Awkward Truths

"i can kill some fried chicken"

tried to hit the main food groups

"i wonder if they  have shrimp cocktail up in this joint" 

we're the fun Bible study

-bRob

harumphhhh

I think I might just sleep forever. 3.89 all-nighters in a little over a week.

Longer letter later,

-bRob

Das Leben des Maedchen

[The life of the girl]

These past few weeks have been crazy busy with projects. And not cute DIY art projects where I make my own lampshades or dye my own headbands [this is not the blog you are looking for]. These projects are the kind where you design your own distribution center or improve rotor production at a local aircraft supplier. For example.

and now it's finals time. Studying is not going super awesomely right now. If you know me this semester, then you'll understand. If you a) don't know me or b) haven't seen me in a few months - senioritus has hit HARD. Believe it or not, I used to care a lot about school and earning delicious grades - it was kinda my shtick. Watching me study now, however, is probably somewhat comparable to watching -- ok, I can't think of a metaphor (simile?) dramatic enough. But it's disappointing.

Also, I've been thinking about some things I've been struggling with, and how tedious and, full disclosure, sad it can be to face some of the same challenges again and again. This isn't melodrama, this is me being real with you. Some days I would rather ignore or even give into my struggles.

I remember reading this about a year ago, and it seems pretty relevant:

“Make no mistake,' He says, 'if you let me, I will make you perfect. The moment you put yourself in My hands, that is what you are in for. Nothing less, or other, than that. You have free will, and if you choose, you can push Me away. But if you do not push Me away, understand that I am going to see this job through. Whatever suffering it may cost you in your earthly life, whatever inconceivable purification it may cost you after death, whatever it costs Me, I will never rest, nor let you rest, until you are literally perfect - until my Father can say without reservation that He is well pleased with you, as He said He was well pleased with me. This I can do and will do. But I will not do anything less.” (C.S. Lewis, Mere Christianity)

Truth. The journey to perfection does not always follow the easy path I'd prefer. And in those moments it can be so tempting to push the Lord away. Sometimes I do.

One thing I rest in, though, is that I have a God whose love is unwavering, despite my hesitation and reluctance. I know that one day I will look at that hesitation and think how nonsensical it is. How can I run away from the one Person who loves me perfectly and wholly?

My accountability buddy and future roomie, J, made me this incredible paper chain. Whenever I am struggling, she told me to take one loop off the chain and read what's inside.

Isn't that incredible? She's a beautiful person. God has blessed me richly with her friendship.

Anyways, on a less serious note...

In case you haven't heard about my life recently -  I've decided to postpone grad school for the time being. In what I think was sort of divine, a kind of dream job presented itself, and I have signed on as an entry-level consultant at a virtual firm.

And by virtual, I mean I get to live wherever I want and travel a lot. Seems aight to me.

Also, I don't begin work until this fall, and all of my summer plans have fallen through...so...you know, plan something fun and invite me. Ok?

Just kidding.

but seriously.

In the meantime, I've got to study for some finals. Just a little bit longer...

a highly irrelevant picture.
i took the manufacturing club on a tour of the a local brewery...where they manufacture beer...
also, no one from the club showed up, but some other IE friends did. 

-bRob


PS - I want to say a big THANK-YOU to all of my readers! This past month was Conversations' biggest month yet! While that may be due in large part to a Russian spam-bot and people googling for pictures of Ron Swanson without a beard, I'm still encouraged! Your sweet [or sassy =] comments are always wonderful.
Here's some Webs love for you:

 via andysamberg.blogspot

Be a Good One

Editor's note: This is a rant. I'm sure in the light of day I'll re-read this and feel fairly embarrassed. But for right now, I'm going to have what I will call my "Jerry Maguire" moment and pretend that these words I've written are marginally insightful and...dare I say it? Revolutionary. Please leave me to my delusions.

My university has two drastically different subcultures. Ok, in reality, it probably has about a billion. But for the purposes of this post, we're going to focus on perhaps the greatest divide on my campus.

