Glad to be Home

I'm glad to be home. Don't get me wrong- London was amazing. So much more amazing than I ever could have imagined it would be. It wasn't even really the city so much, but more the people who were with me, that made it so amazing. But that's beside the point. London was incredible, yes. And Houghton was great too. I have enjoyed my months out and about in the world. But finally, ten long months later, I am glad to be home.

I am glad to be back at home, sharing my tiny bedroom in our tiny condominium with my nagging older sister. I'm glad to be home picking her hair snarls out of the drain in the shower. I'm glad to be home doing my laundry in a room that's only two yards from my bedroom, with my favorite laundry detergent, and getting to pick it up whenever I want. I'm glad to be home eating food with salt in it again, drinking Poland Spring Lime flavored seltzer water and Nantucket Nectar Lemonades and eating Greek Salads from the town pizza house with Cape Cod Potato Chips. I'm glad to be back eating dried pasta out of the bag. I'm glad to be able to give myself a pedicure: nail file, nail polish, remover, and Bath and Body Works walnut foot scrub included. I'm glad to be back home catching up on episodes of Glee and watching my roommate's Netflix and listening to Kimbra and Michael Jackson and Kaki King.

I'm glad to be home where we put cream in our coffee and I can go buy cosmetic products at Lush. I'm glad to be home spending nights in my friend's hot tub or around a campfire doing absolutely nothing. I'm glad to be home smelling the smell of wet dog- invading my bed, my blankets, my pillows. I'm glad to be home, following asleep with her curled up under my arm every night. I'm glad to be home doing book inventory for my old high school English teacher, squashing bugs, sleeping without air conditioning, trying to watch So You Think You Can Dance on a TV that doesn't get cable, listening to crap local radio. I'm glad to be home where there's internet access in my bedroom and the sun in Boston beats down on your shoulders and the people are obnoxious and the people are fast and the coffee is plentiful.

I'm glad to be home, where there are always peanut M&M's, but you can never find the hand held phone, and where I can tell you the name of someone who works in every building down the main street. I'm glad to be home where the smell of the salt sea fills the air when it rains and we never run out of coffee mugs and I can hug my best friend and spend all day with him and his freckles and still miss him when I get home. I'm glad to be home where the only thing you can do when you're eighteen is vote and everything closes by 9 and my parents try to impose curfews on me and I'm absolutely dead broke.

I'm just glad to be home.

Breaking Point (A Lesson In Fiction)

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Rebel Rebel (On Being a Pierced and Tattooed Christian)

Hey there-
I don't know what you're doing as you begin to read this but you might as well stop whatever it is and grab yourself a mug of coffee, or maybe tea if that's your cup, and settle in. Because this is going to be a bit long-winded. That's right people. Finally. Here it is. My take on TATTOOS.

Tattoos. I guess we can begin with an explanation of the tattoos that I have. I can now officially say I have two of them. Both are relatively small, and relatively tasteful, at least in my opinion anyway. They are both done in completely black ink (at this point I have an aversion to colored tattoos; we'll see if that changes in the future). I have a bird flying out of a birdcage on my right foot, which I got done by a really scary looking but awesome guy named Mike at The Underground in Olean, NY. Broadly, it symbolizes freedom. What kind of freedom is up to interpretation. People always ask me if it's "a  real tattoo" because it kind of looks like it's a drawing I did with pen or something, and that can be annoying. Sometimes I tell people it's freedom in Christ. Basically, I've kind of self-imprisoned myself in a lot of things, which I won't get into here. And I guess that tattoo is a reminder that I'm free: God has made me free. If you want to go that far into things. I got that tattoo in September my first semester of college. I was nervous. It hurt. But I love it.

My second tattoo I just got this Saturday, in Raynham, MA. The parlor was called Mandrake Tattoo and the work was done by a BA chick named Annie whom I am now a big fan of. It's also small. The tattoo is located on the uppermost part of my left arm, the very tip of the shoulder. I have the Greek letters for "Ixthus", which means fish in Greek, more specifically the Christian "Jesus fish". If you want a little more back story, during Nero's time when Christians were under heavy persecution and had to meet in secret etc., one Christian would draw half of the fish in the sand with their foot and the other person would finish it off if they too were a Christian. That's where the symbolism of the fish originates. But each of the Greek letters in Ixthus actually stand for something: Jesus Christ, Son of God, Savior. I don't take Greek or anything like that, but I like the look of the Greek characters and the constant reminder that the tattoo is to me. I need that reminder.

