Graf 7 revised

Overweight
depression
hopelessness
mood swings
activity
diet
exercise
mental health
perceptions
mindfulness
yoga
tai chi
stretching
step class
hula hoop
fuel
basal ganglia
meditation
self awareness
relationships
obesity
physical fitness

Graf 7

Well, since I must brainstorm and since I am pretty sure what I want to write about, I will brainstorm with a topic already in mind, the history of lying. Here it goes:

Abel and Cain
Commission
Omission
Convenience
Adultery
Dave Barry
Taking advantage
Legal
Ethical
Fantasy
Reality
Fear
Disrespect
Respect
Wanting respect
Cheating
Cover up
Hiding
Satan
Believing a lie
Betrayal
Covet

I think I have enough to do a fairly interesting paper, so there is my requisite brainstorming.

Graf 6

I hope I don't lose track of my graf numbers. It's like my password at work. Each month I have to change it, so I just change the number at the end. And I hope I don't lose track of that number. Anyway, I need to write this graf on what makes me unique. Let's see:

Birthmark on my neck that looks like dirt
Ratty slippers
Big, knobby hands
Unruly, curly hair

Oops, wrong graf! Anyway, there is one thing that makes me somewhat unique, or at least a unique member of an exclusive club. I have three tattoos. These tattoos are a symbol of a rather stressful time in my life, but also a triumphant time. Two of the tattoos are under either side of my ribs and are not noticeable to the general public. But the third is located just below the collarbone and many people remark on it. "Hope, you have a piece of lint on you" someone will say as they attempt to brush it away. "Hope, you have an ink mark on your chest." But no amount of brushing or scrubbing will remove it. No, I explain, it is a tattoo. People look puzzled, why would anyone go through the trouble of having a tattoo that size? I explain that 12 years ago, I was diagnosed with Hodgkins disease, a form of cancer. Initially, I went to the emergency room with chest pains, and was X-rayed and examined by various hospital staff. I thought I might be having a heart attack, but such was not the case. The doctor gave me a shot of cortisone and I immediately felt better. He then told me that if I had anymore problems, to follow up with my doctor. I didn't have anymore problems and didn't follow up. Nor did the doctor follow up with me. A year later, I developed a cough and saw a physician's assistant, new to the practice. For several months, he tried to determine the cause of my cough. He looked at the X-rays from that night and asked,"So what did they say about the mass in your chest". I looked in horror at him and asked, "What mass?" And so began my journey of CAT scans, more X-rays and surgeries. After my biopsy, I was told that I had Hodgkins disease. Unfortunately, I recognized the term. I had read an article on Brandon Tartikoff; he was president of NBC News. To make a long story short, he died of Hodgkins. So if someone with his millions died, what hope did I have? But I went through chemo treatments and the intrinsic pain, discomfort, fear, etc. After chemo, I had radiation treatments and hence the tattoos. Their purpose was to mark where the radiation could be aimed to cause the least amount of damage to my internal organs. And so, when you see someone with what appears to be a piece of lint or a ink mark on their chest, it may be the mark of an exclusive club of survivors, ones that overcame a formidable foe. Unfortunately, some will succumb to this awful disease; yesterday, I got an email from my friend who has been fighting colon cancer and she told me it would be the last email she would would send because she would not live out the year. What makes me different from her, I do not know. I only know that for 12 years, I have survived and for that I am truly grateful.

Graf 5

I've thought a lot about the i-search paper and what I want to discuss, but that's not the assignment, so I will give my reaction to brainstorming instead. When my son was younger, it was called storyboarding, which is basically the same thing. My son would make a circle and put a topic in the circle and then make other circles and attach them to the primary circle and write related words. I guess the difference between brainstorming and storyboarding is with brainstorming, you throw out random words to see what sticks and with storyboarding, you already have the random word; you just see what other random words will support your subject. Boy, am I glad I don't have to write everything in the third person. Anyway, I digress. With each method, the outcome is the same. But for me, it doesn't work. I would rather think random thoughts and see what sticks. It just seems that writing down random words of interest is too chaotic; I would rather deal with the chaos in my mind. Putting the chaos down on paper gives me too much overload, too many things to think about. But that's probably the point, think about a lot and settle on one. In thinking about what I want to talk about when I start writing my paper, I lay in bed and thought of various topics. How about the lifecycle of the sardine? Then there was the topic of legality versus morality, in particular how it plays out in politics. But finally, I settled on the History of Lying. It is the one topic that I think I can find a lot to write on and hopefully there is not too much out there that my approach would mimic. Anyway, I have to go with the way I think and for me, this is a better way than brainstorming.

