To the girl with "crack" in my geology class

Hello,
You sit in the row in front of mine, one seat to the left. The squeaky stools are uncomfortable to us all, and one most practically plan ahead to dress appropriately for the fashion faux-pas they threaten. But you, my geologist friend, have neglected to notice the full view the back-less seats offer.
The waist on your jeans are way, way too low. Each week your pants don't just creep lower and lower, they free-fall as soon as your butt makes contact with the seat.
And there I am, along with the rest of the class behind you, trying not to notice what even a plumber would find shameful.

At first I considered telling you, out of consideration for your feminine modesty, but as my shyness delayed any attempt, I decided you surely must know what you are doing. How could you not feel the cool air conditioning on your skin? Sixteen square inches is a lot of space to neglect feeling a breeze, and you show at least that.
A friend suggested your display was purposeful, that you might find the "coin slot" desirable. If that is true, take it from me, it is not. And the two guys behind you who snicker everyday. Be glad they haven't produced their camera phones.
You seem like a really nice girl, and we even have some things in common.
Like spinach in your teeth, or a booger in your nose, sometimes you just don't know when you're embarrassing yourself. So take this passive hint, and pull your pants up.

"The Shack" Where boredom meets eternity...

I recently received a gift card to Barnes and Noble and immediately endeavored to spend my $20 on the most worthwhile reading material I could afford. I browsed through hundreds of books, considered buying a couple from my favorite authors, Cormac McCarthy and Paulo Coelho, and then began to browse the New York Times best-sellers.
At the top of the list was The Shack: Where Tragedy Confronts Eternity

I was intrigued by the title, and even more so by the book's location, right here in Oregon. Deciding to try something new, and because the price was right, I purchased the book. By the time it arrived I was so excited to have something new to read, especially something that spent weeks at the top of the New York Times best-selling list. Within five pages of reading, I began to wonder what was so special about this story.
For one, the writing was incredibly amateur. I could hear my writing teacher's voice in my head, correcting the bad grammar and long, boring dialogue.
Second, the theological concepts presented in this book were neither difficult to understand or new to Christian thought. Sure, they are not widely accepted by modern Christianity, but neither are they new and profound. This books asks the same old questions, "Why is there evil in the world?" "Why do bad things happen to good people?" "How can I be closer to God?"

Not only was the dialogue poor and the writing amateurish, but the story itself never completes itself. The end of the book drops off like a poorly written soap opera that is out of ideas. There is so much talk of "the little lady-killer," that by the time he is exposed in the story no details are given. This book is all theology and only wannabe crime drama, with little to offer the reader who wants to know the whole story.

"The Shack" is an OK book for anyone interested in serious literature. It is a GREAT book for the serious Christian, who I imagine are the ones that shot this thing straight to No. 1 on the list.

What really gets me about this story are the amount of Christian authors who are making a fortune just writing about it. For instance, a search on Amazon.com of the book's title brings up "Finding God in The Shack," and "The Shack: Unauthorized Theological Critique." What's most amusing is that these books, which attempt to explain the already simple, are selling for more than the actual book.

Go ahead and read it if you are still interested, I think I'll be passing this one off to the very first person who wants to take it off my hands.

"If I read that headline one more time..."

A few weeks ago I had the rare opportunity to visit my older sister in Portland, who was visiting with her new beau, Mark. As we walked down SW Park, sun shining down on us and the noise of cars and passers-by in our ears, she asked my why I was not writing anymore.
I actually had not considered it deeply before, and it only then occurred to me that it had been a few months since I had posted anything.

"Oh, I've been writing," I told her self-consciously, "it's just all on paper at home and I don't feel like sitting in front of my computer to type it up. There's no feng shui in that corner of the house..."

My sister told me she checked my page all the time, and was tired of reading the same headline again and again.
"Besides," she told me, "I like your writing. It's clever and funny."

"Hurrah! Yes! Awesome!" Every word of pleasure and satisfaction came streaming into my head.

I vowed then and there to keep writing. I know it's been a few weeks since that point, but I did some thinking and decided where I want to head with everything I put to paper. I want to be clever and funny, I want to say what's on my mind, and I want to be a little more "out-there" than some might recommend for a budding reporter.