My school is most often recognized for its engineering and science colleges. However, a large percentage of our student body is comprised of what we've dubbed the CHASS (college of humanities and social sciences) majors.

Maybe it's because our society values scientists and engineers very highly right now, maybe it's because our engineering school is ranked higher than the social science colleges at the university [that is a factual statement, not a judgment call] - but for whatever reason, the CHASS students tend to get a lot of flack for studying humanities. Mostly from the engineers.

In reality, when someone in college suggests that one major is easier than another, odds are, they're not talking about the rigor of the major. They're making a statement about the students' intellects.

Obviously, depending on how sensitive you are [which I am], that is insulting. And also definitely judgmental.

A certain sect of engineers tend to assume they are God's gift to earth. And that same group is very vocal, at least at my university, about their own supposed intellectual dominance over our CHASS majors. I can understand why, then, a lot of the CHASS majors bristle around us engineers.

 However, I was telling a friend earlier that a major doesn't define someone's intelligence. You are some degree of intelligent or unintelligent, and what you study won't change that.

This friend laughed at me and said, "I'll remember that next time you talk about CHASS majors." What?


Her flippant statement was markedly unfounded  and highly offensive - I have no beef with students who choose to study something other than what I study. Truth moment: I legitimately struggle with pride, but it has nothing at all to do with what people choose to study, and more to do with the high success rate of my blog [...sure].

To extrapolate that I, as an engineer, must think CHASS majors are in some way inferior to me, is reverse-judgmentalism.

Which we all know isn't a real thing. It's straight-up judgmental.

Here's me, being real with you: I don't "talk" about humanities majors. You know why? I don't honestly care what your major is. I've met enough people to know that people thrive when they're doing what they're called to do. If you're doing whatever the good Lord has led you to do, then I am sincerely happy for you. Whether you're analyzing poetry or calculating stresses in cantilever beams. Go forth and conquer. Veni vidi vici. All that stuff.

To quote Lincoln, Whatever you are, be a good one. And do it with the confidence of someone pursuing something she loves.

You do you, let me do me.

Also, in two weeks when I graduate college, I doubt I'll care what you ever majored in.

How many CHASS majors are in this photo?
Oh wait, it doesn't matter.

-bRob

How Twenty-Something Years of Being My Father's Daughter Prepared Me for Doing Taxes

Oh man. My life. This week has been a series of events that make me roll my eyes at the cosmos and think, typical. Only in bRob's world.

 I just finished filing my taxes, which has put me in the foulest of moods. These taxes have been a laborious and drawn-out process. I only finished them after a ton of whining and pleading with my father, begging him to help me because obviously these things are not meant for me to figure out by myself.

Which sounds  a lot like how the past twenty-some years have gone.

this picture is not a good look for either of us.
but i will remind you that you do not read because i am glamorous.

When my dad helped me move in and out of the dorms [back in the day], we always had this really sweet tradition. He told me a week beforehand, "bRob. HAVE YOUR STUFF PACKED IN BOXES AND READY TO GO." [my dad lives his life in CAPS LOCK] 

And I stuffed about three things into one box and left the other stuff in "piles" [read: exactly where it had been] to be put into boxes. Dad arrived and immediately began CAPS LOCK-ing, "bRob, I TOLD YOU TO PUT THE THINGS IN THE BOXES. WHY DID YOU NOT PUT THE THINGS IN THE BOXES."

And I always responded, "but dad i don't have boxes how do i pack things in boxes when i don't have boxes" [not to go all The Sound and the Fury on you, but that's how a live my life - without punctuation or capitalization].

My dad, all piss and vinegar, stormed around helping me put stuff in the extra boxes he had laying around the house while mumbling, "I SHOULDN'T HAVE TO HELP YOU PACK ALL YOUR NONSENSE", and then we awkwardly carried about 1003 different hairbrushes and pencil jars down three flights of stairs. Then he made me take him to the dining hall for dinner.

Every. Single. Year.
bless his heart.

Doing my homework, from gradeschool to high school, was oddly similar. Pops always got stuck on homework-helper-duty. Each time he began the same way, "HAVE YOU READ YOUR TEXTBOOK?"

