Ben Franklin Bridge To I Don't Know Where

Long time, no blog. Yes, I know, it's been awhile. I guess you could say I have been uninspired (excuses), but when CSM presented this blogging contest, I thought I had something I could share. So here it is:

Going into week three of city hosting, I was extremely confident. After some extreme conflict with my map during staff  training, I felt we had resolved some major issues and a summer love had started to bloom. Directions were starting to become really fun for me. Oh, Map 54 K-1 to Map 58 B-2 you say? Challenge accepted. I also felt like I had been doing an exceptional job being able to connect with each of the two unique groups I had the previous weeks. To top it all off, I was having so much fun serving alongside my groups at all the different ministry sites. So as week three was approaching, I was on my high horse. I was made for this job. It couldn’t be easier for me. Little did I know.

            When I first met the two leaders of my serving group, I was slightly nervous but not shaken. They were quite the dichotomous pair. We had the extremely detail-oriented and the 40 year old kid. This would be an  interesting week but nothing I couldn’t I couldn’t handle. Like I said, I was made for this job. I had it down.  I can handle challenges presented by other people. I’m flexible. I’m available. I can be teachable.  Definitely F.A.T.

            Come Thursday, I realized that I was the most challenging part of the week. The students and leaders needed to be F.A.T. for me and not the other way around. I had misread the schedule and thought we weren’t supposed to be at our next site until 1, not the actual time we were supposed to be there, 12:30, and currently, I had led our group to I have no idea, New Jersey. We miraculously arrived but 45 minutes late. When we got there I escaped to the bathroom and sat in a stall crying. I had officially given myself the “World’s Worst Host” title. I know what you’re thinking. Overreaction. Late one day? It happens. But did I mention we had arrived 30 minutes late to our site the previous day courtesy of , you guessed it, me? I like to blame it on the vortex of what is the Ben Franklin Parkway of Philly, but if I am being real, I just use that as a means to not dent my pride.

My students were starting to notice. When students start to notice, it is not a good sign. And they started to only remember all the times I got them lost, and not the times I actually got them places in a timely manner and with no wrong turns. Those times outweighed our lost times, but they didn’t remember that. Naturally. I was sick of the “Why can’t we just use a GPS system?” and “Why are we always lost?” So I had to finish strong. I had to prove that I knew where I was going. It was Friday. If I finished this day without messing up, then they would only remember that last day. A good day. Our first site that day was 30 minutes outside Philly. Okay, that’s fine. I have directions. We missed one turn, and we immediately got back on track, but the kids didn’t miss that wrong turn for a second. They dubbed turning around “Kathleening.” “Oh, we’re just Kathleening again.” Cute. But then it started to hurt. It was really a blow to my confidence. We got back to the city fine for the most part. They got to explore the city on their own for a few hours that afternoon. I only had one major place left to get them that night. Our restaurant. It was only 2 main turns from Old City Philly. Easy enough.

“Kathleen, do you know where you’re going?” “Yes.”

15 minutes later we were on the Ben Franklin Bridge to New Jersey. This officially made it the worst week of my life. Really, God? You were supposed to throw me a bone here. Instead, I am  now in New Jersey. I was really beginning to hate New Jersey. It gave me nothing but trouble. We eventually joined the groups at dinner. Late. I was so discouraged. I did not want to hand out those CSM evaluations that night. I didn’t want to know what they had to say.

Still super discouraged and with a bruised ego, I reluctantly gave them their CSM evaluations. What I read that night after they were all turned in was not what I expected at all. I can’t tell you how many students wrote how much they appreciated me and my hard work. They noted my directions weren’t perfect, but they still appreciated me. And they still got so much out of all the sites. What? How? It was God’s way of telling me, “Chin up, my dear. You are relying too much on yourself.  There is no way this summer is going to work if you keep that up. No, this week wasn’t perfect. And you messed up a lot. You’re not perfect, but that’s okay because I am. And I will use all of your mistakes for good. And I did. And I will continue.” What started as the most discouraging week of my life ended with so much encouragement. I was so humbled. I fully expect more challenging weeks like this to come. Fortunately, God can use my mistakes as much as my victories.