So thanks for reading after all this time, even if it's just you after all this time off, dear older sister.

Wait, your name is Lydia, too!?

On the first day of class this term, my geology teacher called my name and I answered as nonchalantly as usual. I was never expecting to be interrupted by a second hand going up in the air, that of the girl next to me. As I slammed my hand down in confusion over this interruption, my teacher informed me,
"Lydia, there is another Lydia in this class."
"No way!" I thought to myself, "I never meet other Lydias!"
On the few occasions when I have met someone with the same name, they have always shared the same excitement as me, I expected the same from this girl, who even looks a bit like me (freckles, light skin, thin).
"Wow! This is weird!" I exclaimed to her, "How do you spell it?"
She gave me a weird look, rolled her eyes and said, "L-Y-D-I-A. How ELSE would you spell it?"
I proceeded to tell her that I have had my name spelled all kinds of weird ways, including "Lideah," "Lydea," and the more common version, "Lidia."
This version of my name just smirked at her friend and didn't seem interested.
My sisters always joke that people with the same name often share characteristics. All three of us know never to date a guy named Josh, he's going to be full of himself. And Steve, well he's going to be a manipulative a**hole. It's just the law of the universe.
Meeting this bitchy, eye-rolling version of "Lydia" was a little much for me. I wonder if she's a reflection of me in some way, and all the previous Lydia's I have met were a reflection of a much happier, better me.
Bull-shit. I was totally nice to her, some girls are just bitches.

P.S. Maybe I will give the next Josh I meet a chance, too.

Dr. Google?

I love Google. If I can’t spell a word, I Google it. If I need to settle a late-night argument about the biological difference between dwarves and midgets, I Google it. Video game walk-throughs? Google. News? Google. The options are endless for the every-day Internets user. But what about doctors caring for patients? Is using Google appropriate then? I hardly think so.
Recently I took my seriously ill husband in to the Benton County Health Department, located in Corvallis, where he was being seen for Grave’s Disease and hyperthyroidism. After three months of treatment I expected the doctor who had seen us each at each visit to have some knowledge of my husband’s disease and treatment options. I expected the doctor to be familiar with my husband’s symptoms and even (gosh!) the medication he had been prescribed at this very clinic. I was wrong. Instead this doctor stared blankly at my husband, turned to his computer, and before our very eyes, he Googled my husband’s disease.


After three serious minutes of clicking on random links and staring for perhaps thirty seconds at a page from WebMD.com, our doctor was a verified specialist in Graves. Or so he thought. He told us my husband’s symptoms weren’t an issue (his skin was yellow and he was bleeding from his ears…) and to get some counseling to deal with stress. He then went on to say he couldn’t find any substantive information and dealing with this disease was “above his pay grade.” Or maybe he just realized his own incompetence and that Google, as useful as it is, was not going to help him be a good doctor.
When my husband was diagnosed I too used Google to find information on his disease. I spent countless hours late at night reading any information I could find. Medical reports and journals, WebMD, entire books published by endocrinologists about Grave’s Disease. The amount of information found on Google was overwhelming, and would take even the fastest reader more than three minutes of searching to come up with consistent and accurate information. Anyone with a writing class on campus knows you can’t believe everything you read on the Internets, it is what our teachers tell us on day one. So why was this doctor I was paying $300 a visit using Google, and seemingly nothing else, to find information?
As patients we need to demand more of our doctors. We need to demand the best care possible, and that includes having informed doctors who are prepared to disseminate, organize, and find the facts in the information we, the patients, find on Google. Everyday people can use Google to find information, but doctors need to be held to higher standards. These people make decisions that can affect our health, and our lives, and must be prepared when we seek their help and advice. Google doesn’t cut it.
Next time you make a visit to your doctor’s office, take a look at what he or she is doing on their computer. Be prepared to question the source of their information, and the extent of their knowledge. I checked with an endocrinologist in Portland, and it turned out everything the doctor at the Corvallis Health Department had told us was wrong, and down-right dangerous. So don’t leave your health and the health of your loved ones in the hands of Google, I am glad I didn’t.