No. Who does that?

His inner mathematician would begin somewhere with Aristotle, do some elusive black magic derivations on his homemade chalkboard for about thirty minutes, and then turn to me expectantly.

To which I responded in a voice that might recall that of a banshee's, "iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii don't get itttttttttttttttttttt. this is stupid. i'm quitting. i don't need to know this. this is stupid. that's not how mrs. bradshaw did it. this is stupid. you're wrong."

I don't know how to type so that you'll understand I was whining-screeching, but imagine that in your head.

Dad huffed, "YOU HAVE TO UNDERSTAND WHERE THE EQUATIONS COME FROM BEFORE YOU CAN USE THEM. GOOD STUDENTS LEARN WHAT THE EQUATIONS MEAN." [10 years later and I'm still not sure].

After a lot of yelling [him], a lot of tears [me], a bit of flailing on the ground [me], and throwing textbooks [me], Dad would inevitably storm out of the room, red-faced and convinced his daughter would grow up to be the sort of girl who throws textbooks at walls and decides she should have been a photographer. It should be noted that he was right. It should also be noted that Mom was suspiciously silent during these episodes. Mom, I know you were in the next room. I could hear you breathing.

Probably thirty-seven minutes later, Dad would, temporarily calmed, come back into the room to find me sulking and glaring while post-sob hiccuping. He knelt down beside me [i had a thing about sitting on the floor], and slowly but surely explained how to factor polynomials and, later on, something about Euler.

I finally understood. He looked over, asked  me if I understood, and I, crinkling my face as sourly as possible, begrudgingly mumbled "kind of only a little."

And that, my friends, is how tutoring in bRob's house worked.

Now, a trillion days later, I called my Dad to help me with my taxes.

Every five minutes during the conversation, Dad states, "WE HAVE A GUY TO DO OUR TAXES. WHY DON'T YOU HAVE A GUY. YOU SHOULD JUST GET A GUY. I HAVE A GUY SO I DON'T HAVE TO DO TAXES."

bRob goes, "Daaaaaaaaad I can't do it and it's your fault because you told me to do this and ...." [fill in the ... with any number of ridiculous reasons]

Dad goes silent on the other line, and I know, by his huffy breathing, it's because he's trying hard not to mentally strangle me. "I GOT A GUY SO I DIDN'T HAVE TO DO THIS STUFF."

"i know Dad but i don't have a guy because i'm poor."

"YOU SHOULDN'T HAVE WAITED UNTIL THE LAST MINUTE."

"i started a week ago but you told me not to file yet"

"I HAVE TO GET UP AT 5:30AM TOMORROW MORNING."  [to be fair, it is 1am]

This time there is silence on my line, which I think my Dad figured out was because my lip was quivering and I was about to throw something at a wall. Probably a textbook.

Dad says he'll talk to his guy and call me back the next day.

He calls me back and tells me a bunch of complicated things that require I pull out a calculator, which I try not to do, seeing as I'm about to graduate and all.

"ugh Dad are you sure i have to do all this stuff because taxes are stupid and i am currently getting a federal refund of twelve dollars"

"YES. EVERYONE HAS TO DO TAXES. SUCKS TO BE AN ADULT, DOESN'T IT."

Eventually Dad and I get into a dispute as to whether or not I should enter a certain form. Cue the yelling and waterworks.

"I HAVE TO BE UP AT 5:30AM TOMORROW MORNING. MY BATTERY IS DYING."

"fine! i'll figure it out!" With the most illogical of resolve, I dramatically hang up and carry on with my taxes, which has really just devolved into pouting and scrunching my face at the laptop screen.

My brain chips in, " if the IRS wants to audit me, be my guest! Screw the PoPo, I ain't scared of no PoPo!"

I contemplate crying.

 Just like ten years ago, Dad called me back to once more, and gives me one more redemptive chance as he  patiently explains what I should do.

And just like that, my taxes are filed.

Same time next year, Pops?

-bRob