Nonprofit Girl Gets a Sandwich

This is the first of (maybe) a series of blog posts I plan to think of as "Adventures of Nonprofit Girl." Unfortunately, they may all end up called "Nonprofit Girl Gets a Sandwich" because that is often the most exciting/dangerous part of Nonprofit Girl's day. Also when she rides the train.


Episode 1

The scene: Nonprofit Girl is seriously hungry. She planned to dash out a little before noon to get a sandwich ahead of the lunch crowds, but she got distracted and missed her window. Then she tried to wait for the lunch rush to pass as her hunger escalated to unbearable levels. Now, she sets off down the crowded sidewalk for the Chick-fil-a, donning her best don't-talk-to-me scowl. She's got one thing on her mind: a sandwich.

She darts over crosswalks and squeezes past meandering businessmen walking four across on the sidewalk. She is on a mission. But there's trouble ahead! People with clipboards just waiting to come between her and her sandwich. Her stomach growls a warning.

Long-haired clipboard-dude: HEY NICE LADY! Do you wanna...

Nonprofit Girl: NO THANKS!

Long-haired clipboard-dude: (from behind her, as she speed-walks away) ...end child sex slavery?

Nonprofit Girl: (to herself) Damn.

--

Episode 2

It's a good day for Nonprofit Girl. She held a meeting, figured some stuff out, and realized things are not nearly as desperate as they seemed. And all before lunch! Plus, she has run out of leftovers and now has an excuse to go buy her favorite sandwich! Feeling good about the world in general, Nonprofit Girl sets off to get that sandwich. As she approaches the park, she remembers to put her happy feelings aside and summon up her best don't-talk-to-me scowl, lest the shady people dawdling around the park try to talk to her.

But what is that up ahead? A squirrel is holding something in its tiny little hands. (Yes, squirrels have "hands." You think Nonprofit Girl would make that up?) A squirrel holding anything is completely adorable, but this squirrel is holding a stick twice the length of its own body.

What does that squirrel think it is going to do with that stick? Nonprofit Girl wonders. It's holding the stick in the middle and waving it, almost twirling it, like a kung fu fighter with a bamboo pole.

Nonprofit Girl thinks the kung fu squirrel is the cutest and most hilarious thing ever. She watches it with glee until she gets too close and the squirrel drops the stick. Suddenly Nonprofit Girl hears an excited voice say, "Hey!"

Nonprofit Girl looks up with a big, silly grin on her face. She thinks she knows what is about to happen. Someone else saw the kung fu squirrel and also thought it was hilarious! He will say, "Did you see that squirrel?" And she will say, "Yeah, that was awesome!" And he will say, "Yeah!" And they will chuckle, thinking as they walk away how it was even more awesome because they got the chance to say so.

But this is not what happens. Instead, Nonprofit Girl is face-to-face with her shape-shifting mortal enemy, Creepy Stranger Dude, smiling up at him like a kid on Christmas morning.

"That is a purdy smile you got there!"

Nonprofit Girl thinks to herself, Damn.


Now, there is not always a lesson to be learned from the Adventures of Nonprofit Girl, but this time, there is. The minute you drop your don't-talk-to-me scowl on the streets of Atlanta, someone will talk to you. And there's a good chance it'll be Creepy Stranger Dude. Remember, it takes a lot more muscles to frown than to smile, so don't forget to practice!!

A is for Academia

The following conversations took place on Sunday, as I helped my husband revise his term paper.

Trust, Justice, and the American Way

Me: Take out this comma.

Husband (with sudden vehemence): I like the Oxford comma!

Me (startled): Oh. Okay. Well, are your professors okay with it? If they don’t mind then leave it in.

Husband: Well I’ve never been corrected before.

Me (with gathering courage): Fine. Use the Oxford comma. If you want to be un-American.

UPDATE: Today I am pleased to reassure you all that my husband is patriotic, after all. In researching for this post, I discovered that I was gravely misinformed about the Oxford comma!!! (It's because I'm a communications professional.) It turns out Americans love the Oxford comma. In fact, it's the non-Oxford Brits who disdain the Oxford comma, and journalism/communications professionals everywhere.

Well, the point is the Oxford comma is a big deal, people. Everyone is talking about it. It has a Wikipedia page, a recent NPR article, and even a song.

Isn't she lovely?

Me: I think what you're saying is, the fact that these societies created female icons didn't mean that they started to respect women.

Husband: Yes.

Me: The men still treated the women any way they wanted, but they sort of justified it by making these glorified female images, to give the impression that they respected women.

Husband: Yes.

Me: So the men could say, "See? We love women!... That's why we... make them scrub the floor naked."

Husband: ...more or less.

