"The next time you think you have an excuse why God can't use you, consider the following:

"Noah was a drunkard, Abraham was too old, Isaac was a daydreamer, Jacob was a liar, Leah was ugly, Joseph was abused, Moses was a murderer, Gideon was afraid, Samson had long hair, Rahab was a prostitute, Timothy was too young, David had an illicit affair, Elijah was suicidal, Isaiah preached naked, Job was bankrupt, John the Baptist ran around in a loin cloth, Peter was hot-tempered, John was self-righteous.

"The disciples fell asleep while praying, Martha fretted about everything, Mary Magdalene was demon-possessed, the boy with the fish and five rolls of bread was too obscure, the Samaritan woman was divorced more than once, Zacchaeus was too small, Paul was too religious, and Lazarus was dead.

"No more excuses!"

-author unknown

I recently finished reading C.S. Lewis's Surprised by Joy, the account of his lifelong pursuit of that which he calls Joy and how the Divine Mercy at last intrudes into his heart. The first several chapters lull us into reading it as an autobiography flavored with the matter-of-fact candor of Saint Augustine, for Lewis, too, uses past experiences as the hard frame around which he molds the more important examination of his belief (and disbelief) in the divine, the examination which prevails over biographical details by the conclusion. In contrast to Augustine's lilting spree into metaphor and prayer, however, Lewis paces himself by the scholar's beat. His sometimes endearing recount of his boyhood play-land of Boxen, his voracious appetite for mythology, his childhood friend's encouragement to appreciate the "Homely," retains the underlying rigor of the scholar's singleness of purpose, to write how Joy pointed the way to his Savior. Joy, he writes,

was valuable only as a pointer to something other and outer. While that other was in doubt, the pointer naturally loomed large in my thoughts. When we are lost in the woods the sight of a signpost is a great matter. He who first sees it cries, 'Look!' The whole party gathers round and stares. But when we have found the road and are passing signposts every few miles, we shall not stop and stare. They will encourage us and we shall be grateful to the authority that set them up. But we shall not stop and stare, or not much; not on this road, though their pillars are of silver and their lettering of gold (130 of this edition).

Surprised by Joy is a rather short book at fifteen chapters holding titles like "The First Years," "Renaissance," "The Great Knock," "Guns and Good Company," and "Checkmate"; but it proffers Lewis's testimony to how the "great Angler played His fish" (116). The experiences, the philosophies, the friends He placed around Lewis ultimately caught hold of the athiest and pulled him into the Kingdom.

Word File

Prevaricate: to mislead, to lie, to evade the truth

example: When confronted about the broken jug, the little girl twisted her hands and whimpered that the puppy scared her. Her prevaricating did not, however, distract me since I had prohibited her from touching the jug already and since they had no dog.

Contumacious: obstinately disobedient

example: Although I coaxed and wheedled, snapping my fingers and ultimately shouting "Come," my dog remained transfixed, his four contumacious feet anchored to the floor.

Reggie gets a new bed each Christmas, but this year, it didn't quite make it to the holidays before ... well, it was done for.

Mom, Kathryn, and I took him to PetsMart so that he might pick out his new bed and faithful companion (very very faithful companion) for the next few months. Actually, we picked it out for him because all three of his focusing neurons scatter the moment he steps inside the dizzying array of smells and sights. We picked out a tasteful bed and brought it home, tentatively expecting a reenactment of last Christmas's glee as he received his one and only gift. Believe me, he never left its pillowy depths that whole day.

But this new bed? He hates it. He barely even deigns to touch it.

It's a mere pillow size, he says, barely big enough to support my head.

Oh, I hate it. Why is this happening to me??

Oh the size of it...it's gone, it's gone.

Look at me...

photo courtesy of Kathryn

Kathryn's been walking around in her apron this evening like she's...me! I love donning my own vintage apron as I tidy or bake because not only does it protect my clothing, but it also puts me in the mindset for whatever task I'm embarking upon. It's rather like dressing up for tests--you know, putting on that nice skirt and jacket and doing your hair all nicely so that you look polished and competent and think thoughts are polished and competent. It's simply dressing for the part.

But that's not what I'm writing about, so pardon the detour. As you might know, I've been seriously considering earning my master's in library science (MLS) in order to become a reference/research/instructional librarian in an academic institution. With this in mind I've arranged to spend a few weeks shadowing the librarians at Regent University, particularly those who work in public services. It's been so helpful to see what may lie on the other side of graduate school, the day to day routines and tasks that come with the work. Each of the librarians and staff members has been very accommodating, especially my liason, Marta. I'm getting more and more excited about my career!