I actually got the tattoo also because of its significance to my dad, one of the most amazing, godly people I have ever met in my entire life. My dad and I don't agree on everything; that is for sure (not like that's unusual) but we have always had what I would call a special bond. I love my mom, but I would say she and my sister are closer whereas my dad and I are closer. My dad gets me, usually. He has the same sense of humor as I do, he likes my style, he was pretty cool about my last tattoo and my piercings (my mom's the one that hates them), we both love music. Those are just a few things. We have very similar personalities actually. So when I was thinking about my next tattoo, I wanted to get something that would be obviously meaningful, but would also mean a lot to my dad. I felt like he deserved that much. Now there's this old Baseball uniform t-shirt that my dad has from his days as part of the church baseball team in Pownal, Maine. On the back it says Conrad in big block letters. On the front is the name of the church and its location, but in the center is a big Ixthus fish with the Koine Greek characters written inside. Ever since I was a little girl I thought that shirt was so cool, and my dad used to always explain the meaning of the fish and the Ixthus to my sister and I. The shirt is ratty and didn't fit him anymore: I stole it as a pajama t-shirt years and years ago. When I was thinking about my tattoo and decided I wanted something in Greek, it only made sense to get the Ixthus characters, for my dad. I actually brought the shirt to the parlor and the design is directly copied from the t-shirt. So there's the story behind that one.

So what's the point of all this? Well, I like tattoos. I'm eighteen years old, I was raised in a Baptist church with incredibly conservative parents and, let's face it, people are still trying to get over the fact that our forty-something-year-old married-with-kids worship-team drummer has a piercing. That's the way my church is. Conservative. I mean, conservative.

But I am anything but that word.

For years and years I talked about getting tattoos and my mom prayed that I never would. She was raised by a Presbyterian minister as one of five children during the sixties: I don't know if that has anything to do with the way she is now, but let's just say, sometimes, I think she wonders how on earth she could possibly have spawned me. Now that sounds just mean. It's not meant to be. It's just that, while I love my mom and we do get along for the most part, we are so incredibly different. I have been trying to explain myself to her for years and she still just doesn't get it. She doesn't get my sense of self-expression, the way I dress, the music I listen to, the stuff I do to my hair, the type of things I write about, or why on earth I would want to do something to my body like pierce or tattoo it. She hates it.

I feel bad for the poor woman, honestly. I mean I've reached the point in my life where I've accepted that my mom and I aren't going to see eye-to-eye on everything, and it's okay. I'm okay with it. I've gotten to the point where I can laugh, actually. At Christmastime I showed her my newest piercing, an industrial, which I had gotten without telling anybody, and which she of course hated, and I got a good chuckle out of it. I joke about how she'd better keep the house decorated for future Christmases, because someday I'll have an apartment in Boston with roommates who are pierced and tattooed, and probably pregnant to boot, (because obviously those things go hand in hand), and we'll be living a life of debauchery and squalor, so I won't be able to host Christmas there. Stupid things really. I tease her. She's fairly good-natured, but I think it really does make her sad. She was looking at a photo of my sister and me at Christmastime, in little red coats: I think I must've been about four years old, and she said, Look at how cute that little girl is, she doesn't look like someone who would grow up and get tattooed and pierced. I don't think my mother ever imagined having a daughter who would do things like that, as conservative as she and my father, and my older sister all are.

I was talking to a few friends about tattoos and piercings around that time, also. One of my best friends wanted to get a belly button piercing but had been very hesitant because her boyfriend isn't a fan. The other friend wanted a tattoo, but made the decision not to do it until she gets married and gets her husband's opinion on them.


I didn't really know what to think of that. I think the scenarios are a little bit different and can't be evaluated using the same measuring stick. I do respect my friends, for caring what their significant others have to say: I think that's a good thing, and a nice thing. But you know what? I'm glad that I don't have a boyfriend or a fiance or whatever hanging around right now giving me all his opinions on piercings and tattoos and the lot of it. Because for me, it's about what I want, and the convictions that I personally have. I have to hope that the man that would fall in love with me and want to marry me would love me for just that- for having convictions, for being the type of person who thinks a tattoo is okay, even attractive, and for just being honest and true to my feelings, as cheesy as that sounds. I think a man I could love would love me back, not despite my tattoos, but with my tattoos, because they're part of me, and part of who I am.