--

My friend Alysha is a seminary student, and this semester she studied ancient Greek. (Learning ancient Greek is just like learning any other language, with lots of flashcards, only a billion times harder.) Alysha is seriously awesome, but we are pretty sure she is not so awesome that she will grow up to be a missionary to ancient Greeks. Which is why we ended up emailing back and forth about this survey she had to take. (Alysha's comments are blue, mine are red.)

In relation to this class, I made significant progress in:

1) Critical thinking  Before, I sucked at thinking. Now I am awesome!!!

7) Cultivating sensitivities and skills needed for cross-cultural relationships Uhhh.... what? Now I realize I used to be racist against ancient Greeks. 

10) Enriching my creative capacities Really? Since when do they care about this?

11) Reflecting theologically on the implications of this course for my practice of ministry This would make more sense for almost any other class I've taken

12) Integrating the study of scripture, theology, and ethics at a personal level  Verb conjugation is like an out of body experience.

13) Shaping my personal values, standards, or disciplines Yes. I now value biblical Greek less, because it is annoying 

14) Functioning well in interpersonal relationships Im gr8t @ txt ancients

15) Responding to emotional, spiritual, or interpersonal problems I know exactly what you're going through. You know what helped me? This textbook of ancient Greek.

16) Responding to organizational, community, and societal problems Teach ancient Greek in schools!!!!!

How I ruin my whole outlook on life before getting out of bed on Sunday morning

It starts with a dream, as you might have guessed. If you're like my husband, dreams are wonderful opportunities to star in your very own superhero movie, but if you're like me, dreams are like hovering dementors just waiting to suck all the happiness out of you.

I'm at work, only "work" takes place in something like a middle school computer lab, with computers all along the walls and a TV in the corner. My coworkers are two girls from my group of friends in high school (which was a long time ago now, so I'd appreciate it if my dreams would stop bringing it up! But they can't because they're dementor dreams, and dementors and high school go together like ice cream and sprinkles).

My coworkers/friends are apparently done with all their work and just waiting for 5:00 to roll around, so they are watching a movie on the tv, which is right above the computer I am working at. I stop for a minute to watch the movie and joke with them about it, then I go back to work. All of a sudden I realize I haven't checked my second email account all day! I don't even have a second work email in real life, but sure enough it's full of neglected responsibilities.

Not only that, but by some bizarre twist of technology that only happens in dreams, when I open it, it appears on the tv monitor instead of my computer monitor. I'm like, good grief, and I'm straining to read it because it's over my head, and I completely forget that my coworker-friends were watching a movie up there. When I remember, I turn around and they have left, probably in an angry huff. The only one left is some random guy on the other side of the room. "I completely spaced out..." I try to explain. "I don't know why my email is on the tv, but I didn't mean to and I just forgot they were watching something..." He comes over, annoyed, and points to a button I can press to make sure my emails stay on the computer and not the tv.

I wake up. Nice try, Brain. Trying to make me feel insecure about work on a Sunday morning, and trying to make me believe my coworkers probably hate me. Well, I'm on to you and your dementor ways!

I look at the clock, which says seven-something. I think, Great. Now if I go back to sleep, I'll have even weirder dre-

But I am asleep again already. Seriously, I don't know how it happened.

My friends are back, only we're sort of kids now, and we're hanging out in my current apartment with the middle-school-aged boys from my favorite web comic, Bad Machinery. We start kicking a ball around. No big deal, right? Except that I have never been able to kick a ball in my life. Before I know it it's girls against boys and they've figured out my weakness and the boys are just kicking it straight at me as hard they can every time. I try for a while, until I finally say, "Really, I don't think this is how soccer goes," and I turn around to talk to my friends only they have abandoned me, which only makes sense considering how awful I was playing. But I'm really mad at the boys now.

"Really, Linton? My friends quit and you didn't even tell me? You kept on playing, three against one?"

Linton laughs (he is kind of the mean one, in the comic). "Haha, yeah we're hardcore!"

Well I turn on the eyes of fire and back them all into a corner and start yelling. "You're mean and you're cruel and you'll deserve what you get." Whatever that means.

Only then I see that I have made Sonny cry. He is kind of the sweet one, in the comic. And I feel awful.

Then I'm in my room, putting away jewelry that I had left on the dresser. It's big and gaudy and hideous, but in my dream it's beautiful and belonged to my grandmother. Suddenly she appears behind me as I'm holding a brooch. "Have you worn it?" she asks. I can't bear to tell her that there are not many opportunities for girls to wear brooches anymore, so I just say yes.

And I wake up crying, guilty over a crying boy and an unworn heirloom, neither of which exist. Damn you, dementor brain!! How do you do it?