Thus far, I've peeked into several departments at Regent Library, including the reference desk, circulation, periodicals, acquisitions, cataloguing, technical systems, and today I even sat in on the reference meeting. Here are some particular things I've learned in my hours at Regent:

• it's imperative that I gain practical experience while earning my degree. The credentials are useless without applying the knowledge, and application is what employers are looking for.
• become fluent in the language of technology. It's not worth the money to hire a librarian who cannot use the computer. Like it or not, technology is fast becoming the library's framework, and it is a useful tool.
• that second master's degree sets the applicant apart and enables her to specialize in a particular department, something which is almost necessary in academic libraries and collection development, reference instruction, and all the rest that comes with the job. I was rather crestfallen to hear that I need to commit to earning two master's degrees rather than just the MLS, but now that I hear that I can land a job with the MLS and then earn my second while working--and probably find tuition reimbursement among my benefits, I'm delighted to have that opportunity. So...a master's in Southern literature? Medieval theology?

I've gotten the course descriptions from University of Kentucky's school of library science, and I will also look into UNC at Chapel Hill and Greensboro, both schools in neighboring North Carolina. Each of these three schools are part of the academic common market, granting Virginia residents instate tuition, which, need I say, helps me tremendously.

On Saturday my family (except Kristen) drove up to Charlottesville for one of the last weekends left us for apple picking.

First we hit the North Garden Apple Festival...

set amid the colorful leaves of fall...

where plenty of apples were set out for sampling and purchasing...

and more were chopped and stewed in vats of apple butter.

Craftsmen set out their wares, including handmade brooms, baskets, glassware, cheese, and condiments.

A nervous looking calf and goat were penned up for petting...

and bands played throughout the afternoon...

as odd school-buses creaked by...

We wandered the stalls and, in the orchard itself, ate a delicious concoction of spiced apples and marscapone cheese served with artisan bread before heading to Carter Mountain Trail to pick our own apples.

Bins of Staymen, Pink Lady, Gala, Fuji, Red Delicious, Pippen, Winesap, and various guords allowed folks to get fresh apples without heading to the orchards...

but we ventured to the orchards to pick our own from the fruit-laden branches

or the ground beneath...

It was good to support local (well, reasonably local at three hours away) orchards and to wander among the trees, crunching the juicy fruit as we picked it. We took home several pounds as well as the odd apple cider slushy and some fabulous cider doughnuts which look like the doughnuts Lady dips in coffee in Lady and the Tramp!

Holy Ghost Wiener Roast

In celebration of fall, Rebecca, Kristen, Brandon, Kathryn, and I attended Triple R Ranch's "Holy Ghost Wiener Roast" on Friday night, where hundreds of people gathered for hotdogs, square dancing, bonfires, rock climbing, hay rides, pony rides, cider (American kind), and good music. What a delightful few hours! We met up with some friends who work at Triple R as well as the odd family or two from my old church and passed the time away dredging up old memories and making plans for new ones.

We ended up spending most of our time sitting by the fire, so after realizing that most of the venues were closing up, we beat a hasty retreat to the hayrides where our friend, David, was driving one of the tractors. There's nothing like the smell of hay and thousands of glimmering stars to draw one's soul further into the country. Although we were packed onto the wagon's bed, the deep darkness isolated one from the other in a cozy, intimate communion with the world around us--until one corner of the bed erupted in squawks and squeals over brushing up against some brittle leaves.

We finished out the evening listening to the Hunt Family Fiddlers, a family of nine that plays Celtic and American classics, singing and step-dancing to the some of them. Kristen bought one of their cds, and we listened to it on the dark and twisty-turny way home. You can read about the Hunts on their blog here.

Last night Rebecca, Kristen, Brandon, Kathryn, and I gathered for our third annual pumpkin-carving. We served hot cocoa made on the stove and fresh-baked pumpkin bread (both courtesy of Kathryn); the pumpkins Kathryn and I had picked up that afternoon at a little corner garden shop called Carter's Corner, the grounds of which were laden with gorgeous round richly-colored pumpkins and occasional hand-scribbled notices informing us of the 39 cents per pound cost. I subsequently searched out the smallest and lightest pumpkins although after several minutes of searching the grounds among the little kids and their parents, my biceps were rebelling against my awkward two-gourd load. When I whimpered a feeble protest at Kathryn's more thorough search, a man smoking a cigarette calmly insisted upon taking one and carrying it to the counter with us, seemingly happy to witness another "guessing."

