Alrighty

I’m kind of out of witty titles at the moment. The best I could think of was “alrighty,” and that’s only because- after editing my resume- I said “alrighty” when I opened up a new document to write this here blog.

I don’t have anything remarkable to say. My life is just going to have to do. Filler, rambling, space-taker-upper. Whatever. I need to write something, anything.

Yesterday, I gave a presentation on using visual aids in my Methods of Teaching Adult Education class with a friend. We talked about whiteboards, and outlines, and flip charts. I don’t really care much for any of the three, but I felt convicted enough during the presentation, and even I believed that writing key points on a white piece of paper could solve the world’s problems. I’m not going to diss on the handout too much though because I actually like handouts. The MyPyramid handout from Medical Nutrition I is in my binder and is often referred to.

In fact, I used the MyPeriod handout during the presentation. Oooops, did I type MyPeriod? I meant to type MyPyramid. And I’m convinced that when I said “My Period” in class on Monday, I meant to say “My Pyramid.” Amazingly enough, it seemed completely natural when I said it, and that’s probably because the “monthly” is a topic that has been thoroughly exhausted by Dr. White in Lifecycle. I just laughed to myself and said “MyPeriod? MyPyramid” and moved on. Though, I did giggle during my explanation on using graphs, charts, and diagrams for illustrating ideas...I kept seeing in my head, “MyPeriod, MyPeriod, MyPeriod,” and it was funny after all. Lifecycle hasn’t completely desensitized me.

I’ve come to the full realization that I hate GPA. I think it stands for a little something called, “grade point average,” but I like to refer to it as “grief, pain, and aggravation.” I have experienced all three on its account. My Dietetic core GPA is a 3.89, and what is my cumulative? A crappy 3.29. Why? Because of accounting, statistics, chemistry II, and computers, none of which are necessary for completing nutritional assessments, or calculating BMI’s, or explaining the causes of Hyperosmolar Nonketoic Comas, also known as Hyperosmolar Hyperglycemic Nonketoic Syndrome in Type 2 diabetes patients (all of which I’m excellent at).Ok, I take that back, Chemistry II might be relevant for Hyperosmolar NonKetoic Comas in some way, but Biochemistry covers all of the bases. Hark! (Listen attentively). I got an A in Biochemistry. That’s right. But Grief.Pain.Aggravaton won’t give that A any credit. Nope. It’s pulling my intellect down the drain, taking my resume and internship hopes and shredding them. My beautiful 3.89 in Dietetic core and 3.67 in Human and Food Science core are both in the shadow of that evil cumulative GPA that’s supposedly summing up my future.

Fortunately, or hopefully, those who are summing up my entire life and person on a sheet of paper will notice that I have all three GPA’s listed, just to get the point across. And the point is, “though you want me to be good at math and calculating PV=nRT, I’m not, but I kick-a in Dietetics, so please, for the love of fat camp shows, and Vitamin D, and food labels, and fat free ice cream and cake and cake, let me continue to be a food nerd in your internship program.”

Calling GPA, Grief. Pain. Aggravation usually makes me laugh, and I can’t take myself seriously. I’m wondering what others have translated GPA to. Hmmm.

Today I went to the junior high to get some papers signed, class to take an exam on Hyperosmolar Nonketoic Comas, the post office, and the Medical Clinic, which brings me to another irony in my life, registration.

Perhaps you’ve heard me say, “I’m registration cursed” before. If not, you’re seriously missing out on inconvenient, confusing, yet funny stories.

The story is that I don’t register like normal people. Normal people go to an advisor or get on their laptops and register. I pull my hair out and scream, and run from office to office, and get holds taken off that I didn’t even know existed, and I miss my registration by two weeks or more while my classes are closing, so I get on waiting lists, and get off of waiting lists, and make phone calls, and send e-mails, because I have the curse of registration.

It came to my attention at the beginning of last week that I had a hold on registration (I was already looking for inconveniences). What was on hold? My health form. You know, the one you turn in after you’re accepted to Auburn.