Now I can look back say, “Hey, remember that time I accidentally led a group into New Jersey?” and laugh. I mean somebody had to cross that bridge first (pun intended).

But the group that comes in on Sunday doesn’t have to know about that. Thank God for fresh starts. Never again will I underestimate 2 Corinthians 5:17. The old has gone. The new has come. Because really, the new group is coming, and as far as they are concerned, I am a directions expert.

Ball of Shame

Do you ever have those moments where you relive all of your most humiliating moments in a span of seconds? Yeah, me neither.

However, if I did ever have those moments, I could only guess what those moments would feel like. And based on my extraordinary imagination, I know those moments are quite the phenomenon of shame that I like to call the “Ball of Shame.”

In my studies, I have found that the Ball of Shame is most likely to occur due to humiliation, but it is not limited to only that and may occur in two other circumstances.  

1.    Ball of Shame: Humiliation Edition

This is the phenomenon most previously noted. These only last a span of seconds, but you somehow are able to relive every embarrassing moment you have ever had since shame entered your life. The most embarrassing of those moments from your life seem to be played in HD in your mind. I don’t know how it’s possible for this to happen in a span of seconds, but it does, and it’s rough. Those seconds last for an eternity. Unfortunately, this most often occurs spontaneously, and the trigger is often irrelevant.

For example, you are walking to class one day and you see a mailbox. The mailbox reminds you that you need to send back your Netflix DVD. The Netflix DVD reminds you of how you spent your Saturday. You watched the movie that night, but most of your Saturday was spent at the homecoming football game. At that homecoming football game you got hungry and went to buy some fries. You got in line at the concession stand and realized you were standing behind the guy you sit next to in your Economics class. The guy turned around and said hey. Excited, you returned his greeting. He gave you a confused look and then gave you a slight but awkward head nod, and then proceeded to have a conversation with the guy standing behind you. All of this occurs to you as you are walking to class because of that stupid mailbox. You think of that one humiliating moment that happened the last Saturday and every other embarrassing moment you have ever had flashes before you in a matter of endless, excruciating seconds.

2.    Ball of Shame: Regret Edition

This happens when you are reminiscing about life and you think about something you most recently said or did that you regret. This most often occurs when you are alone and finding ways to waste time. Normally the trigger for this occurrence is much more obvious than the Humiliation Edition because you are clearly asking for it. For example, you are probably sitting alone in your dorm room and Facebook stalking yourself. This is self-destruction at it’s finest. You will find and remember things you regret, and then you find yourself in the Ball of Shame.

3.    Ball of Shame: Gob Bluth Edition

Do the words, “I’ve made a huge mistake,” ring any truth to you? This is very similar to the Regret Edition, but on a much more immediate and on a larger scale. This Ball of Shame occurs immediately after you've made a huge mistake and you realize you can’t do anything to fix it. It’s done and all you can do is the Ball of Shame.

The Ball of Shame looks a lot like this:

The Ball of Shame: A real and frightening phenomenon.

You’ve been warned.

SEC Football: It's Kind of a Big Deal

I still vividly remember the day I figured out that Georgia Football was more than just a game in my household. It was Saturday, November 2, 2002. I was a mere fifth grader. Before this day, football was just a sport to me. A sport my dad really liked. A sport my dad coached. I knew that in our household we cheered for the Georgia Bulldogs.  I knew that before I learned how to talk, I was taught to bark. Yes, Georgia football was prevalent in my life in those mere 11 years I had been living, but at that point, I didn’t understand that football was not “just” a game.

November 2, 2002 was a day to end all days. It was the Georgia/Florida game in good ole Jacksonville, Florida. The Dawgs were on fire this season. We were undefeated at this point. And then, like most of our games against Florida in these past 20 years, we choked. We lost. 13-20.

