A quick update...

As of today, I have agreed to attend the University of New Orleans low-residency program (my first choice). Because it is low-residency, I do all the work online and then spend a month in Mexico this summer. Should be a two-year program, and maybe next year I will spend a month in Italy. Yeah, I think I can hack this. And yeah, I think I'm getting excited.

Avoidance of ambiguity

This blog is turning into a source of frustration because I simply had no idea there were more than two or three people reading this. Well, I'm going to attempt to be less ambiguous and more clear. At least for now.
The last couple of weeks have been strange. I was in California last week enjoying my friends John and Sung Hee--they bought a new house and are pregnant (married, to avoid ambiguity). They are so generous and hospitable, I considered their offer to let me move out there, but really, I need my space and my quiet.
Sung Hee is this beautiful, petite, tiny Korean gal who weighs as much as I do at four months pregnant. I love this gal so much--John, too, and John and I can't agree on a single thing, so we end up having long and circular conversations. What great fun.
I was at Martin today, going over syllabi and picking up textbooks. This place is so strange: despite the ongoing politics and conflict that I hear about every time I am there, I always feel stronger, better, and respected after I leave there. I'm starting to look forward to the classes this semester.
And the training for Axia College continues. This is turning into a huge, unpaid, timely investment that makes me want to make up a fake resume that may get me hired in a coffee shop or a video store. Maybe next month.
MFA stuff: as of last week, I found out that I have been accepted into both of the programs. This is exciting, but I need to make a decision by, well, yesterday would have been good. I visited Spalding on Tuesday, and Anne Patchett gave a wonderful talk on Bel Canto. She is so humble and funny and human that I almost feel like I can do it, too.
And the writing group: this group of strange writers are so exciting. I'm starting to look forward to spending two evenings a month with this group of men that are ten to thirty years older than me--oh, there is one girl that is my age. This group is so great.
Besides this, I'm pretty boring and pretty straight, still. Here's a good picture of John, Sung Hee, and I. I love my new haircut--compliments of Kate. She did a great job.

On being a single, heterosexual woman

One of my neighbors in South Korea told me that my personality makes me seem much larger than my height. I like this. I took this as a compliment. They also said that I'm boringly straight.
Being single means that I can take off to South Korea with only my mother worrying about me. Being single means that I can take four months off to work from "home"--home being the free rent at my parents' home at the moment. Being single means traveling around the USA and squandering my savings and no one can really get upset about this. Being single means that I can pretend to be a writer and no one can really tell the difference one way or the other.
I was cleaning out my email, and found a series of emails, one or two a day, even on Christmas, for about three months. He reminded me a little of Barack: handsome, educated, fascinating, traveled. He probably had a daughter and even a granddaughter, but this didn't seem too bad because he ran marathons and looked like he could be thirty.
Then, through a bit of gossip, I found out he was probably married.
Being single means that I can be choosy. Married guys are most definitely out of the question. No matter how many times they email me.
And then the adorable Korean guys. If their English skills had been better, I might have asked one of them out myself, but conversations often seemed limited to politics and baseball and movies. I have an appreciation for these things, but really, I spend more time with books and writing.
Being single means that I can be choosy. I don't have to date guys solely on their looks. But, this is a factor.
So, no married guys, a guy who can write a good email, good conversation, more than just a pretty face--God only knows.

On not being gay....

Serves me right for trying to be terribly ironic and writerly and blah, blah.
Just to clarify, I'm not gay.
To follow, "On being a single, heterosexual woman."

On being a single, homosexual woman...

Coming soon. I'm still trying to edit this one.

On coming out of the closet

Anyone who knows me is probably a little interested. Excuse the probably inappropriate analogy.
Let me explain.
I joined a writers' group here in Indianapolis, and I was little terrified--no quite a bit terrified. I imagine these horrible and humiliating scenes. My mind always seems to jump to the worst situation imaginable as I'm drinking too much coffee on an empty stomach and spilling coffee all over one of the stately gentlemen there (oh, wait, that happened already): they laugh at me, they think I am ignorant, they think my ideas are banal, and all the rest. I can usually imagine pitchforks and black hoods in this scenario, but, well, I did read quite a few gothic horror novels.
Last night was not nearly as bad as that. It was quite encouraging actually (and I am going to be cagy and illusive about this as always), but I admitted to one of the other men (yes, the group is primarily men ten to perhaps thirty years my senior) that I have written all my life but have had a difficult time admitting that I am a writer.
"I'm still coming out of the closet," I told him. "I have been trying to come out of the closet for the past year or so."
When I imagine the group of writers yelling and chasing after me with pitchforks to tell me how much they disapprove of me and how ignorant and banal they think that I am, this may not be too different from actually "coming out," if you will excuse the metaphor. I feel like my life is different, like I'm not hiding my true self, like I'm finally starting to live my real life.
Hmmm. I will be following this post with another entitled, "On being a single, homosexual woman."