I’ve been at Auburn for four years…

My health form didn’t exist when I went to the Medical Clinic for a required TB test for a lab…….. In August.

“Martha Lee Anne Ryals? Are you a freshman?
“I’m a senior. “
“That’s so weird. You’re not even on file.”
I laugh, “Oh, this kind of stuff happens to me all the time.”
“I’m just going to have to give you the paperwork to fill out again.”
“Alright, that’s fine.”

I sat in my chair content that I had fixed a problem I didn’t even know existed. And I turned my 8” x 11” problem in to the lady behind the plastic window.

It’s September. I’m still on hold. I’m still nonexistent in the filing cabinet.I called the clinic on Friday and was told they were missing my MMR, but that I could fax them the paperwork. So, I called my doctor’s office in Monroeville today to give them the fax number so they could fax my MMR forms to the clinic and solve the problem. But I was informed that I have to sign a release form... I ended up at the Medical Clinic again to fill out a release form, but that release form will have to be approved by my doctor first- which is common procedure-before they will send my MMR documentation to complete my health form which was turned in four years ago, but magically, and conveniently was put on hold the week before my registration, but I win.

That’s right registration, I win. You were sneaky, oh you were sneaky alright, and you would have done it again, but my paranoia proved useful and I was a whole week ahead of you.

I have finally beaten the registration curse. If I had not gotten that TB test in August, I wouldn’t have known that my file had “magically” disappeared. If I hadn’t discovered it was missing, I wouldn’t have called the medical clinic, which later informed me that my MMR was missing. I wouldn’t have called my doctors office, so I wouldn’t have known a release form would be needed. I wouldn’t have known that I would need to go to the medical clinic to get one...that it would take time and patience to get it filled out and faxed and responded to. Next Saturday, I would have been running around, pulling my hair out, on the day of registration, yet again, chasing some ridiculous event that was unfolding around my innocent should-be registration. And because Saturday is the weekend, I once again would have found myself in quite a debacle.

Sigh.


The only drama I have in my life is the ridiculous nonsense kind. I don’t have arguments with my roommate or with my crazy-would-be-boyfriend. I may look 17, am 23, but deep down, I’m an old lady named Martha who reads in place of watching TV, plays the piano, wants a pug, and drives 35 mph in 40 mph zones; Yet somehow, exciting, ridiculous, and spontaneous things manage to fit into my life. Weird.

I can do without the registration curse though, it shan’t be missed.

On a completely different note, as I was driving to the medical clinic today. I saw a boy waving his hands as he leaned in through the window of what I assume was his girlfriend’s car. And I don’t know what he was saying, but he looked upset. And when she drove away, even with her sunglasses on, I could tell she was crying, or wanted to be crying, and I wondered what he said or what she was thinking. In fact, I’m sure I thought more about her while filling out my doctor’s release form than my curse.

Alrighty, that’s all. I know I talked about a lot of nothing, but it only seems like that because you’re not me. If you were me, every detail was important and relevant. Keep that in mind.

Catch Up

Cotton hills roll as I lay on my pillow.
Tucked in tight, I feel peace against my skin.
The world lies at the tips of my fingers.
Time stops here.

Beneath these sheets I am rescued.
Here broken ships sail.
In a tangle of white I find Heaven.
Abandoned hopes find a prayer.

With eyes closed I see the past.
Memories bring quiet smiles.
The sun knocks on my window,
But dark lingers for awhile.
When dark’s curtain is opened,
I wake beneath my sheets.
Stars sit in my palms,
Kings kiss my cheek.
The Universe is my candle.
I hold it in my hand.
Here, everything is what it seems.

martha lee anne


It’s been a month and a half. It feels like a lifetime since school started, since I’ve written more than a few words. I read four books the first week and a half of school, and since then, I’ve read a few chapters of “Franny and Zooey” by J.D. Salinger, and some Jeremiah.

I heard this song called “Someone Like You” by Adele.

It makes me sad.