This didn’t mean much to naïve little 11-year-old Kathleen.  Sad day. We lost, but it happens. No big deal, right? Wrong.

After the game, I remember I needed to talk to my dad about something. What that was, I don’t remember, but that hardly matters in relation to the scene that followed.

I remember walking to my dad’s room. We basically have a no knock policy in my house. We have no regard for each other’s privacy. It’s common for us to just walk into each other’s room without knocking. So I went to my dad’s room and turned the handle on the door like I always did. It was locked. That was extremely strange for me. We never locked doors in our house. So I was forced to knock on the door, an action so foreign to me. My dad was not answering. I didn’t really get the hint that my dad didn’t want to talk to anyone because obviously what I needed to talk to my dad about was more important than anything else he could have been doing. Finally my dad came and opened the door. My mouth was open, ready to talk to my dad about whatever I needed to talk to him about, but quickly shut after I realized that his eyes were wet. My dad was crying. My big, strong dad was crying!
“What’s wrong?” I asked, genuinely concerned.

“I thought this was our year,” my dad responded, choking back tears and then went back into his room and shut the door.

That was the day that it clicked for me. Georgia football was not “just” a game in my house; it was a way of life.

I was enlightened that day, and my dad’s passion for the dawgs officially transferred to me. And since then I have been with the dawgs, win or lose. I was with them when they went undefeated, save Florida, for the rest of the 2002 season and went on to beat Arkansas in the SEC Championship game. I got a sweatshirt to sport that glory, and I still rep it proudly today because that year was my perspective changer. I was most definitely there when they went on to defeat FSU in the Sugar Bowl that season. (sadly not the National Championship game) I was there for them when they won the 2005 SEC Championship game. I was there for them when they went on to the Sugar Bowl that season, only to be defeated by West Virginia. I was there for them during the tragically beautiful 2007 season, also known as the BCS blues, where Tennessee went to the SEC Championship game instead of them because Georgia and Tennessee were tied in the SEC East, but since Georgia lost to Tennessee, Tennessee got to go, even though their season was going no where but down, and Georgia’s season was going no where but up. I was there to watch Tennessee lose to LSU, in a game that I know Georgia so could have won, and then painfully cheered LSU on in the National Championship game, thinking, “that could have been us” with all the other Georgia fans.  Sigh, the BCS blues. I was there to watch the dawgs DESTROY Hawaii in the Sugar Bowl that season. My freshman year at UGA, I was literally there to watch the dawgs have their first losing season since 1996. Now I am here to support my dawgs as SEC East Champions. You best believe I will be cheering them on in the SEC Championship game. (as underdawgs and all). 

Born and raised a Dawg fan, officially converted into a Dawg fan in 2002, I will be there to support them through thick and thin. National Title, we will meet again.

No, I Don't Have an iPhone.

Everyone and their mom has an iPhone.

Except me.

But really. My mom has an iPhone and not me.

She did tell me that once the new and improved iPhone upgrade comes out that I can have her old and decrepit ancient iPhone, and she will get the upgrade. Gee, thanks mom for your outdated gift. (But really Mom, I don’t mind! Really.)

Without an iPhone, you are behind the ages my friends, let me just tell you.
I am hanging out with a group of people, no big, and there always comes a time when you are chilling more than you are talking. So naturally everyone pulls out their iPhones except for me because I don’t have one. They start cruising the internet, finding out what is going on in the world, facebook stalking, and I am just lost. Hmm, who can I text, so I can be cool and on my phone like everyone else? No it doesn’t work that way.  So I am just the girl sitting in the corner without all the information.

Emphasis on the without all the information. I am on a need to know basis and a must know what is going on at all times without anyone actually knowing that I want to know this information agenda, so yes, an iPhone would come in handy.
Also I like sharing facts to make my stories more credible. You know I like to tell stories. (see The Rules of Storytelling post) Sometimes I am stretching for information, and I can’t remember all the facts so I think, “Hey, I need to google this stuff.” Wait. I don’t have internet on my phone.

