedia does a fine job of listing those for you). The X was not someone being lazy and shortening Christ to X. The X is not people trying to take Christ out of Christmas - not initially, at least.

I tried to keep all of this in my other post, but it just didn't fit. Once I edited it out, though, I realized it was something I really needed to share. I'd been assuming that people were lazy and sacrilegious when really there is a totally legitimate reason for the abbreviation. I guess the point of this is to do a little research before deciding to judge others. You never know what you'll find.

A Christmas Tradition

In all honesty, I'm really not a rebellious kid. I don't say this to brag, but as far as teenagers go, I'm one of the more cooperative ones when it comes to rules and regulations. Once upon a time, though, I did have a rebellious phase.

A few years back, I decided I would wear a bright orange shirt on Christmas morning. You may say, "So what? It's just a shirt!" but to a photographer, no shirt is just a shirt. My mother would be taking pictures Christmas morning, and I knew she would hate this bright orange shirt, and that is precisely why I wore it.  This orange shirt was my rebellion.

You see, this wasn't just any bright orange shirt; this was the type of orange that needed batteries to be so bright. The orange color was so loud, you could hear it coming from a mile away. It was traffic cone-orange. It was bad spray tan-orange. It was electric. This orange shirt + camera = not a happy mother.

We fought for what seemed like hours over this stupid shirt. I simply didn't understand why it mattered what shirt I wore and therefore refused to change; Mommy didn't understand why it was such a big deal to just suck it up and change shirts, so she refused to let me open presents until I changed. Eventually I played the well-you-married-some-guy-from-Virginia-and-it's-messing-up-my-whole-Christmas-so-I-should-be-able-to-wear-whatever-shirt-I-want card (I do not at all feel this way now, and I probably didn't then either. Mark is awesome, and he has not messed up a single Christmas for me, but only made them better) and my mom gave in and let me wear the hideous orange shirt. After all, the guilt card pretty much trumps all.

Thing is, though, you can only beat Mom in an argument once. The next year we received a new set of pajamas on Christmas Eve to wear the next morning when opening presents. I therefore did not wear the awful orange shirt. Well done, Mommy. You win this round.

Although really, I win, too. What's not to love about new pajamas!?

My First Pinterest Adventure

I didn't really get the point of Pinterest until I had a lazy Sunday with nothing to do. In pinning and repinning, I found a coat hanger jewelry holder, and I had to make my own.
I bent wire coat hangers and made a bouquet of them to make the top. Then I wrapped it in jute and added more, larger hooks to the bottom.
I stapled it to a wooden picture frame, hung it on the wall, and filled it up with necklaces.
Too bad I can't dedicate every day to a Pinterest craft...

Taking the PSAT

The PSAT. The NMSQT. $14, 125 question, 130 minutes, and 2 stretch breaks.So here's my experience:

First we have to bubble in our name. Oh, but wait! You can't write your name until you're instructed to do so. Heaven forbid you should get ahead of the group and fill in your name before anyone else. After your name, put down your pencil and look to the front of the room and wait until instructed to move on to the next section. With 21 sections, all just as simple as the first, it takes longer to fill in your personal information than it does to take the writing skills portion of the test.

After giving the College Board all of our personal information, we move on to the rules.

1) You must get to school by 7:30. That's the first rule. Pretty self-explanatory. 2) You must have a calculator. Easy enough, as long as I don't forget it. 3) You must use a number two pencil. Also simple, since 0.7mm lead in mechanical pencils is always number two. But the really old lady in the media center didn't know that, of course, so she yelled at each individual person who was using a mechanical pencil and passed out what she called "real pencils."

4) All cell phones and pagers must be turned off. If a cell phone or pager goes off during the test, the tests of everyone in the room may be invalidated. First of all, who on earth other than doctors has a pager anymore? To avoid all scores being invalidated, our counselor collected everyone's phones on a cart at the front of the room. More on that later.

After covering the basic rules, we moved on to the slightly more complex ones. 5) During the critical reading and writing skills sections, you may not use a calculator. I kid you not, this is a rule. Because, you know, I was so looking forward to using my calculator to help me read. Seriously!?