Graf 4

My brain is on overload. I haven't thought this much in ages. At least about ideas and esoteric material like topics for writing, what's under my bathroom sink and stuff like that. I was content to come home, watch mindless TV like "Survivor" and read "People" magazine. Things that don't require any kind of thought process. But now I need to formulate ideas and convey them in such a way as to please the masses. Or at least make them interesting reading. What a list of things to think about, do I please myself or the instructor? "To thine own self be true" Shakespeare said or something like it. So I guess that's the path I'll take. Vague enough for you? I tend to speak in non specific terms, don't want to commit to too much. I took a creative writing course many years ago through Adult Ed and I guess those who don't learn from history are doomed to repeat it. So here I am, getting ready to dust the cobwebs off my brain and actually start the process of thinking. "They" say the more you use your brain, the less likely you are to develop Alzheimer's. So come on, English 101, work your magic and help me ward off dementia.

Graf 3

Half a box of adhesive tiles

1 package of light sticks

8 1 quart cans of paint, various colors

1 gallon deck stain

1 box drywall corner tape

1 gallon empty paint can

3 1 pint cans of wood stain

4 sticks of caulk

1 package pipe insulation

1 sanding sponge

1 package bifold door hardware

1 old fashioned iron

1 drywall mud tray

2 paint rollers

4 foam rollers

1 squeegee

5 paint brushes

2 decorative molding caps

2 gallons wallpaper paste

1 gigantic glass vase from my father's funeral

1 leaded mirror

1 quart drywall mud

Her bookcase contains books. Nothing special, just books, just the way it should be. Her kitchen sideboards hold kitchen appliances, nothing unusual there. Cupboards hold dishes, cups, cereal. Pretty unremarkable. But in the laundry room, under the dark recesses of the utility sink, there lurks a variety not to be expected. No laundry soap, no dryer sheets, no toilet paper. Just paint and its companions. All waiting to fulfill the purpose of their collective beings. Drywall compound to cover crumbling plaster. A squeegee to smooth the skimmed walls.Paint to cover the anticipated skimming. Sanding pads to smooth what the squeegee missed. Rollers to adhere the paint to the walls. Molding caps to top off the door molding when the walls are complete. All patiently waiting to complete their purpose, sitting year after year, wondering when their purpose will finally come to fruition. The futility of it all.

I had two teachers that fit the bill of "worst teacher" but one was when I was in the 6th grade and 40-plus years seems too far to go back to remember all the details; so I will go with my high school freshman through junior phys ed teacher. I think most athletically-challenged people have a story to tell about a phys ed teacher that made them feel even more klutzy than they actually were. Mine was a female uber-jock who drew student jocks around her in an exclusive club, members only. The rest of us were allowed on the border of their universe, peering into their club, but non jocks were not allowed. Ms. Uber was muscled and tanned, but with her glasses, looked like she might have been one of the outsiders at one time, but had forgotten the angst of not fitting in. In order to organize gym teams, she always relied on the age-old process of "natural" selection. Ms. Uber selected two team captains (from the club) and they, in turn, selected their teams. Of course, someone was always last, reinforcing the notion that the last choice was really not worthy of participating, but would be tolerated. Ms. Uber looked with pity on those non jocks and tolerated our ineptitude. As we lumbered down the court, missing the ball, tripping over our feet, knocking into other players, Ms. Uber would yell and jump up and down in frustration at having to put up with such physical incompetence. After finishing high school, I always assumed I was clumsy in any kind of physical event, but have since found that I can be physically adept in many activities. I go to the YMCA most nights and participate in several classes that require agility; Step and Zumba classes being two. Too bad I found out so late in life that I really do have the capacity to enjoy moving my body in a graceful and agile way, but good that I found out at all. One positive thing I learn from Ms. Uber is that I can do what I set my mind to without giving in to someone else's perceptions.

There is a Jewel song that goes, "My hands are small, I know..." But not mine. My hands are large, utilitarian and are meant for hard work. I have a firm grasp, maybe firmer than some men I know, or maybe they give a lighter grasp because I am a woman. Whatever, my hands are meant for hard work. They are a bit alligatory, and no amount of hand lotion seems to make them smoother. The knuckles are knobby and covered with thin, skin that has lost a lot of its elasticity. I chuck wood, rake copious amounts of leaves, in season and have torn apart a kitchen island. I can heave 50 pound bags with the greatest of ease (well, I can heft them, anyway). I have diapered 5 of my own babies, cleared brush, shoveled snow and roofs. I keep my nails short because I type all day. I don't understand how anyone can type with those false french manicured nails, I can't. My hands are freckled and veined, the signs of old age, but they still are able to work hard. In fact instead of reminding me of the Jewel song, my hands remind me more of the Seinfeld "Man-hands" episode. You know, the episode where Jerry couldn't quite embrace his new girlfriend because of the size of her hands. Well, fortunate for me, my husband is not repulsed by the size of my hands and is probably grateful for the hard work they can do.

I am nervous about taking this English class mostly because it has been so long since I've taken a college course; almost 35 years. I attended new student orientation and felt like I was 100 years old! Probably looked like it to the other students, too. Oh, well, nervous and excited can go hand and hand but I think I will enjoy this class.