And what about those times when I have that name or fact on the tip of my tongue, and it is just not coming. I have to wait in misery until I am back and around a computer to look that up. It is not a fun feeling. Trust me.

So needless to say I am behind the times. I am probably missing something really big here. Some feeling of entitlement that only belongs to iPhone holders. Man, I am on the outs. I feel like once I get my mom’s iPhone, I am going to be so far behind in this generation of iPhone holders that I will already be too far gone. There is probably no hope for me.

Oh well, I will just stick to my little blue Intensity II. Yes, the Intensity II. A very fitting phone for me, don’t you think?

Death As Told By the Emotionally Unstable

Another creative writing piece. Yay! I wrote this for my fall semester English 1102 class. The theme of this class was death in literature, if that explains the context of my story. 
 

Death As Told By The Emotionally Unstable

I didn’t ask for this, you know. 

And I don’t know what moron started spreading the rumor that I am this dark, dreary skeletal man. Because I’m not. I’m not skeletal nor a man. They maybe got dark and dreary right, but I don’t have a choice with the cloak. It is part of the uniform. I don’t see why I can’t choose my uniform. I mean I am the Grim Reaper. The Shepherd of Souls.

            They don’t let me make any big decisions. It’s something about me not being emotionally stable enough, which is total bull. I want to see them try to be Death. I have asked them numerous times before that if I’m not stable enough, then why do I have this job. I mean they hired me. Hired me is a sorry description. They like to say anointed, but I prefer threatened. They threatened me. Them in their pinstripe suits. They look sharp, classy even. They actually have a nice uniform. They tell me not to blame them. That it’s not their fault. That if I have so many complaints then I can just go talk to the “Big Guy.” And then they laugh, as I stare at them.

            If you ask me, I don’t even think this “Big Guy” exists. First off, “Big Guy” is a lame name. And second, I have never even met him. And this guy is supposedly in control of me.

            I know what you’re thinking. I could just stop, run away, or something. I tried that. Well I wanted to, but the Pinstripes knocked on my door before I even had a chance to make a run for it.

            I opened the door and they said, “Don’t even try it.”

            I didn’t even question how they knew what I planning on doing, I just responded, “I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to do this.”

            “Why don’t you just take that to the ‘Big Guy’ then?” They said this chuckling.

            “Alright, let me speak to him.”

            They just laughed even harder as I stared at them.

            The next time I tried to quit, I actually wrote a two weeks notice. I had seen people do it all the time on Earth, so I figured it was worth a shot. I made an appointment to discuss it over with the Pinstripes and everything. When I arrived to the main building, Ceci, the secretary led me into a big room where all the Pinstripes sat around a round table smoking cigars. When I walked in, they all looked at me, clearly amused.

            “I would like to put in my two weeks notice,” I announced.

            “The ‘Big Guy’ is going to get a kick out of this,” the Pinstripes closest to me said.

            “Well I’d like to kick ‘Big Guy’” I blurted out before I realized how lame it sounded.

            They laughed.

            I walked out as the door slammed behind me. I didn’t mean to slam the door. It just happened. And this is why they say I am too emotionally unstable to make important decisions. Like I said, total bull.

            Today I wake up from my reoccurring nightmare. Looking in my mirror, I shake my long, chestnut brown hair. I touch my face. I look gaunt. I fear I am turning into that dreary, skeletal man from my nightmares. I stare into my deep brown eyes fearing they will hollow out as I look into them. They don’t, but this still doesn’t convince me. Sometimes I think that the mirror is lying to me. That I really am that dark, dreary skeletal man everybody thinks I am. The rumor had to start somewhere. This is my biggest fear, which is pretty ironic seeing how that seems to be everyone back on Earth’s biggest fear, too.

