Salsa.

As I write this blog, I am pressing my lips furiously against the condensation on my glass of water, as I naively decided that I no longer needed the ice cube I was previously using.

I made home-made salsa once. After eating it at a friend's house, I looked up a recipe for mild salsa, and where the recipe called for optional jalapeno peppers, I decilined. My salsa was delicious, although it had a tad bit too much cilantro for my taste.

Today, I went to Publix with Mike to buy some sort of delicious fruit. As we perused the fruit section, he stopped in front of one bin and became rather excited. I was confused and hesitant, since I didn't want to disappoint him by letting him know that tomatillos, while tiny, green, and interesting looking, couldn't possibly be whatever delicious fruit for which he had mistaken them. Luckily, he began raving about homemade salsa, buying all the necessary ingredients on the spot.

Later that evening, we began the process of making said salsa. Now, when I made salsa, I just stuck some large pieces into the Magic Bullet, via suggestion of my father, and ended up with a chunky, delicious sort of salsa, like the one my friend inspired me to make. This salsa, however, was to be finely ground. Finely ground. I don't think you are quite getting the picture. Imagine cutting something into itsy-bitsy pieces in your mind, so that it is approaching inhalant-size. Then Mike tells you, "Oh, it's almost there, just go through it a few more times!" Really? Are we drinking this salsa? Also, since we are making a rather large bowl of this salsa, it takes hours to chop everything. It took two people about two hours, so I can't imagine the task of making it alone. However, after hours of cutting, sore hands, sore back, and other similar symptoms, the salsa was ready for the taste test.

Because of the ingredients, I knew it would be spicier than my jalapeno-free salsa. Also, I knew that habanero peppers were one of the most spicy substances known to man. I even should have been warned when Mike, with a much higher spicy tolerance than me (as a child, Popeye's chicken strips, which aren't spicy, were too much for my tongue, let alone anything that dared called itself mild) was shocked, though impressed, with the spiciness of this salsa. Instead, I chose to put a miniscule amount of salsa on a tortilla chip and take a nibble. Bad idea.

I jumped back, repeating the words, "Too spicy! Milk!" until Mike poured me a glass of the small amount of milk he had left. After taking a sip, I tried another bite. This method may have allowed me to eat a considerable amount of the salsa which, though tasty, could burn a hole through certain types of cloth. When the milk was finished, I was finished with salsa. However, two minutes of washing my hands with soap and water had not removed the pepper residue. I mistakenly licked my thumb, only to be assaulted with another wave of fire. With no milk, I grabbed an ice cube. I'm not sure if I counteracted the spice or if I successfully numbed my mouth. Either way, it dulled the pain.

I will never again volunteer to mince the habanero peppers.

Cats.

I grew up my entire life with a dog. I think when I was... maybe 5 or so I wanted a cat, as all little girls did. Then my dad decided Dustin needed a dog, and we got one of my most feared animals: a dog. I used to stand on the kitchen table screaming as a little harmless puppy walked through the kitchen, wagging his tail and barking. In a few weeks, however, I was converted, and after a bite from a cat on my arm, I have been convinced for the past 15 years that I am a "Dog person."

This is also because of my inability to interact with cats, due to an overwhelming experience with dogs. For example, Jess had a dog and a cat. I walked up to the cat, stuck my face in his, and said "I LOVE YOU!" The cat ran away and hid under the bed. A similar show of affection towards the dog revealed that the dog not only felt the same way, but always had, and wanted nothing more than to be showered with my affection.

These past few weeks, I have been making friends with Mike's cat, Max. Little by little I have begun to love and understand Max more and more. He's one of the main things I want to talk about to my friends (Max licked the blinds today, Max attacked a hair tie today, Max let me pick him up!) Today, Max is spending the weekend with me while Mike journeys out of town.

I walked into my apartment, and this tiny, soft creature began rubbing around my legs. I sat down, and he circled me, purring and rubbing against me, letting me scratch his head and directing me where to scratch. He licked my hand, then brought me a hair tie, which I threw, and he proceeded to play fetch with me.

I have fallen completely in love with a tiny, spastic, soft, slightly crazy ball of fur and meows. And I couldn't be happier.

Police.

I was pulled over by a police officer as I was making the four hour trip from college to my house this weekend. Half of the trip is on the interstate, and half is on those state roads through the forest. This is going to be a long post.

Now, before this blog, let me say, I have been pulled over before, and I have nothing against cops. I have been given a ticket, which I knew I deserved, and I took it without complaining or getting upset. I have been yelled at by a cop for speeding in a school zone, and I understood full well why he yelled at me. However, I do not tolerate being pulled over for something I did legally and then being yelled at, interrupted, and treated like a common criminal without being given the opportunity to try to politely explain why I didn't understand.