I got the impression that this was one of his fall entertainments, the guessing contest, as he stood placidly by watching the transaction. "Oh, I'm not very good at estimating weights," I said to the girl at the counter when she urged me to guess for a free pumpkin, but she and the cigarette-man pressed me until I half-heartedly tossed out "10 pounds?" "Go up," the girl told me conspiratorially, so I revised my guess to 12 pounds. Bingo! The first pumpkin was free. I had a go with the second, immediately surmising it a bit lighter--11 pounds perhaps? but dully stuck with my original guess to keep things simple and overestimated it by a pound. I'm still kicking myself for not going with my gut and nabbing that free pumpkin, but hey--I don't mind supporting a good business, right?

We listened to my favorite artist, Vienna Teng, as we chatted and carved until 11 at night. Rebecca carved the most artistically, executing a full-blown rose with shading carved at various depths--quite skillful. Brandon finished a jolly face in minutes, and Kathryn outlined the Beatle's logo with a pointed wheel. I think she still means to carve it out. I tried my hand at a simple school of fish, hacking out about five goldfish that don't even look as good as the cracker. Pumpkin carving is not my forte. Kristen "came to the rescue" and chiseled out swirls among them, but let's just say it's a good thing pumpkin-defacing comes only once a year for the Moore girls.

But the evening finished with three more or less completed jack-o-lanterns, a compost pile topped with stringy orange globs, and nicely toasted pumpkin seeds. I do love fall!

Yesterday I celebrated my birthday, and it was a pleasant day spent with Kathryn, Mom, Dad, and later on in the evening, Rebecca. Having declared the night before that I wanted few reminders of my advancing age, we spent the day as we might any ol' Saturday with only occasional interruptions of sheepish "happy birthday, Valerie"s.

I was eager to try out this recipe I had seen for Parmesan encrusted chicken, so I made some for our supper. It is a very easy yet flavorful recipe which is perfect for slicing up in a salad. I tossed spinach, greens, tomatoes, and toasted whole almonds with a simple dressing of lemon juice, olive oil, and honey which I learned from Hazel and served it with the chicken. Kathryn sliced up little purple, red, and gold potatoes, drizzled them with olive oil and salt, and baked them at medium high heat for our side. Dad and Mom put together the crowning glory, however, an eight-layer jiggly tower of chocolate cake filled with vanilla pudding and glistening with ganache over the top and sides. Its daunting presence in the middle of the table testified to where my edible priorities lie.

We rounded out the day with a quick game of a Monopoly copy-cat called Bookopoly which my parents' had picked up in the garden shop of all places. Instead of the Boardwalk or Park Place we bought lovely book-properties like Goodnight, Moon, The Sound and the Fury, and To Kill a Mockingbird. The dreaded jail space was T.V. time-out and one of the penalty cards read: Caught reading Cliffs Notes; go back 3 spaces. Isn't that fun?

Last week I accompanied Kristen on her data collection trip, and we spent the weekend monitoring seat belt use in western Virginia. If ever you see a petite girl wearing a yellow reflective vest, red hat, giant purple sunglasses, and clicking dials on her clipboard, make sure you and your shot gun passenger are wearing your seatbelts properly. She can see the glint of the unused seat belt buckle dangling behind you. And she will mark you a "No" when she does.

It's rather strange the intersections we found ourselves haunting--a corner outside a general store, the edge of a big white house's lawn, a cotton field. Very little traffic passed by, but a good percentage of that traffic was friendly. More than a few times a car would roll to a stop as the inevitable elbow poked out the window, bracing the curious driver as he leaned out--"what are you doing?" "Are you selling something?" "Honey, did your car break down?" I usually watched these interchanges from Kris's car, feeling rather like a ninny in my skirt and flats in the tall dewy grasses. I could just imagine some of the unfriendly types snorting about how the damn government spends our damn tax dollars paying two lumps to chat along the side of a random road. No, for most of the sites I would read or nap in the front seat, popping out only occasionally with a funny story about a budgie or to snap photographs of fields.