            Today is Sunday, my day off. The “Big Guy” is religious or something. He doesn’t feel we should work on Sundays. I once asked the Pinstripes what happened to souls that left their bodies on Sunday.

            “Don’t you worry your pretty, little face. The ‘Big Guy’ deals with them,” One of them told me.

            It didn’t really worry me. I was just curious.

            Today like every other Sunday, I go to the Window. The Window is a vast stretch of surface that lies parallel above the Earth. You are free to focus in on wherever and whomever.

             The Window is often reserved for the Pinstripes on weekdays. This is where they do their research. What their actual role is, I am not quite sure. Once I asked them. I shouldn’t have been surprised when they started laughing.

            Like every other Sunday I focus in on him. I stumbled upon him one day. He was so beautiful. So fearless. He was talking about me. He was excited to meet me. Not now, but when his time came. He knew what came after this life had to be so much better. He couldn’t really explain it. He just knew. He was so sure of himself but not in an obnoxious, cocky way but rather in a matter-of-fact, confident way. He even had me sold.

            He has this charming smile. He sees the best in life and in people. He can find the humor in almost any situation. He has two college degrees yet he works odd jobs, and I love that.

            He has been a dog walker for the past two months. I watch him as two Great Danes, Charly and Rover, pull him around on the boardwalk by the San Francisco bay. Even if the smile is off his face, it never leaves his green eyes. It doesn’t matter what he does. I admire how much he loves life, and I love feeling like I am sharing in a part of it. It actually makes this gig as Death bearable at moments. After spending Sunday with him, Charly, and Rover, I head back to my place content. I am always most relaxed on Sunday. Spending Sunday at the Window makes getting up on Monday easier.

            I wake up Monday morning rejuvenated. No nightmares. I look in the mirror and try to find a smile in my eyes instead of the hollowness. I promise myself not to slam any doors this week. Who knows, maybe I will try laughing with the Pinstripes.

            I report to Ceci in the main building to pick up my list of souls for the day. When I open the envelope the whole page is a blur. Only one name sticks out to me in bold print. BENNETT HAYES: SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA. I stop in my tracks. I have never felt faint before, but I think this is what it feels like. I don’t know what to feel. Only one word makes its way out of my mouth.

            “Why?”

            I hear the Pinstripes voices in my head. You can just take it up with the “Big Guy.” Then I hear the horrid laughing.

            In this moment I don’t know whether I want to send the “Big Guy” a thank you note for finally allowing us to meet or to send him hate mail for taking Bennett Hayes’s life away from me.

Bennett and I will meet once, for the briefest of time, and once that moment is over he will move on to the other side, where I will never see him again. I am still frozen in the office as Ceci stares at me.

“Are you alright, dear?” Ceci asks.

I rush out before I vomit all over the floor. I take in the fresh air. I take a deep breath and take the trip I always knew I would have to take. I head down to Earth. I have no choice. Like I said before, I didn’t ask for this. Duty calls.

Creative Writing Piece. Yay!

This is a creative writing piece I did back in my senior year of high school. Enjoy!

 

Installment One: When Somebody Asks You How You’re Doing, You’re Supposed to Say Fine

             You know those movies that make you think to yourself, “Psh, life isn’t like that.” You know those movies. Like the father is cheating on the wife, and in the mean time the daughter takes up a part-time stripper job, while the seven year old son is a child prodigy who has read the dictionary eight times. You know the extremes. The thing is that these movies try to make it as realistic as possible, but funnily enough, the more they try, the less realistic they get. I like to call it the “Only in the Movies” theory because honestly, life is not that dramatic.
            Except mine is. I think it is fair to say my life is more ridiculous than those movies because it is real life. If I were to tell you about my life without notifying you it was a true story, I guarantee you would immediately assume it was some cheesy movie. My life epitomizes the concept of the “Only in the Movies” theory, except it is not in the movies. It is very, very real.