Then the dementor brain quickly sets about reassuring me that there is plenty to actually cry about, and that's why these dreams were dredged up in the first place. Like, my grandmother never would have cared that my emails opened on the tv, but I never would have told her anyway. And I remember that those girlfriends of mine from high school were the real bullies, and that's probably why I dreamed about kids being mean. I remember the girl they teased all the time, and how I thought it was just a bunch of silly quarreling, and I never did anything about it because I didn't realize how mean it really was until long after we had all graduated. Which basically makes me the dumb one from Mean Girls, and I don't know how you are supposed to live with yourself if you are her.

My husband roles over and puts his arm around me in his sleep, which makes me feel a little better. Until my back starts to hurt from being in kind of an odd position and I start to feel trapped. I wiggle my way out of his unconscious embrace, and he sticks his knee out, pushing me to the edge of the bed. I lie there for a few more minutes until he clocks me in the temple and I realize this is not going to get better.

As I'm making my tea I wonder how this always happens to me. And I decide to blog about it, so people will know what I mean when I say that I can dread getting out of bed anytime. Even a sunny Sunday morning.

Well, chocolate is supposed to help you recover from a dementor attack, but if it's dementor dreams troubling you, an adorable dog goes a long way in repairing the damage. Dogs live in the real world. They don't wake up desperate to make up for all the mistakes of their past, desperate to be the most wonderful, most successful, most likable dog in the world. They wake up wanting to pee and eat and play with their toys.

So I put some clothes on and took the dog out, where it really is beautiful and toasty, which I love (how anybody hates a hot summer in the South, I don't know. Well, if they are trekking all over a campus with a load of books, then I get it. Or if they work in construction or agriculture. But if I think about this too long I'll start feeling bad for wishing for hot, sunny days without considering all the people who might suffer). I poured out some dog food, which made her eyes wide with excitement, and then we played with her ratty, slobbery toys, which to her delight, look almost like real dead animals by now!

So I'm feeling better, if not a little jealous of the dog, for waking up just wanting to pee and eat and play. For now I'll just fix some breakfast and tinker with my blog until my husband gets up. Then I'll help him revise his term paper and we'll visit my parents and it will turn out to be a pretty decent day like it usually does.

Well, the blog is called introverted intuitive, and that basically means my brain trumps the real world every time. It's not always a dementor brain. Sometimes it's a Gaga scholar or a feminist essayist or a social commentator, like a snarky Jane Austen. Sometimes it's even funny, it hopes. And it really wants you to like it. But you'll almost never encounter it in the real world. You can only find it here, at Introverted Intuitive! The exclusivity is supposed to make you want it even more... is it working?

Riots, kisses, poetry

Love Among the Ruins

By Robert Browning

Where the quiet-coloured end of evening smiles,

         Miles and miles

On the solitary pastures where our sheep

         Half-asleep

Tinkle homeward thro' the twilight, stray or stop

         As they crop—

Was the site once of a city great and gay,

         (So they say)

Of our country's very capital, its prince

         Ages since

Held his court in, gathered councils, wielding far

         Peace or war.

Now the country does not even boast a tree,

         As you see,

To distinguish slopes of verdure, certain rills

         From the hills

Intersect and give a name to, (else they run

         Into one)

Where the domed and daring palace shot its spires

         Up like fires

O'er the hundred-gated circuit of a wall

         Bounding all

Made of marble, men might march on nor be prest

         Twelve abreast.

And such plenty and perfection, see, of grass

         Never was!

Such a carpet as, this summer-time, o'er-spreads

         And embeds

Every vestige of the city, guessed alone,

         Stock or stone—

Where a multitude of men breathed joy and woe

         Long ago;

Lust of glory pricked their hearts up, dread of shame

         Struck them tame;

And that glory and that shame alike, the gold

         Bought and sold.

Now—the single little turret that remains

         On the plains,

By the caper overrooted, by the gourd

         Overscored,

While the patching houseleek's head of blossom winks

         Through the chinks—

Marks the basement whence a tower in ancient time

         Sprang sublime,

And a burning ring, all round, the chariots traced

         As they raced,

And the monarch and his minions and his dames

         Viewed the games.

And I know, while thus the quiet-coloured eve

         Smiles to leave

To their folding, all our many-tinkling fleece

         In such peace,

And the slopes and rills in undistinguished grey

         Melt away—

That a girl with eager eyes and yellow hair

         Waits me there

In the turret whence the charioteers caught soul

         For the goal,

When the king looked, where she looks now, breathless, dumb

            Till I come.

But he looked upon the city, every side,

         Far and wide,

All the mountains topped with temples, all the glades'

         Colonnades,

All the causeys, bridges, aqueducts,—and then

         All the men!

When I do come, she will speak not, she will stand,

         Either hand

On my shoulder, give her eyes the first embrace

         Of my face,

Ere we rush, ere we extinguish sight and speech

         Each on each.

In one year they sent a million fighters forth

         South and North,

And they built their gods a brazen pillar high

         As the sky

Yet reserved a thousand chariots in full force—

         Gold, of course.