6) You must fill in the bubbles completely. Didn't we learn how to do this back in elementary school when we took the ISTEP? I'm pretty sure we all know how to fill in a bubble. Even the artistically challenged kids who can't color in the lines have been trained to fill in a bubble perfectly on a multiple choice test. However, when I only have 25ish minutes to take a test, filling in bubbles perfectly is lower priority than getting through the questions. But then I get to thinking... maybe it really is important to fill the bubbles perfectly. So then I spend 20 seconds agonizing over whether or not I should go back and erase that answer and fill in the bubble better. That's 20 less seconds I have to answer questions. And at this point I so upset that I wasted 20 seconds that I'll waste 20 more seconds reading and rereading the question since I'm so distracted by the darn bubble-filling technique. 25 questions in 25 minutes doesn't leave much room for a 40 second decision making process.

7) If you answer a question correctly, you gain one point. If you answer incorrectly, you lose 1/4 of a point. If you do not answer, you do not lose or gain any points. So I have it narrowed down to two possible answer choices. Really I have no idea what the answer is, but I know it's not the other options, so I can assume it's one of these two. If I guess correctly, I get a point. But if I guess incorrectly, I lose 1/4 of a point. If I just leave it blank, I'm not gonna lose anything. But if I do get it right, I'll gain a point! 20 seconds spent deciding whether or not to gamble on the answer plus 40 seconds from rule #6 leaves me with one less minute, meaning one less question.

8) If you get sick during the test, you can request that your responses be destroyed before you leave. Otherwise your test will be submitted for scoring. So if you pass out and die during the test, they're still gonna submit your answer sheet for scoring. Awesome.

9) Do not share any information about the questions on this test with anyone via text, email, twitter, facebook, or any other communication or social networking service. (That includes this blog.) This means I can't tell you that [insert name here] was the emperor of [insert country here] because it was included in a question on the test. And I can't tell you that Passage 1 expressed a [insert adjective here] attitude about [insert political stance here] because that was on the test, too. I also can't tell you that the answer to the last multiple choice math question was [insert letter here]. You know, just in case you were wondering. Sorry, but I can't tell you. And I can't tweet it, either.

Once we've finished the test, we have to retrieve our cell phones from the cart at the front of the room. The cart made its way around the room excruciatingly slowly. One person with one cart made an extremely long stop at each of about 35 tables, and no one could leave until everyone had their phone back. After this horribly long process, someone realized that he didn't have their own phone; he had someone else's phone. "Everyone check your phone and make sure it's your own!" "Someone call it!" "It won't ring, it's probably turned off!" "Everyone check, or else we're going to have to check you all, one by one!" Seriously, guys, everyone please check your phone so I can leave. "Oh, sorry, I had it..." This led to us being lectured and warned that once we left, they couldn't track us down to find a missing phone, so everyone should check their phone again just to be safe. We all acknowledged the warning and double checked, then prepared to leave and go to class.

But wait! There's more!

We weren't allowed to leave until passing period, so we sat and socialized and talked about how many questions we skipped and which ones were the hardest and which sections were easy. As we sat and chatted, I realized how ridiculous the whole PSAT thing seemed with its rules and regulations, and I thought to myself, "Gee, that seems like a blog post."

Planning

I love planning. Like, really, I love planning. I like starting something from scratch and seeing it through to the end. I like seeing an event in my imagination and then getting to go through the process of making it happen in real life. So when my boyfriend's mom, Anne, texted me to ask me help her plan his 17th birthday party, I was more than thrilled to agree. A party to plan? I'm always willing. First things first: A day. Anne and I decided on September 17th, the weekend before his birthday. I decided an afternoon would be good for a come-and-go setting where people could stop by and say hi as they go about their normal Saturday plans. 2-6 pm on Saturday, September 17th.

Next: A venue. Where should we host this shindig? I called so-and-so at such-and-such place and booked a beautiful park with a lake and a dock and a shelter and hiking trails. Perfect for a Saturday afternoon.