I think that's something that's hard for people* to understand, or accept, that my piercings and tattoos are a part of me, that they could be a part of someone. I was talking to those same friends about the possibility of me getting another tattoo on my shoulder (the one that I just got Saturday). The second friend was very opposed to the idea, warning me that a shoulder tattoo would probably be visible with my wedding dress whenever I get married. Oddly enough, that's an argument I've been given more than once, and one I've even succumbed to a few times in the past.

But after she said that, I realized, that's not a valid point with me anymore. For one thing, I don't even believe I will necessarily get married ever. It'd be nice, sure, but it's not something I'm planning on or building my future around. I plan to be single. I'm not making huge life decisions based on the possibility that maybe someday in the distant far future I might have a husband. Just not my style. If I get a tattoo, I'm getting it so people can see it, not to hide it away in some naughty, intimate location under layers of clothing. The fact is, my tattoos (and piercings) are something I'm proud of, and no matter what day of my life it is: I'll always have them. I'm not going to not get one just so I can look pretty and pure and not scare the elderly for one day of my life. I'm the kind of girl who likes tattoos- if you want to be my friend, love me, get married to me, attend my wedding- you're going to have to be okay with the fact that that's who I am. I'm not hiding it, it's there. It doesn't change who I am, but it does add to it.


I'm proud of that, to be honest. I'm proud, most of all, that I'm actually not trying to consider what any guy in my life might have to say on the matter. I have a history of trying to change myself to appeal to the guy I like or the guy I'm with. Believe it or not I told one boyfriend I was into drinking, because he was, and two years later told another guy that I was completely anti-drinking, because he was.


I know, it's messed up, and it's one of the things I least respect about myself, which is why I'm admitting it here and trying to work on it a lot. It's also one of many reasons I'm glad I'm single now, because I'm figuring out who I am on my own, not according to anyone else. But anyway, in a sense, I'm proud of myself for getting my tattoos, because it's what I wanted and I didn't do it or not do it to impress any guy or something like that. It was me.


(Not to say you shouldn't sometimes compromise with your significant other, or even bow to their standards/expectations in certain circumstances. But that's a whole different issue, not going into it here.)

Basically, my point is that, I like the way my tattoo and piercings make me look, I like the way they make me feel. My parents hate them: my sister hates them: the people at my church would be scandalized: my parents aren't even telling my grandmother...my friends are fairly supportive usually, but they don't always love them either. They razz me a lot about them actually; they make fun of me because I always try to be so "edgy." But although they're just teasing and they know my tattoos are meaningful to me, I know that if I get more tattoos, they probably won't like it. And it's not that I don't care, but in the end, that's not going to change anything. Because this is who I am, and it's not an area in my life where I'm willing to compromise to please others.

I'm still a Christian. That hasn't changed. I've had more than one person insinuate or allude to the possibility that my chances of getting into Heaven have diminished too, because I "abused my body" that way or whatever.


Honestly, I don't know about you, but I think that if people with tattoos can't get into Heaven, well then, a lot of Jesus' best servants are going to be left out in the cold. I just don't see that as something that makes sense at all, even a little bit. It's ridiculous.

I'm a Christian girl and I have tattoos and that doesn't make me rebellious or, I don't know, dangerous or even stupid or impulsive or naive. I think it makes me someone who makes decisions and sticks to them, who likes what they like, who appreciates art, and who believes that Christianity is about bigger things than the way we express ourselves through our clothes and bodies and decorations.

God is about more than that.

So, what is my long-winded point?

Just that, if you want a tattoo, get one, because you like it, and you think God is okay with it. Not for any other reason than those. It might make people perceive you differently, but it shouldn't change the way you view yourself.

*When I say people here, I'm talking about Christian people, namely.

Second Semester Blues

Ah, here I am back again. It's been a fairly typical Friday night here at Houghton. Spent most of my evening with some friends, watching The Fellowship of the Ring, which was a pleasant change of scene/company.

In other news, I rang in my second week back here in New York with a gut-wrenching, completely debilitating, all-out miserable stomach bug. It only lasted around 24 hours but then I pushed it by eating "normal food" (and by normal food I mean some goldfish and a bowl of Lucky Charms) too soon and so was out of class Tuesday and Wednesday both. Not the most promising way to start off a semester. But it seems to have passed now and I spent my down time in bed watching heaps of movies of a certain genre which I won't embarrass myself by relating here, and all in all, if that was the only time I got sick this school year, I'd be pretty alright with that.