Ever since I left England I have been searching for the home and land I want to own some day, and western Virginia is a step in my dream's direction with its friendly population, mom-and-pop stores, and fields--oh yes, and livestock like cows or, best of all, GOATS. The pace of life is slower here and people are content to lounge on their front porches as the cars go by. The house I will own will have a porch, a porch that's big enough for chairs and the odd table or two. I can see my children running around, my dogs scattered on the steps sniffing the air, and the occasional waft of fragrant goat wisping from the back, bug-tusseling with the sharper scent of jasmine that's planted alongside the house. I shall have vegetables planted on raised beds, a few fruit trees and soft fruits, and copper gardening tools tucked in the shed--where, ahem, my sweet little children last left them.

These children--five or six--I will teach at home, training the older to teach the younger in some subjects. They will have chores around the house and farm and no television. I want them to cultivate imaginations of their own. There's no telling what they'll come up with as entertainment--they might form an entourage of talking cats named, oh, Melissa and Maria and Mary; they might make their own mystery movie called something like "On the Verge of Darkness" that involves clever twists that truly puzzle their viewers. They might don their fluorescent Ninja Turtle helmets with interchangeable eye bands that they for some reason picked out at the toy store having never shown any interest at all in Raphael or Michelangelo and cycle around bends as they evade the "cops" since they're "robbers." They might take on the role of busy mothers named Marge Smith and Marjorie Boushingles who take their kids to ice-skating lessons--and who might inadvertently show up at the dinner table instead...

...On second thought, maybe television is villainized. I um, think I'll park them in front of the tele for the whole day 'cause there's no telling what shinanigans kids'll come up with these days...or in days in which their mother grew up.

Wwoofing Adventures #3

12 June 2008

As I pray in St. Paul's Cathedral, a choir begins to sing...softly. The sopranos are light and the basses are gentle. I see the offering pouch I noted last summer, still beneath the candle stand and proclaiming in squeaky magic marker letters that I HAVE BEEN STOLEN FROM ST. PAUL'S CATHEDRAL. I also hear the thud click and ratchet of commercial tourism layering its tinny sound over their holy melody. Is it a fitting illustration of the old fight between God and mammon or am I overdramatic with sleep deprivation? The information booths and stands advertising guided tours for four pounds do seem to suck the marrow out of the cathedral as the stamps authorizing our right to enter thud and click, thud and click.

Setting out from the Bird's Nest after breakfast, we had returned to central London for our self-guided walking tour along the Thames. I loosely plotted a route from the Tower of London to Westminster Abbey where we would also pass by the Wibbly Wobbly Bridge (officially known as the Millenium Pedestrian Bridge), St. Paul's, Leicester Square (for the half-price ticket booths Meagan and LeeAnn were anxious to peruse), and Covent Garden. Having been awake for a day and a half by then, plodding through London forced our bodies to keep up with the new time zone and provided us with a mental map of the area which we would visit for the next few days. It was gratifying to walk through my memories of London which had lain dormant since I returned from last summer's two literature classes, and whenever I spied something familiar I rejoiced in the clarity that comes from recognizing what you have not seen in awhile.

It was overcast and every-so-often it sprinkled, but I don't think we minded much; we were still amazed to be in England actually beginning our long-anticipated wwoofing adventure. "Can you believe we're here walking around?" we breathed, words which would be repeated and rearranged as our staple phrase for the next two months. It would crop up at all places in our conversations accompanied by never-flagging head shakes and exclamations: "Oh I know!" "No, no I really can't." All the nebulous dreaming and paper-laden planning now took on real textures and experience: the slippery slick stone of the pavement and the spitting precipitation of the London sky reminded us that we were indeed here at last.

Our elatement dipped at times throughout the day such as when LeeAnn could not find a working phone card and, bordering on hysteria, finally resorted to purchasing a rip off at a small shop, or I, teetering even closer to hysteria, couldn't find a bathroom and cursed myself at every step for drinking coffee and lots of water that morning. Yes, my elation dipped as my search for a toilet took me several blocks up and down the street until I finally gave in and entered Starbuck's, traitor to the British experience. I knew they had restrooms, however, so I bought some exorbitantly-priced fruit bread to justify my use of their facilities and returned to St. Paul's where we trudged up the hundreds of steps to the outer dome and my skirt caught the wind and flew up to my chin.

--Note to self: a light and airy skirt is inappropriate for windy days and climbing openwork metal staircases with fellow tourists climbing directly beneath you.

We trudged up Fleet Street and walked right past Dr. Johnson’s house; the rainy pavement sent our cold, flip-flopped feet skating; the bridge on the way to Covent Garden turned out not to be the bridge on the way to Covent Garden. Our enthusiasm and vigor waned as the afternoon wore on until we finally sought shelter beneath the columns of the Lyceum Theatre, chilled, wet, hungry, and tired.