            Exhibit A: My family. Yesterday, for example, dinnertime rolls around. We sit around our rectangular table in our unofficial assigned seats. I guess it was some special occasion because my dad had grilled steak. Medium rare. First off, it was Tuesday. My father never cooks on weekdays, let alone steak. We normally get takeout or cook microwave dinners. You would never know that, however, because it is always very formal looking: The table set, silverware perfectly aligned on the right side of our plate, and a glass of iced water placed on the left side. Our dinner selection, whether it be Chinese takeout or microwave dinners, is placed on a serving platter in the middle of the table. We begin dinner at 6:30, always 6:30, no sooner, no later. If you were to walk into my house come dinnertime, you would assumer it was a formal feast at Buckingham Palace. But seriously.

            This particular night, however, I knew it must have been the equivalent to a formal feast at Buckingham Palace because my dad actually grilled steak. Medium rare. Before I go on, there is something you must understand about my dad. He is a Production developer. And by Production developer, I mean he is a screenplay writer. And when I say he is a screenplay writer, I mean he is a not-very-good screenplay writer. And when I say he is a not-very-good screenplay writer, I mean he does not book jobs. Ever. So I assumed the steak must have something to do with a job he was offered. But then again, the month before we had lobster tails, and the month before that was “Italian Delight,” as my dad called it.
            I remember lobster night quite clearly because my dad and I had an argument. A tiff. “…and he says that if I just give him an initial deposit of five hundred dollars, it will help him get my movie ready to take-off! This is it you guys. This is really it!”
            “Dad!” I interjected. “You’re being scammed!”
            “Are you saying my writing isn’t good enough?”
            “No. I’m saying you’re being scammed.”
            “Rae, I’m sick of your negativity, your cynicism, your skepticism, your pessimism…”
            And he continued on with his list of adjectives to prove his excellence as a writer through his extensive vocabulary. Because that is what a good writer consists of. A large vocabulary, and a large vocabulary only.

            Let’s just say that I ended up being right, but that is a whole other story for another time.

            Anyway, back to steak night. We are all seated in our unofficial assigned seats, my father at the head of the table, and travelling counter clockwise: my mother, younger sister, and my twin brother and I opposite them. As we are seated, I see my dad is about to start his spiel about his movie production offer, when my younger sister, Lyndi, stands on her chair. My mother gasps, horrified, like someone had stripped off their shirt and ran around an ultra conservative Baptist church or something along those lines.

            “Lyndi! Do NOT soil the seat cushion,” she screams. Lyndi ignores her and proceeds to speak as I take a sip of my milk. “Family, I have an announcement to make. I have decided to become a vegan.”
            “What the hell is a vegan?” Jackson, my brother, genuinely asks.

            My brother doesn’t say much at our family dinners but when he does, it is always priceless, and as soon as those words came out of his mouth, I just couldn’t hold it in. Like I literally couldn’t hold in the milk I had just taken a sip of. I spit out all the milk I had just sipped all over my newly proclaimed vegan sister. Lyndi jumps off the chair revolted. My mom gasps again, appalled at the large mess I had just made. I am in hysterics in my chair. I just couldn’t handle the irony of it all: spitting good, wholesome cow milk all over my vegan sister.

            Lyndi yells at us,” I knew you guys wouldn’t understand! You never do!” Overly dramatic, as always. She runs upstairs and slams her door. My dad runs after her. My mom shakes her head, I begin to calm myself down, and my brother shrugs his shoulders. Five minutes pass as we eat in silence, and my brother asks, “But seriously, what is a vegan?”

Internal Dialogue

Today was a lovely day. I got to meet up with one of my best friends Catherine. We do this periodically, and I must say not enough. We were chatting about Harry Potter, Pride and Prejudice, theater, and our idiosyncrasies in our local Barnes and Noble (our go-to location). Then we stumbled upon a marvelous idea.