P.S. Cartoon courtesy of Clagnuts Cartoon Blog
If you created this and don't want it used, please let me know.

I've lost it

Yup, it's gone. The "it," that which gave me a flair for writing, is gone. I'm not sure where it went, but it disappeared somewhere after my first disastrous Geology midterm and a bout of insomnia.
It's not like I don't have ideas. I have so very, very many. I even wrote one short entry entitled, "To the girl with "crack" in my Geology class," but it just didn't seem to have the humor I was looking for. I just didn't "feel" it.
I had personal dilenmas I could discuss, politics, family, my life has actually been very interesting the last couple of months. Definetly not fun or exciting (unless you like disaster and retribution stories).
I have, in my defense, written stories and produced photos for The Commuter. Here is my article about the college's decision to close the photography lab
And I even offered up my opinion on illegal immigration, which actually made me think hard about it for the first time.
So, I am not entirely brain-dead, I've just lost my spark and I am fishing around in the dark trying to find it.
As my fingertips hit each key, I can feel them inching closer to finding "it".

The Commuter Does San Diego

Last weekend I traveled with the rest of the Commuter staff to San Diego, California, to attend a college journalism conference. Despite my anxiousness at leaving my family and other responsibilities behind, it turned out to be a trip I will never forget, and for all the right reasons.

I always wanted to drive through the Siskiyou Mountains and see Mt. Shasta. The brilliant red soil, green ferns, and towering trees that lined I-5 were much different than the clay-packed flat landscape that surrounds the Willamette Valley. We stopped for a break in the amusingly and ambiguously named Weed, California (a logging town named for it’s founder, Abner Weed). The view of Mt. Shasta covered in snow and surrounded by brilliant blue sky was unforgettable.

Sixteen and a half hours after leaving Albany, we arrived in San Diego at 3:30 a.m. Too exhausted for sleep, the occupants of our van crawled out into the 70-degree air to look at the landscape of palm trees and skyscrapers silhouetted by the city lights and nighttime sky.

The next morning it was difficult for those of us who made it to the keynote speech to stay awake. After lunch my friend and co-worker MaryAnne played guitar by the pool. The weather was better than I remembered it could ever be in my birthplace, warming my skin as I closed my eyes and listened to MaryAnne’s beautiful voice carry across the breeze.


After attending a series of classes about the future of journalism and the importance of developing new ways of communicating in our Internet-charged society, I learned a few important things:
There is little to no money in journalism, i.e. get a side job.

There is no set future for journalism, and few ways to pay for it.
The Commuter has the least-paid staff with the best newspaper in the country. Hands down.

I have more confidence than ever in our newspaper. We were original, the others were cookie-cutter. We had magazine-style covers, the others were generic black and white. We also generated all of our own content, and never rely on other news outlets for material. For our under-funded newspaper and barely compensated staff, we have a lot to be proud of. This trip proved that to all of us.

After four days of learning about our future careers, unpaid or not, it was time to come home. Some of us were ready for our own beds, or missing our families. I was ready to stay forever. Having grown up in southern California, I realized how much I missed the palm trees and sun. I missed the fancy cars and well-manicured landscape. I missed the authentic Mexican food. I missed everything about California. Ok, not the traffic, it’s true. I also wish my fellow Californians would learn how to use their blinkers when driving, because I never saw one used once the entire drive each way.

After arriving home at 4 a.m., I was too tired to sleep. I looked at my photos and regaled my husband with stories. When I finally woke up the next day, I missed my friends who had been on the trip. I wondered where they were and if they wanted to go to the pool or the Mexican restaurant across the street. I wondered where my assistant was and why she hadn’t made me coffee yet. Then I remembered that I was back home and this was my real life. I put on my make-up in the mirror and smiled at all the memories I had from this trip. The Commuter staff grew closer as friends and co-workers, and we became better journalists. Although the return to reality was tough, the thought of applying everything we learned to our paper, and our newfound confidence in what we do, is exciting and fulfilling.