I've had a few post ideas marinating in my brain over the past week or so (still haven't forgotten about the much-awaited tattoo post) but I'm afraid this particular one will only be a bit of rambling about my week, the semester, my life...as usual. In the future though, we can look forward (I hope) to some more interesting, varied topics. I have ideas! I promise I have them.

Starting off this semester has been confusing, exhausting and, well, lonely. I talked to a friend about it for a long time last night, why I was lonely, how I could get past it, what was the deal with me and all that- and while I didn't come to an immediate solution, the talking helped. Talking always helps guys. You might want to revert into your shell and just let it stew in your own head, keep it to yourself all stoic and tough guy-like- I know that's my personal tendency- but when friends are available to talk, take advantage of it. And be as honest as you can, even if it's tough. It helps.

I've been sad, lately. I know that's ironic considering I posted so adamantly recently about having a happy New Year. (Note that I also bragged, in that post, about how awesome my immune system was...) I can't explain exactly why I'm sad. At this point I think it's just a part of being me: inherent to the individual that is Lizzie Spaulding is a certain tendency to melancholy. Just how I am. I suppose if I were to really try to pinpoint my sadness it would be, as I said, loneliness. A feeling that something is missing. This could be attributed to a few different things: lack of a best friend here at college (something I have not gone without since the sixth grade really), the absence this semester of a few of my closer friends from this school, and not the non-existence of any sort of romantic relationship in my life, but really the non-existence of any desire or plausibility for such a relationship to come to pass. A realization that to live harmoniously, co-dependently, vulnerably, lovingly, and most of all interminably, with another human being- for me- is just...not. Not me. I don't think. But anyway.

So, yes, it's been a rough two weeks. Contemplating a lot of things. Friendships, missing people, emotional attachment, the ever-changing concept of home, of belonging, of self, conditionality in relationships, sexuality, psychological well-being, medication, our duty to share the gospel, purpose, responsibility, morality, Biblical teaching...to name a few. Also, there's been a lot of schoolwork and work-work and writing, writing, reading a bit, writing some more, and then a bit thrown off by that virus. But I'll get back on my feet again guys.

It's hard getting back into the routine of things. But I'll find it again. And I don't expect to have all the answers by the end of the semester, far from it, but I hope I'm somewhere farther along the road than the place where I am now, and most of all, I hope I make some friends along the way.

Until next time mes amis.

With Apologies to the People Who Expect Quality Posts on a Regular Basis

It's early Sunday morning, which means technically I missed updating this week. But you'll have to forgive me, it's been a terribly, terribly busy week. I've been doing lots of things and every possible moment of free time has been spent, well, napping. Deep, all-consuming, really restful kind of naps.

The kind of naps it takes a while to recover from. So that's my excuse, pure and simple. Also this weekend, a friend from Mass actually came and visited me, which is really insane, and cool. She goes to RIT, and she's friends with one of my friend's girlfriends. I think it's pretty crazy that I can go to school eight hours away from home, in the middle of nowhere, and meet up with a friend, who just happened to befriend the girlfriend of a guy I just happened to befriend. I love when life works that way.

Anyway she came and visited, for just about 24 hours, which was nice, just to see her and catch up, so far away from home.

Um um um, that's not what this post was supposed to be about though. I don't have a whole post's worth of thoughts regarding my friend's visit.

Let's compromise okay? This isn't a cop out, I promise, but it is the Christmas season, and it's also finals week, so you've got to cut me some slack and let me just post a list of my top ten Christmas movies ever. That way you can go out and watch them while I study my butt off (who am I kidding, I think I've studied my butt off maybe once in my whole life) and then we can reunite next week, when I've flown back home to good old Massachusetts, and I catch my breath, and I have something interesting and worthwhile to write about again.

...

Who am I kidding? I am the most indecisive person ever and as a result of that I don't that I've ever been able to successfully make a top ten list. So just go, go on, put in A Muppet Christmas Carol and drink egg nog while you set up your tree and think of me being hungry and wanting to put my head through a wall for the next five days.

Until we meet again my friends.

Freshman Woes

Sitting here on the bed in my new home. My "home" is a college dormitory and it has been my home for two days. Two mornings. Two nights. I am fairly certain I am the only one in her dorm room right now and I don't know why that is the case, nor do I like that it is the case, but it is. I am sitting in my dorm room, entirely alone.

My mother keeps texting me panickedly, reminding me how "special" I am and verifying to make sure that I haven't committed suicide yet.

I spent the greater part of three hours in uncrontrollable, though muffled, tears.