As individuals, Catherine and I are both pretty intense people, so naturally, together we are a force to be reckoned with in all senses.  We had a wonderful opportunity to perform with each other in a show called Lettice and Lovage. (Yes, we are theatre people if that explains anything at all about our intense demeanors and extreme emotions.) We know how to work with one another. We know what makes the other person tick. We know each other’s strengths.

Cat is very gifted in the verbal department. She is very vocal. She can create very interesting characters through different accents, inflections, articulations, tones, and intonations. Her characters are always very strong through her voice alone. Oh, how I envy her verbal strength.

My strength, on the other hand, lies within the nonverbal department. I wear my emotions on my sleeve, and a person will know exactly what I am thinking just by looking at me. I am very expressive without speaking. My whole life I have received comments on my facial expressions and body language. I am the girl of 10,000 faces.

An extremely talented actor is naturally gifted in both of these departments. An actor needs both of these tools, voice and body, to perform.

So we started thinking of a way we could combine both of our strengths. “What if,” we thought, “we could maximize both those strengths in one character?” So, thus our idea unfolds: a play all about internal dialogue.
I, Kathleen, would be the only person on stage, and my character would be having an internal dialogue with herself. Here is the catch. I do not speak; I am on stage, and my nonverbals are my only tool. Cat would be off stage with a microphone and would be my voice. Her voice alone, would be her only tool. We would have to work together as one character. I would be reacting to Cat’s verbals through my own nonverbals.

Now let me give you a little scoop on actors. We like to be heard and seen. 

Any actor can tell you that they have at least once went through a script and counted how many lines they had. We want to be heard. When we speak, we are the center of attention.

We also like to be seen. I mean, hello, that is why we are on stage. We want people to see us.

So Catherine and I would both have to give up something that is crucial in establishing identity for actors. We give up one crucial tool to focus on our specific strength, and in doing that, we must work together to make a complete character.  Challenging? Yes. We’re excited.

Our goal in this is to bring to light the necessity of both tools. It will also be a very humbling experience because we both have to give up one tool that is crucial to the ego of an actor. I will have no lines. Painful. Cat will not be seen. Painful. However, together we will be seen and heard. Together we are one character.

We are currently working on the script.

Coming soon! (As in maybe next year, or maybe 10 years from now)

The Rules of Storytelling

The Rules of Storytelling:

1. Assume your story is the most important story ever.

2. Always tell the truth, but don't be afraid to exaggerate. When in doubt, fluff it out.*

3. The more excited you are about your story, the better it tends to be.

4. Expression, expression, expression. Facial expressions, hand gestures, and body movement always make your story at least 12 times better. Act it out! Storytelling is all about your delivery. 

5. Use props if available, but don't overuse them. The props don't have to necessarily be accurate according to your story. In fact, inaccurate props have the potential of making your story even more humorous. For example, a table can be used in the place of a car. People can also be used as props.

6. Make sure your story is detailed. A story without details is boring. Details spice it up. However, an overly detailed story becomes too long and hard to handle. So keeping kitchen spices in mind remember, No spices: Tasteless. Too many spices: Ridiculous.

7. Never let anyone interrupt you in the middle of your story, not even if you are tag teaming it. It causes you to lose momentum. If you find someone trying to interrupt your story, increase your volume and talk over them.

8. Don't allow questions until the end. Again, it makes you lose momentum.

9. Side-stories and random facts are highly encouraged. However, the side-story must make sense within your story and the random facts must be relevant. 

10. No matter how poor the response is once you complete your story, never, never EVER end a story with "And then I found 5 bucks." You are just confirming the story's failure. Own your story with pride, because remember, it IS the best story ever.

*Clause: The only time you are allowed to flat out lie is when you are telling "scar"ry stories. If the story of how you happened to get a scar is pretty lame, you can make it have a heroic spin. For example, I am clumsy, and I often have a tendency to trip over my monster feet. So naturally, my clumsy stories turn into heroic stories about how I saved little kids from getting hit by cars.  