O heart! oh blood that freezes, blood that burns!

         Earth's returns

For whole centuries of folly, noise and sin!

         Shut them in,

With their triumphs and their glories and the rest!

         Love is best.

Read the story of the Vancouver Riot Kissers.

Who's hotter?

Jillian, a Blogger vs. Kira, a Gelfling

At first I was pretty offended when I learned that I was being called "the gelfling" behind my back. But then I realized Kira is pretty fierce. It's the combination of wide cheek bones and a pointy chin resembling the nose of the same face. Plus Kira and I are about the same height.

So leave a comment (if you can stoop so low). Who's hotter, me or the muppet?

It's not my fault you can't get over me

Today I had a surprise visit from my old flame, Migraine. It had been about two weeks since we went our separate ways - it was the longest we had been apart since we first got serious in 2006. She showed up at my office, wanting to talk. It was pretty awkward, so you know, I just really need to blog about it.

She was like:

Jillian, I miss you, but it's more than missing you. I don't know who I am without you.

And I was like:

Migraine, you've been with me through good and bad, and that's why I think you deserve my full honesty. When you’re around, I get butterflies in my stomach. I can’t think about anything else. But the truth is I can't take the drama anymore. You're clingy, needy, pessimistic and self-absorbed.

And she was like:

Jillian, no! How can you say those things about me after all these years? I love you. I thrive off your energy, your passion, your intellect. When I’m near you, I feel so alive!

And I was like:

Migraine, you drain my emotions. You take up all my time. And you spend all my money.

And she was like:

I’m dying without you. Without you, I’m nothing but emptiness. But I guess you just don't care.

And I was like:

There you go again, playing the victim like you always do.

And she was like:

I am not playing the victim! I'm really hurting! Can’t you feel my anguish?

And I was like:

Migraine, I’m sick of your so-called anguish! I know you're just exaggerating to get my attention.

And she was like:

I don’t care what you say. We were destined to be together, and deep down you know it.

And I was like:

Migraine, your presence is painful to me. We are through.

And she was like:

I’m not leaving you.

And I was like:

I will do whatever it takes to get away from you. Even if I have to go to the authorities.

And that’s when things really got crazy. She started scattering my papers all over the office, and she deleted a whole chunk of work I had done this morning. She threw my snack in the trash and hid my glasses. So I just had to run out and go home.

I’m sure she followed me, though. I can’t hear or see anything, but I just feel her lurking around. This is gonna be ugly.

Oprah comforts fans with plan to split soul and live forever

Following the end of the Oprah Winfrey Show, the daytime television icon revealed an unprecedented new plan to live forever.

According to this plan, Oprah Winfrey will live on beyond her television show and even beyond her own death by infusing other people or objects with fragments of her own soul. Any one of these soul fragments will have the potential to re-manifest itself at any given time, Oprah claims.

The plan calls for Oprah’s soul to be split into seven pieces, a number that Oprah says makes her confident that she will never be completely destroyed. She began putting the plan into action “some time ago” and anticipates that it will be complete within the year.

Oprah claims to have created five of these soul-infused objects already. The part of her soul still in her body makes the sixth piece.

“When I began contemplating which items to use, it was only natural to me that Harpo Productions should be the first one,” Oprah said. “Of course I wanted to use the Oprah Book Club and O Magazine as well, considering their proven longevity. After I put a piece of my soul into Dr. Phil, I began to run out of ideas. That’s when I found Dr. Oz.”

As long as these items and people are in existence, she will also continue to exist, Oprah said. She also claims that a soul-infused object or being is nearly impossible to destroy, a comment she has refused to elaborate on.

Oprah has also declined requests to go into any details about the process of soul-splitting, calling it one of her “tricks of the trade.” Speculators suggest it may involve several former Harpo production assistants who have gone missing in recent years.

The identity of the final soul piece has Oprah fans puzzled. She claims to have not yet chosen the seventh item. One popular theory is that the final item will be the new Oprah Winfrey Network. Another says that supermodel-turned-TV host Tyra Banks will be the seventh piece.

Originally Oprah had intended to withhold the news of this plan until its completion. When fans reacted so emotionally to the end of the Oprah Show, she was moved to reveal it early.

“People were sobbing, and I thought to myself that this is about more than a television show. They’re afraid that this is the beginning of the end for me,” Oprah said. “I just had to comfort them and let them know, I’ll always be here. Forever.”

ABC network president Alex Wilson supports her decision. “Oprah has always been a media revolutionary. She’s setting a new standard of dedication for corporate moguls everywhere,” he said.

Those who oppose Oprah’s immortality claim Americans should band together, track down all seven pieces of Oprah’s soul and attack them with love.

Thanks for the memories, Oprah! We're glad it's not really the end.