“I hate to turn out of the blue uninvited. But I couldn’t stay away, I couldn’t fight it. I hope you’d see my face and that you’d be reminded…” me too, Adele. Me too.

“She is” by Ben Rector makes me happy.

“She is whatever she wants to be. She is a little of everything, mixed up so tough in a beautiful way. She’s got the world at her fingertips, she makes beauty look effortless. And I want everything she is. She is. She is. Well, I want everything she is.”

It makes me feel pretty. No reason other than it’s called “She is” and I’m a “she”, and I like to think that I’m all of those things. Whether I am or not doesn’t really matter, it’s the thought that I could be that makes me happy.

I’ve been looking at destinations for my dietetic internship in the fall. The one I hope to be accepted too. And it has quickly become apparent that I’m moving far away. That could be Georgia, or Florida, or Tennessee, or South Carolina, or Connecticut, or Maryland. I have to be honest, New Haven,Ct makes me feel warm and fuzzy.

I was thinking the other day, “I want to be a writer,” and then this internship with Eating Well magazine showed up in Charlotte, Vermont, and I thought,” I’m going to apply to intern with them and be a writer,” and then I thought, “If I got that internship I’d be a writer…”

And that felt really weird.

It’s like to hope to be a writer is the job. The hoping to be a writer is the only eventful outcome of wanting to be a writer. You don’t actually become a writer. So imagining getting an internship to write seems surreal, and unusual, like no person who wants to be a writer should ever actually be a writer, they should just be a wordy student, or a man with a brown hat who keeps notes tucked in his pockets, or a girl with long hair who doodles in her notebook, who one day hopes to be a writer. But the hope is the closest they ever get to actually being writers.

But what’s funny is that some people do become writers. And some people become nurses. And some people go flying in these things called space ships and they land on the moon and walk around. Someone does it. And if someone is going to be a writer, it might as well be me. Or at least, I should try to make that someone me, right?

I was thinking that when you’re little, life is just a little snow globe that fits in your hands. It’s small, pretty, shiny, and it seems nothing at all to carry it around, or to hold it between both hands. To say, “I’m going to be a writer,” seems nothing at all. To say, “I’ll go to Africa” seems nothing at all. And the day comes for you to write, or to practice medicine, or to travel to the other side of the world, but you don’t. You settle. Dreams are just silly thoughts you had, spontaneously, with no consideration of pros or cons. Childhood thoughts. Unrealistic thoughts. So that trip becomes unrealistic, and medicine or writing is too hard and impossible, and far away is too far away for you after all.

The time has come. The year will be coming to a close. And I have a choice to make, or really, I have a choice to find out.... I can settle, or I can shove my life back into that shiny snow globe, and carry it with me on the streets of New Haven or down the hallways of NYU, or into some village in Africa, or maybe, in that little cubby at Eating Well.

I’m five, and you ask me what I want to do when I grow up, and I tell you that I’m going to be an astronaut and ride a bike on the moon. You ask me again at nine, I tell you I’m going to be a famous actress. You ask me again at fourteen, I tell you I’m going to be a country singer. You ask me at sixteen, I tell you I’m going to be a children’s author. You ask again at seventeen, and eighteen and you get the same answer. And when you ask me at nineteen, I tell you, “I don’t know.” I tell you that the economy is bad, that getting an alternative masters would be safe considering I am only an English major, and all the while memories of Africa linger, and thoughts of short stories and novels and children’s poems, but I have forgotten those beautiful things I thought of at five, and nine, and fourteen, and seventeen, and eighteen.

But I’m twenty three. And I haven’t forgotten those beautiful things I once hoped for, and if I did, I remember them now. I don’t know why Africa seems to keep calling to me. I don’t know why writing keeps calling to me, but I’m very sure that neither are going to go away. And I have a choice to make, or better yet, to find out.

The most I hope for is to chase after the things I dreamed of when I was younger, and brave, and if it’s supposed to happen, it will. And if it doesn’t, I’ll chase hard after something else, but at some point, I’ll find just what God has already set before me. And knowing he knows my heart, gives me great comfort that I’ll find
it.