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I like graduating, Alot.

If you don’t understand the title, go on, read a little Hyperbole and a Half. I had the alot on my graduation cap (I deemed it an appropriate decoration for an editorial type, such as myself), and I would post a picture, but, alas, they are in the possession of my Great Uncle and Mother, so maybe later.

What do I do now? I live in an apartment in Browne’s Additon, right next to downtown Spokane, which you, of course, know if you are connected to me at all. I will keep living here. I will be coordinating a concert series (9 whole concerts) in my neighborhood that will take place every Thursday in July and August. They are paying me a bit, but it won’t keep up with the bills. I have made some connections due to my professors, like Thom Caraway, Fred Johnson, Leonard Oakland, and others. I am pursuing those connections. One of those connections, a Spokane graphic designer, Derek Landers, introduced me to the Code Academy where I have been spending hours each day learning CSS and HTML so I can build my own website, so I can put it on a business card, so I can market myself as a freelance editor, book designer, oil painter, and writer). Yes, I am starting a business, and starting where I am most comfortable: copyediting.

I don’t know where to start, but one of our graduation speakers insisted we take things, succeed at things, slowly by slowly, brick by brick, one step at a time. Alright, I am taking those steps, and people around me are helping immensely.

May parents are the best a young woman could ask for. [And I am inserting a special shoutout to my mother, Teri Wheeler, for being my best friend and loving me and loving what I do and always being on the other end of the phone, because I graduated on mother’s day and didn’t get to honor her the way I would have liked.] It is obvious they want to give me the world, but they also want me to be the kind of woman who claims it for herself. Thus, for four years we have engaged in the tedium of taking out and making payments on student loans, loans which I was prepared to pay, loans which they paid in full as part of my graduation present. I’ve also thought on and off about when I am going to give their car back and get one of my own. Well, I am now the proud owner of the 2003 Honda CR-V that I have driven for the past two years. Thanks, Mom and Dad. I couldn’t ask for better parents.


Good Things Happen on the Kitchen Floor.

Don’t try to clean the kitchen when you are too tired.  It only leads to immeasurable silliness.

One time my roommate Emilie and I had made baked potatoes for dinner. This was the day after she had declared that potatoes were pretty much the least sexy food ever. And they are. But they’re still great. (When I wrote that they weren’t sexy on Facebook, some concerned potato lovers responded, letting us know that they felt we were being unfair to the very filling, versatile, and delicious potato.)

Even though we had eaten potatoes for dinner, we had also decided to make soup to keep around for the rest of the week. (Recipe: every kind of bean you can imagine, chicken, chicken broth, tomato juice.)

I decided to put the soup away. But what bowl would we put it in? I elected to use our large pitcher that I had recently purchased for lemonade.

The pitcher worked fine, but I was far too out of it to worry about getting it all safely into the pitcher. As it sloshed all over the counter, most of it made it into the pitcher. But as soon as I saw the red-brothed, chunky mess through the side of the clear plastic pitcher, I became unbelievably tickled by the inevitable reaction of our other two roommates when they opened the fridge. (Emilie calls it a FRIG. As she points out, refrigerator does not have a “D” in it.)

Since we were both in a mood that made us feel silly even in our arms and legs and feet and fingertips, this little thought was enough to stop us from successfully completing any of our kitchen tasks, especially continuing to pour soup. We melted.

After several minutes of not breathing. I managed to calm myself through a series of deep breaths and suppressed diaphragm spasms.

Within minutes we were both laying on our stomachs, cheeks pressed to the tile floor, marveling at how cool and relaxing the kitchen floor felt against our bodies.

UPDATE: We now sit on the kitchen floor with the lights off almost nightly, eating cookies, and drinking milk. Our roommate Morgan almost always walks by and gives us a puzzled and judgmental look. Last night we had friends over and there were five of us sitting on the kitchen floor, listening to Mumford and Sons, waiting for the cookies cool. Even Morgan and Dalin joined us.