Step three: Activities. I stressed over this one for a while. What do you do at an outdoor party? Obviously we could walk the trails. There would be food, but Anne was taking care of that. What else? I called a friend and asked him to bring his outdoor games, which include cornhole and hillbilly golf, also known as ladder ball. I mean, this is southern Indiana, after all, and no outdoor party in southern Indiana is complete without corn hole.

I made invitations and printed them and Ben and I passed them out at school and on the 15th, two days before the party, I decided that everything was set for this perfectly-planned party on Saturday, September 17th from 2 to 6 pm.

But... wait...

Saturday, September 17th... 2 to 6 pm...

That date, that time... It sounded so familiar. But why? I didn't have any plans, right? I mean, I'd been planning this for months. How could I have other plans?

But alas, I did indeed have other plans. I had to work from 2 to 5 pm. 2-5! And Ben's party was 2-6! What did I do!?

I texted every single person who works at Orange Leaf and not a single one could cover my shift. And we have a lot of employees.

I was a mess. I was stressed and freaking out, and I just didn't know what to do. I told Ben that I would miss most of his party, and I told my mom that I was working, and I prayed to God that the whole situation would work itself out. I just could not get over the fact that I'd planned my boyfriend's party during my shift at work. How could I do that!?

Friday night came, the night before the party, and still no one had said they could work anything out. I texted a friend and asked if she could go in early so I could at least get off work early and stop by a little sooner, but that wasn't going to work either. I was heartbroken. I was going to miss Ben's party. I trudged my way to bed and fell asleep stressed and upset.

And I was awakened that morning by a call from my manager. "Hello?" I answered the phone rather tiredly, holding a yawn in the back of my throat.

"Hi, Katherine, this is your manager from Orange Leaf. How are you?"

I was so confused. "I'm good, how are you?"

"I'm good. I was actually calling to let you know that since business is slowing down I've been cutting shifts, and I had to cut your shift today."

I. was. shocked.

"Oh? Ok." I tried so hard to contain my excitement. She explained apologetically why I wasn't needed at work, and it was all I could do to pretend to be at least a little upset about it, but in my head I was screaming with joy and relief that I wouldn't have to work.

Did you get that? I wouldn't have to work. 

So this time my plans worked out. God somehow told my manager to cut my shift instead of anyone else's, and I was able to go to the party I planned. All of my stress and worry and prayer and hope and effort actually worked out. I planned a party and I got to see it through, beginning to end.

Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you. Matthew 7:6-8

Obsessing over Spoons

I collect Orange Leaf spoons. It's a pretty decent sized collection, really. The way it works is I save every spoon I've ever used when eating at Orange Leaf. My collection has grown quite a bit since I started working at Orange Leaf, especially since I found out that I get a free bowl after every shift. After I eat, I save my spoon. That's just the way it works. This collection started the first time I went to Orange Leaf. The spoons are really cool, actually. They have a really weird shape, and they're biodegradable, so don't put them in the dishwasher. Apparently they melt. They do withstand the washing machine, though, so if you leave a spoon in your pocket when you wash your jeans, the spoon should be fine. It may warp a little, though.

Anyways, the cool shape, bright color, and biodegradability of the spoons made me fall in love with the them, and consequentially I have been keeping them in my purse. I currently have 10 or so orange spoons in my purse. The more my collection grows, the more comments I get on what an odd collection it is. Since all of these spoons are in my purse, I take them with me everywhere. I use them when I eat lunch at school, when I have a snack at home, and even when I eat at competing restaurants like Dairy Queen or Sweet Cece's. I'll admit, plastic spoons are an odd thing to collect, but at this point, I really just can't stop.

I spent the evening a few days ago hanging out with my and Ben's families at Orange Leaf after my shift. I took advantage of my free bowl and grabbed another spoon to eat my frozen yogurt. Upon finishing my snack, I threw away the bowl. Without thinking, I tossed the bowl in the trash, spoon included.

And then all hell broke loose.