The Worst American ever makes a feeble attempt

Today, Indiana licence in hand, I decided to attempt to vote. I had only registered a day late, and maybe they wouldn't check every one's registration, and maybe I could blend in with everyone.
I decided to play dumb (which I am good at), and I had prepared a repertoire of semi-defensive, partially accusatory, and possibly obnoxious questions (such as: What do you mean, I can't vote? or I was out of the country, how am I supposed to register out of the country? or How can you deny me my right to vote? or other awful but prepared questions).
So I went to the courthouse, and I was chagrined to find a short line--I wanted to hide in a long line and be another lost face that would stand in line to vote. No go. I walked right up to the registration table, and two people started talking to me amiably, unaware of my unproven guilt. "My address is correct," I said.
"Kristine?" the lady asked.
"No, that is my mother."
"Thomas?"
"No, that is my father."
"There isn't anyone else by that name."
"Oh. Well, I registered late."
And she proceed to call another lady over to contact some unknown person that could reveal my hidden secret.
But I was maintaining my role of playing dumb.
I waited.
A business man came up to the table, and nervously he told them that he would return shortly. Another man, soft face and hands and belly and unnaturally dark black hair stood behind me until I waved him ahead of me. A lady with very large and round glasses stood next to me. I believe she was shorter and thinner than I. She energetically nodded when I told her that I was waiting for them to answer a question. "How long is the wait?" she asked.
"I don't know."
Somewhere around this time, I was tempted to slip in line. Sure, the lady who was calling the unknown authorities still had my licence. Sure, they would probably catch me.
There was a chance that maybe I could cast a ballot before they figured out that I wasn't supposed to.
I hesitated too long. Lisa Hurley was there, and she came over to talk to me. Then the lady with the unknown connections to higher knowledge in voter registration came over to inform me that I had registered too late.
Lisa chimed in. "Didn't you tell them that you have been out of the country?"
"That was my trump card." And then I told the lady, "I have been living out of the country. Isn't there anything I can do?"
"No."
"Okay."
All my courage and bratty questions went out the door. I stood outside with Lisa, talking about the stuff that is going on in our lives. I was trying not to feel to guilty about all of it, so Lisa said I should find a party headquarters and volunteer for a bit.
Not a bad idea, but I have no idea where to look for a Bob Barr or Chuck Baldwin headquarters.

Beading in Iowa

My Aunt Barb's house is only second to Mom and Dad's house. She always has a clean bed or four beds to offer for the night, eggs and bacon in the morning, hot coffee all day long (as is the tradition to drink coffee all day when we girls spend any time together), fresh cookies and candy in jars waiting for the taking--and of course the general air of relaxation and comfort. She is always ready to offer us a beverage or run out to an antique shop.
And Marv is there, too, working on any number of projects in his Man Cave. He asks me, "You are pretty smart, right?" when he wants help with his email. He worries that Leah , his only daughter, is mistakenly signing up to go to Brazil, and she will end up being sold into sexual slavery. And he's making a doll house for one of his grandchildren.
So when Aunt Barb invited us for a weekend of beading, the only question was, "When?"
Kate and James drove the whole way there since I was stressing about all the random work that I need to complete in the next two months and really want done now. Funny, I don't think I have realized how much I look at my hands while I type until I was trying to type on my laptop in the backseat of a darkened car going along a black highway.
Then, yesterday, Meg and Aunt Barb and I unpacked her treasure trove of beads. I have only seen this variety and this quantity of beads in specialty shops. We made all sorts of necklaces, bracelets, earrings and accessories. And Aunt Barb loved all of them--even the odd designs that I am prone to come up with.
And we drank lots of coffee. And we had some great conversations. And we ordered pizza. It could only have been better if Adam and Luke made a surprise visit.
Everybody should have an Aunt Barb. When I was leaving this morning, they packed up cookies for me to take on the road. They stood in the door talking to me, even though they were probably starting to run late for church, but in the process making me feel like they would have me stay longer.