We decided to head back to the Bird’s Nest and finish the route tomorrow.

He's part puppy, part goat, part horse, part donkey...ready and, I might add, eager to play at whatever part he's needed. He's an animal of many faces and moods, something the world has never seen the likes of.

He had humble beginnings as a man's extra-large lambswool hand-me-down, fabric scraps, and buttons. Actually, I never used the buttons, but they were nice in the picture.

All of him fit on one felted sleeve, a truly economical sort of chap.

Sewn by machine and stuffed with shredded batting, he emerged in three dimensions, ready to claim the heart of any unsuspecting child.

He's attentive...

and eager to play...

He's mysterious...

and content to ponder the intricacies of life.

He is called Philbert, and he's waiting for someone special.

This afternoon Kathryn and I toured the neighborhood with Dad's SLR as we explored the features of the old camera. My favorite thing about a manual is the control it allows me over the depth of field--it really allows me to choose exactly what I want the viewer to focus upon, literally.

So armed with manual, notebook for recording our experimental techniques, and the eager eye of the amateur photographer, we set out to learn what we could about aperture and shutter speed.

We shot a whole roll of film on our adventure.

12 June 2008

Our hostel in Deptford Bridge was just beyond Lewisham College’s gated car park as a tower of darkly-shadowed brick and peeling sills. It had four stories, the first of which was a pub painted in traditional white and British green. A red-striped awning housed a few weathered tables and benches and a chalkboard sign advertised last night’s menu. Frankly it looked like it could have been or still could be the target of vandals and I thought vaguely of graffiti and broken glass as we approached.

Clinton was the host on duty, a Canadian bass player who was spending his gap year in the UK. He was settling down to his chocolate cereal and offered us some breakfast, too, which we accepted as the midnight yoghurt was fast failing us. We chatted about our plans for the upcoming weeks as we learned of his time there in Deptford--since September--and the ins and outs of the Bird's Nest. Despite the rather rundown exterior, the inside held a casual charm with its heavy wood tables and creaky benches, the warm rusts and hunter greens of the cushions, the brass handled taps at the bar, and the signs pointing out the WC, drawn by a quirky hand on bright pink cardstock cut out with pinking shears. Clinton periodically scanned the digital jukebox mounted on the wall, asking for song suggestions, and I wished I had paid more attention to the Bob Dylan and Eagles' songs Kristen had been forced to learn on guitar; after furiously upending every file in every crevice of my memory I only came up with "Wild World." He said it was a good song.

Our only other breakfast companion was Ed, a tubby sixty year old man who hailed from the great state of Arkansas with tee-shirt, accent, and easy affability to prove it. It seemed he had come to the UK for the sole purpose of wandering, for when we prodded him for his day's plans he vaguely mentioned downtown Greenwich and some Hard Rock Cafe he hadn't seen yet, and I got the impression that his London expedition was as much a mystery to his friends back home as it was to us sitting now at the Bird's Nest, just a head-shakin' clumsy unspoken mystery. Relieved, therefore, of the mental acrobatics required to picture Ed shuffling among a tour group at Westminster rather than popping his can of beer in front of the t.v., I chuckled to myself at the mix of people a cheap hostel attracts.

The room was very cheap at only 10 pounds ($20) a night, but the drawback was in its being a six-bunk co-ed room. That did not appeal to my conservative nature but really, how bad could it be? Then horror flicked across my mind--What if he were staying in our room? Ha, no; that would be too funny. Besides, the only other bunk occupied in our room had a small pink beach towel draped over the head and a sleeping mask, definitely not the accoutrement of an Ed.

Our snickering was cut short when we spied soft bare shoulders peeking out from the blue striped sheets the next morning, gently rising and falling to the beat of his unabashed snores. And he did wear that sleeping mask.

I've found the artist of the alphabet prints I like so much--I first saw them somewhere in England (or was it Scotland?), a perfect union of strong lines, tender colors, and vintage subjects.

William Nicholson's work has inspired me to work on my own set of letters (especially since these prints were so expensive), so I'm having fun thinking of all the A for ______, B for ________, C for __________, that sort of thing. I'll probably carve each print out of linoleum.

A successful bit of shopping Saturday morning:

• about 1 yard of coral and gold upholstery fabric: $0.50


• glass pitcher and stirring rod with six glasses: $2.00


• small ceramic mixing bowl: $0.50

Don't you love yard sales?