I threw away my spoon. And I was freaking. out. How could I have done that!? How could I have been so stupid, and so clueless, and so thoughtless!? My collection was ruined!

Everyone was trying to calm me down, telling me to get another spoon, but no one really understood. I didn't need just any spoon. I needed that spoon. I save every spoon I've ever used. And I used that spoon. But I didn't save it. My collection, all of those spoons I'd saved, was ruined. It would never be complete. One moment of carelessness had ruined all of my efforts in the past.

Let me be the first to say how ridiculous my reaction to all of this was. I mean, really, it's just a spoon. And no matter how anal and OCD I am, it really is just a spoon.

But at that point in time, it was more than a spoon. I tried to forget about it. I tried not to think about how much it sucked that I'd ruined my collection. I tried to ignore the fact that my collection would never be complete. I really tried.

Tried and failed.

I was so upset about it that it was all I could think about. I was so upset about it that I couldn't concentrate on the conversation. I was so upset about it that I cried. I was so upset about it that I asked Mark to dig through the trash can and find my spoon.

The amazing part of this story is that he actually did.

This is the part of my blog post where I would write a conclusion about how my obsession over little details is a bad habit I need to break, or how I need to not stress over the little, insignificant things in life, or how amazing it is that Mark dug through the trash to find a spoon for me. But really, my collection is complete. I'm happy. And that's all the conclusion I have.

Going to Bed Early

I finished my math homework at about 10:45 last night and decided to go to bed early, opting not to do my chemistry homework so that I could actually get some sleep. I took a shower, brushed my teeth, brushed my hair, etc., and I went to bed. While trying to fall asleep, I started thinking, and my thoughts led me to realize that I would have to work the next day, and I had no idea where my work shirt was. So I got up out of bed and went to the laundry room to look for my shirt. When I finally found it, it was in the bottom of the dirty clothes hamper with frozen yogurt smears on the front. Needless to say, it had to be washed.

But there was already a load of clothes in the washer, so I started pulling clothes out, one item at a time, and putting them into the dryer. I was very careful deciding what should be dried and what should lay flat to dry, so the process took a lot longer than it really needed to. After sifting through everything one by one, I started the dryer and threw a load of clothes in the washer only to realize that I didn't know where to put the soap. For some reason our washing machine has a drawer with multiple compartments for soap. Why? Why not just say "pour soap here"? Where am I supposed to put the soap!?

At a loss, I stood in the laundry room, staring at the compartments, trying to decide what to do. Should I wake up my mom? Should I pour in the soap where ever the heck I feel like pouring it and risk ruining the load of laundry? Should I pour the soap in all of the compartments? I didn't know. I couldn't decide.

I finally chose to wake up my mom and ask her. I knocked on her bedroom door. "Mom?" I called, and Mark responded with a hefty snore. Assuming they were asleep, I opened the door and peered in. "Mommy?" Another snore. "Mommy." A little louder this time, but I still didn't get her attention, so I closed the door and turned back to the laundry room, staring once again at the compartments. Should I just pour the soap directly in the machine? I really had no idea. I considered googling it, but really, what do you google? "Where does the soap go in a washing machine"? Surely google wouldn't know how to help me.

But my mom would know. I knocked on the door again, not waiting for a response this time. "Mommy, I need your help," I said urgently. Once again, I was answered with a snore. Awesome. I closed the door and went back to the laundry room where I stared once more at the compartments in the soap drawer. Finally, I chose a compartment, took a deep breath, and quickly poured the soap into the drawer. Then I started the washing machine and went back to bed.

While laying in bed trying to go to sleep, I started thinking, and I realized that I had to pee. There I was, laying in bed, debating whether or not I really had to pee, or if I just wanted to go to sleep. Thinking about having to pee, though, made me really really have to pee. I finally gave up and just went to the bathroom. Then I went back to bed.

After laying back in bed, I started thinking again, this time about laundry rather than bodily functions.At first, I was proud of myself for running a load of laundry all on my own, without any help from my mother. I mean, I ran the dryer. I never run the dryer, because I'm terrified of cleaning the lint screen!