You see for some reason, even though I come from a public high school in Massachusetts, where I have always, without fail, had a best friend, it seems that I no longer possess the social skills required to make friends. No- although everyone else around me seems to have settled into it quite nicely, I am unable to make a single friend worth mentioning.

It has been the most miserable weekend of my life. (Even further humiliating because I'm being such a baby about it. Who have I become? A girl who cries! Because she has no friends! I don't even want to look at myself in the mirror right now...)

Am I socially awkward? I don't think so. There are plenty of socially awkward people here, and they've all seemed to make friends. They run around in socially awkward groups. There are cliques of socially awkward people; the socially awkward people are the ones leaving me out right now. I, who spent the day in my room, under a heap of tissues, wondering if I would ever escape this terrible mess that is currently my life.

I don't know how everyone else managed to make friends so quickly or moreso why I somehow didn't. My sister is a sophomore here, she loves it and has wonderful friends.

I just want to make friends myself.

I want Christian friends, for once in my life. Sweet, funny girls who are firmly rooted in their faith and have high standards for themselves and those close to them. I unfortunately am not skilled at making friends with people who I've never talked to before. I'm not exactly shy, but I'm not open. It takes me a while to feel comfortable with somebody, comfortable enough to be myself. And after today, I don't think I blame these people for not wanting to be my friend. I wouldn't really want to be friends with me either.

I start to question whether I am really this dull? How did I never notice it before? There have been times in my life where I have been convinced that I am charming, funny, totally unique and who wouldn't want to be my friend?

This is not one of those times.

I truly don't remember how I made friends before this.

I truly wonder if I will ever have friends again?

Reasons People Consider My Friendship Valuable (And Why You Should Too)

1. I always have gum.
2. I know how to make friendship bracelets! Not only do they make a lovely wrist or ankle adornment, but friendship bracelets are a physical representation of our love and commitment to each other. I mean, key word here: friendship bracelets.
3. I wear glasses. Everybody likes having a person who wears glasses hanging around, because it automatically makes that person seem dorkier ergo, making the original person seem cooler. Also, everybody who doesn't have glasses likes trying on someone else's glasses.
4. I can spell. Obviously a huge asset to everybody who knows me.
5. I know about one hundred and one ways to use a banana. The best being, in delicious and fluffy banana pancakes. Which you can probably convince me to make for you. If you are my friend.
6. I am incredibly gullible. Like seriously. Very. Very gullible. You know that joke about how gullible is written on the ceiling? Well the first time I heard that joke, I looked. I don't need to explain to you why gullibility is just about the most valuable quality a friend could have.
7. I do good impressions sometimes. Thus invoking the hilarity quotient.
8. I know the difference between affect and effect. If you don't believe me, ask me to use them in a sentence.
9. I am 16% Native American. Which means I can pretend I'm exotic and/or a minority and everybody wants to have a friend who is exotic and/or a minority.
10. I can French braid AND knit. I firmly believe that these two skills will save lives one day. As in, the day when we are all stranded on a Swedish mountainside during a snowstorm. In the event that this situation arises, I will not only be able to knit us a blanket for warmth, I will also be able to french braid our hair so that we blend in with the locals. You know you want to be my friend now.
11. I have tons of music! Most people probably wouldn't say I necessarily have good taste, but at least it's varied. That means I am always available to spice up your music collection when it is need of some spicing. Even though my definition of spicy is often Swedish, depressing, or made up of men who sound like women (Mika) and women who sound like men (Brody Dalle). Or struggling, underground hip hop artists.
12. I shower. Every. Day. No exceptions.
13. I have tons and tons of useless random knowledge. This knowledge is vast, intensive, and pertains to such subjects as Jane Austen novels, Coffee beverages and the world of coffee, names of Lord of the Rings actors, how to build a fire, the Brit Pop and New Wave movement, Woodstock, grammar rules, the Bible, quotes and trivia from NBC comedy, the art of archery, where to watch TV for free online, music theory, secrets to delicious chocolate chip cookies, how to make an awesome mix tape, and 101 ways to use a banana.
15. I carry a purse 95% of the time. This means you can count on me to hold your water bottle, sunglasses, chapstick, car keys, tampons, or basically any other item of a reasonable size and weight that you want carried. Plus, for that 5% of the time when I don't carry a purse, I have superb cleavage with amazing storage capacities.
16. I have superb cleavage.
17. I always have gum. And let's be honest, that's enough to convince most people.