This is the first of many posts detailing the adventures my two roommates and I had in the UK under an organization called WWOOF--Worldwide Opportunities on Organic Farms. Having never really farmed nor concerned ourselves particularly with environmental issues, the three of us nevertheless hopped on a plane June 11th and set out for two months of farm labor and learning, accented with weekend tours of historical UK sites. Posted sporadically will be my account of our experience.

June 12, 2008

There’s nothing like waking—or was I even sleeping?—and ladling strawberry yoghurt between my teeth at 2 am trying to convince myself that the last three hours of tossing and turning served as the necessary punctuation between night and day. How much time has passed between now and the flight’s beginning? What time is it in the U.S.?

But we’re not supposed to remind ourselves of the old time; we’re in Britain now. I will obediently set my watch to our new time zone.

We arrived slightly before our due time of 6:55 and disembarked to a bustling Heathrow International Airport. The yellow signs marked INTERNATIONAL ARRIVALS and CUSTOMS became our guides and we went from one to the other as a preschooler swings from rung to rung on the monkey bars. As we proceeded to baggage claim, my imagination kept foisting upon me the scene of the three of us staring at the emptying carousel, watching as bags were reunited with their owners one after the other while our humble rucksacks never appeared. Those bags contained our entire trip, all the work and touring clothes we would need, all the sunscreen and Advil, all the shampoo and wellies and cameras and socks and host gifts and rain ponchos we had so carefully packed—and what would be the compensation? My whole bag was probably worth around $50 and I certainly would not be able to replace everything in it for nearly that amount here.

Our bags appeared promptly on the carousel, however, and we were soon free to buy our Oyster cards and take the Picadilly line into central London where we changed to the Jubilee and then the DLR, finally arriving at the outskirts of Greenwich in a little corner of town called Deptford Bridge.

Deptford. A mottled stretch of brick shops outlined the streets with its little grocery stores, laundromats, a two-story Noodle King, and dim-windowed salons displaying posters of sultry-haired models. One shop had a handwritten advertisement for a nail technician. I had noticed en route the gradual evolution of passengers as we came closer into Deptford as the designer shoed,
suit-clad men of the world’s financial capital were swapped for the sweatshirt hooded, baggy-dropped jeans of…well I could envision them on street corners or in alleyways conducting business of a whole other sort. These were those streets. And here was our hostel.

By the way, I attended St. Thomas Episcopal Church yesterday morning with Mom and Kathryn in tow. Ahhhh, liturgy and solid hymns at last!
Old Testament lesson
GosPel leSson
pSalm rEcitatiOn
new TestameNt LessOn
NicEne creed
kNeEling
Eucharist
cOnfEssion
robes
book of comMon Prayer

The congregation was very friendly and supplied us with a small tree's worth of information about them and their ministries and beliefs. I certainly shall attend again.

typical post-college musings of an English major

I continue to lean towards a career in academic libraries--begrudgingly, mind you, because that modest career comes with a rather big price tag called graduate school. I'm just not willing to spend roughly $50,000 for two years of education when that seems to be the average annual salary for an academic librarian, and to accrue that kind of debt when the librarian is on her way to the endangered species list with the rise of the computer and internet makes me shudder. When budgets are cut, librarians are as well.

But when academic librarians describe their jobs as "teaching without the classroom," well, such a career sounds about perfect for me. And it fits in with my Myers Brigg personality type--career guides based off of that indicator have said so. INFJs are cut out for the job with their capacity for organization, ability to work alone or one on one, and tendency to work for the ideal--in this case, the ideal of keeping information accessible. And can I say that I just love books? Any environment studded with shelves and shelves of them cannot be a bad place to work.

My friend gave me advice on paying for grad school: move close to your chosen school and work there. Often the benefits for full-time employment include a few credit hours free, and that can go a long way toward the cost. Of course scholarships help as well, but I loathe applying for anything too competitive. So shall I just pack up and move to North Carolina or Kentucky?

But next year and grad school aside, I'm still looking for a job around here, and I'm thinking temp services. Mom has been recommending that for quite some time as a good way to gain experience and knowledge of companies, all the while providing that all important foot-in-the-door factor that's so important in getting employed. Who knows? Perhaps temp work will lead me to a career that I enjoy or at least don't hate without grad school. That makes my wallet happier.

All in all, however, I'm in no rush to attend grad school. I much prefer taking my time earning what I can while considering my options. No use in rushing into debt for something I don't enjoy all that much anyway.