I hope you may find this useful for your next story-telling endeavor. Print it out and study it if you must. 

Climbing the Cool Ladder

I especially like being the center of attention. I thrive on it. I thrive on it so much that sometimes I hate being in a large group of people. This may sound ironic, but let me explain myself.

When I am in a large group of people I realize I am not the center of attention and that really bothers me. So do I stop trying to be the center of attention? Of course not. I start overcompensating. I start talking louder. I repeat myself numerous times. I say something I just know will grab somebody’s attention.  99% of the time this still doesn’t work. My comment or story just floats off into the abyss never to be heard, and in the rare circumstance that it is heard, it just sounds really stupid.  Anytime you start yelling about the time you rolled your ankle in the mountains of Costa Rica and repeat it about 23 times in the midst of 10 other yelling people, your story is automatically going to sound lame. It just doesn’t sound right in the midst of 10 other yelling people.

But do I stop yelling and repeating my story? No, because my story is the most entertaining and important story in the group of the 10 other people. I just know it is. I know if people were to actually listen, like really listen to the story about how I rolled my ankle in the mountains of Costa Rica my cool credibility would go up a few notches. And if my cool scale went up a few notches then people would be more apt to listen to what I have to say because I would be “that” girl. That cool girl with the awesome stories. That girl everybody wants to be around and know.

However, the more I try to be “that” girl, the farther away I get from her. I lose creditability on the rare occasion my story is heard because let’s face it, the more important you try to make your story sound by yelling and repeating it, the less cool it sounds. Let me just try to give you an example in writing:

HEY! HEY GUYS! I HAVE A GOOD STORY, LIKE REALLY, LISTEN, LISTEN: SO THERE WAS THIS ONE TIME I WAS IN COSTA RICA, IN COSTA RICA I WAS IN, IN THE MOUNTAINS OF COSTA RICA, IN THE MOUNTAIN OF COSTA RICA, I FELL INTO A HOLE, AND ROLLED MY ANKLE. SO THERE I WAS, WITH A TWISTED ANKLE. IN COSTA RICA.

Let me just point out the main, obnoxious points:

1.     All caps are equivalent to yelling. Who likes all caps? No one. Who likes people to yell their stories? No one.

2.     Notice how many times I repeated myself? Not really necessary. It’s actually pretty annoying.

3.     Notice how many times I used Costa Rica? That was my go-to point because I thought people would automatically want to listen because I was in the mountains of Costa Rica. I thought people would be impressed. No, people aren’t actually impressed, just even more annoyed because you just sound pretentious.

And here I am writing about this because I know. I know how annoying I sound, but do I stop? No. I want to make my way up The Cool Ladder! I want people to hear my awesome stories. I promise you they are good stories. Really. But, alas, I am in a vicious cycle. I know what I am doing, but I can’t stop! The harder I try to climb that ladder, the more I slip.  I just want to be cool.

But I have been deceived.  I am climbing up the wrong ladder. I am climbing up the Self-Importance ladder. That ladder has no end. You can never reach the top of that ladder. The more important I try to make myself, the more I slip. The ladder right behind that ladder is “The Cool Ladder.” Many are invited to climb this ladder but few are actually chosen. Few are chosen to be the “cool” people because there is one little rule that is too hard for people to make sense of.

The rule is this:

Philippians 2:3-4

Do nothing out of selfish ambition or vain conceit. Rather, in humility value others above yourselves, not looking to your own interests but each of you to the interests of the others.

When you understand this rule, you have chosen to climb “The Cool Ladder.” That ladder is much easier to climb, and there is a destination at the top. When you reach the top, you have reached the “it” factor. You are cool. However, you must put the interests of others before your own interests to climb that ladder.  The more you are willing to listen to other people’s stories and help others out, the more likable you become. The more people want to be around you.

Maybe that is why Jesus was so cool.