And then I really thought about it...

Oh, crap.

I didn't clean the lint screen. But was it really such a big deal? Maybe just this one time would be ok. After all, how flammable could lint really be?

...

I had to clean the lint screen.

So I got up out of bed once more and stumbled back to the laundry room to clean the lint screen, basically my worst nightmare ever. I pulled the screen out of the dryer and held it for a while, debating whether or not I really wanted to clean it. Lint. Gross. I stared at the lint, horrified at the thought of touching it, but also horrified at the thought of burning the house down the first time I ever attempted to do laundry. And since my parents' bedroom is closest to the laundry room, they would be the first to catch fire in their sleep. They would most likely not be proud of me doing my own laundry if they were on fire. Even if there was a possibility that they would still be proud, I was hoping not to find out.

So I did it. I cleaned the lint screen. I took my hand to the screen and touched the lint. It was disgusting and horrifying and just as terrible as I remember it being, but I did it. And then I went back to bed.

When I finally lay down in bed once more, I started thinking. I thought about the homework I still hadn't finished. I thought about the clothes I may have put in the dryer that shouldn't have been put in the dryer. I thought about how much I wish my mom had woken up so that I would have had help doing the laundry. I thought about the lint.

And with all these thoughts flowing through my mind, I cried. I cried and I prayed, and I thanked God for giving me the strength to clean the lint screen, and I asked him to maybe figure out a way that I'd never have to clean the lint screen again.

I finally drifted to sleep around 12:45, stressed and exhausted and emotionally spent.

So much for going to bed early.

Don't Worry About It

In case you didn't know, I get stressed out pretty often. Especially when it comes to presentations or performances. I get nervous and I worry and I freak out. It's a problem I've been working to overcome, and I'm starting to get the hang of it. But I still worry, and I still get nervous, and I still stress, and I still freak out. I could give you tons of personal examples of times when I stressed out over stuff that I knew God would take care of for me, but I think it's going to be more effective to just share a Bible verse.

Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your request to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus. (Philippians 4:6-7)

I don't have to worry, because if I trust God, he will take care of my problems for me, and he will help me get through. When I'm freaking out about a test at school, I just have to study and try my best, and God's plan will come through. When I'm leading worship for the first time, playing an instrument I just learned to play, I don't have to stress out about messing up, because God will help me through. When I put my faith in God, he will do the rest.

... Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat; or about your body, what you will wear. For life is more than food, and the body more than clothes. Consider the ravens: they do not sow or reap, they have no storeroom or barn; yet God feeds them. And how much more valuable you are than birds! (Luke 12:22-24)

Consider how the wild flowers grow. They do not labor or spin. Yet I tell you, not even Solomon in all his splendor was dressed like one of these. If that is how God clothes the grass of the field, which is here today, and tomorrow is thrown into the fire, how much more will he clothe you - you of little faith! And do not set your heart on what you will eat or drink; don't worry about it... But seek his kingdom, and these things will be given to you as well. (Luke 12:27-31)

God takes care of the birds, doesn't he? And the flowers? So I know that if I trust in him, he'll take care of me. And that's all I need.

Profiling

I recently stumbled upon an article that made me a little... conflicted. It talks about the ridiculousness of airport security, which at the surface seems like a legitimate concern. However, it goes on to say that we should stop performing fair but fruitless searches on everyone and resort to simply profiling. In other words, let's only search for weapons in the arms of Middle Eastern people and never search Caucasian blond women. (I am exaggerating. For the full effect of what the author is saying, you really have to read the article.)

After reading and rereading the article, the only conclusion I could come to was this: I wish we lived in a world where airport security was unnecessary. I realize this is far fetched and never going to happen, but I wish that we didn't have to worry about people sneaking bombs onto planes, let alone having to use the racist methods of profiling to determine who we search for firearms. In the meantime, how about we go ahead and search everyone just in case the whole profiling thing goes terribly wrong and we let that Caucasian blond onto the plane with a knife in her boot and a bomb in her pocket.

Short and Sweet

Last year as a sophomore, I looked up to the seniors in Concert Choir. They were idols. They were everything I hoped to be my senior year and more. One of those seniors happened to be my sister, Tess, which was strangely convenient since she brought her senior friends over pretty often. One senior in particular that I completely admired? Luke. He's attractive, he's funny, he's got an amazing voice. I looked up to him in that celebrity crush kind of way. He's kind of like the chocolate in the window at the candy shop that everyone drools over, or the puppies outside PetsMart on the weekends that your parents won't let you hold because they're so cute you'll have to take them home. (Maybe that's just me?) As a sophomore, I completely admired Luke.

In short, Tess brought Luke around a lot over the past year. While at first it was exciting and fun to have the cute senior boy over at my house, it eventually became common and expected (but none the less special). That cute senior boy that I admired so much became one of my good friends, and suddenly he was more like me than I realized.

My scare came when Tess was getting ready to leave. I had this fear that I wouldn't only be losing a big sister, but also a big brother. I was afraid that he would go back to being that distant stranger I wished I knew instead of the fun, loving guy I'd gotten to know.

So the short and sweet side hug he gave me today basically made my day. It totally rocks to know that I didn't lose that friendship, and that I still have my big brother.

To Luke: It makes me happy to know that the cute senior boy with a great sense of humor still wants to be my friend. I look forward to continuing to look up to you as you go on to bigger and better things in your live, and I appreciate the short and sweet side hugs I get when I see you. Thanks for being my big brother.

Some Things Never Change

When I was little, my parents got divorced. Now, like I said, I was little, so I didn't really know what "getting a divorce" actually meant. I had no grasp of the social perspective of divorce. I didn't really understand how it was possible for my own parents to not live in the same house. I was little. As time went on, the whole child-of-divorced-parents role kind of sunk in. I stayed with my mom for a few days, then I stayed with my dad for a few days. Mondays and Tuesdays were with one parent, Wednesdays and Thursdays were with the other, and weekends were pretty much just up in the air. The hectic schedule of switching was... well, hectic. I always left my teddy bear at the wrong house and could never sleep, I never really knew which bus to ride home, and my friends had a better grasp of my schedule than I did. I needed change, and I needed it fast. 

Luckily, my parents are strong believers in doing-what's-best-for-the-kids, so when I proposed that we change the hectic schedule, they were open to my suggestions. After talking it through and thinking it over, we collectively decided on a week on/week off schedule with "switches" between parents every Friday at 7pm. 

In theory, this new plan was flawless. Even in reality, it was miles better than the hectic schedule before it. The problem was, I cried every Friday from about 6:45-7:15, without fail. No matter how terrible my week had been and no matter how happy I was to be getting a break from my parent, I still cried over leaving. Every Friday. 

After many months of many Friday switches, the whole thing was severely simplified. My dad went away for work, so the week on/week off thing wasn't going to work out so well. Actually, we don't really have a schedule at all anymore. Whenever it works out for the both of us, my dad and I hang out for a few days at a time. Compared to the hectic but consistent original schedule and the more recent week on/week off agreement, this is by far the worst arrangement. I see my dad about once a month at most. This is usually just one day out of one weekend, but we do get the occasional week here and there. It's pretty rare that we get much time to just the two of us, but we make do. 

This new arrangement is different. Where the old schedule was consistent and predictable, the current situation is random and unreliable. Back then my dad and I were in the same city, but now we have to fit travel time into our schedules. Not to mention I've grown up quite a bit since then. 

Yet there's still one thing that hasn't changed. I still cry when it's time to switch. Whether it's Friday night at 7pm or Sunday afternoon after church, switches = waterworks. I cry, and I cry, and when I'm done crying, I cry a little bit more. Last Sunday when my dad picked me up, I was an uncontrollable mess, even though I would be home again that night. And then today, just thinking about leaving my dad tomorrow has been making my eyes water. 

No matter how old I get, I still hate switching between parents. I guess some things never change.