There was a dotted yellow line on a two lane road. Dotted yellows are passing zones, and as long as no cars are approaching in the other lane, and as long as the passing driver does not exceed speed limit, it is well within the law to use the dotted yellow lines. The problem is that it is difficult to use these lanes properly without looking like a crazy driver. However, a light had turned green, and as soon as we had crossed the road, there was a dotted yellow line, no cars coming towards me, and a semi accelerating very, very slowly in front of me. So I took the opportunity to pull into the passing lane and accelerate more quickly than him, so that both of us could drive without having to be in each other's ways.

As I approach the front of the semi, a car appears coming towards me in the distance, but not near where I am. I have reached about 50 at that point, and pull in front of the semi. A good amount of seconds later, the approaching car passes me, turns on flashing lights, and makes a U-turn. Without even waiting for the car to get behind me, I pull over and get out my information.

A large woman approaches my car.
"Do you have any idea what the speed limit on this road is?"

"Um.. It's 50, isn't it?"

"Well.. I mean, it's 55, but that's not the point, you were going faster than that. Didn't you see me?"

I'm nervous and scared at this point. The closer I get to home, the more I regress into my childhood, and the less control I have over my emotions. I feel sick and I feel the tears welling up, having already driven two hours and done poorly on two exams earlier that day, from being sick all week, and from now having a cop pull me over. I don't feel like an adult, I feel like I'm 16, and I wish my parents were here, because they would know what to do.

"I thought the double yellow--I mean dashed yellow--isn't it for passing? Wasn't it a passing lane? I thought I was allowed--"

"No, you're allowed to use it SAFELY, but I was coming towards you."

"But I couldn't see you when I first pulled over--"

"EXACTLY. You couldn't see me, so you shouldn't have used the lane"

No, I couldn't see you, which is how the dotted yellow lanes work. They are only put in places where if there are no cars in visibility, you are safe to pass, so that you have enough time to pass the car even if someone does appear. You appeared long after I started passing. If we weren't allowed to use the lanes on the off-chance a car would appear, what would be the point of the passing lanes?

"But the lanes are made--"

"Don't interrupt me. That was reckless driving! Do you know I could ARREST you for this? I could take you in right now!"

"But.." The tears well up. "I didn't know I was wrong, that's what the dotted yellow lines are for, and if I couldn't see you I should have had enough room--"

"Excuse me, how old are you?" She looks at me, disgusted, as if it is unwarranted that I get tearful and scared at the suggestion of arresting me.

I'm feeling more and more like a child the less you treat me like a human being. Interrupt me some more, belittle me some more, yell more, be rude. I'm probably 14 at this point, or at least I feel it.

"I'm 21..."

She walks back to her car with my information, and I call Mom. I sob out my story, scared and frightened. I don't want to get arrested, I didn't do anything illegal, and she has interrupted me, refused to listen to my logic, and apparently doesn't understand the idea that she could have appeared long after I began passing the semi, which is okay because dotted yellows are made to accommodate for that. Mom calms me, reminds me that it's going to be okay. I hang up as she walks back.

"Are you calm now?" She is slightly nicer.

"Yes." I say, and wipe the last tear off my face.

She gives me some speech about giving me a warning, about that I need to be safe, about that people die. She leaves. I put my face on my steering wheel and cry more. I'm pretty sure any girl knows that feeling, of just crying out all of your emotions, from stressful weeks of meeting new people and time management and exams and school and being sick all week and then a cop threatening to arrest you, and the injustice of the fact that the cop can interrupt everything you say and not listen to why it made sense that you couldn't see her when you started passing, but she can just yell and interrupt and be rude to you because she's in a position of power. I call my mother, I feel about 12 years old at this point, and I cry until I feel better and am composed enough to drive a car.

Then I pull back on the road and finish driving home.

Idnignation.

Usually my blogs are made for two purposes. They are either meant to be touching and inspiring, involving some deep sort of interesting thought I have, or they are meant to bring laughter, whether at something I found funny, or at my frustration about a situation. I'm not above laughing at myself in my blog. Rarely, though, if ever, have I written a post that is angry and meant to make others angry. I try to avoid blogs about politics, religion, or something else explosive, because I feel like we have enough blogs trying to prove points to the world about governments and whatnot.

But, as I yelled a common rant to an acquaintance, I realized that maybe I should make a blog about this, where I won't find my speed and volume of speaking increasing steadily to the point where, tongue-tied, I stutter angrily before yelling out a noise of frustration, leaving the listener bewildered and amused, though not thoroughly convinced of what I was trying to say. I'd much rather lay my thoughts out coherently in the world of cyberspace, where I find myself able to express myself more clearly than in any words I have ever spoken.

(Note: If you've ever talked to me in real life, you've heard this rant before.)

I chose the career choice of education to inspire. I could have done something more challenging or difficult, or even something more interesting or rewarding. I didn't want that, though. I wanted to be a teacher, to inspire thought, learning, and passion in young minds, to help them grow into smart, understanding individuals.

I find it a shame that in our society, education is a fallback career. "If you can't do, teach." So many of my fellow classmates have this, "I didn't know what else I could do so I chose education." There are such minimal requirements to enter teaching as a career, so that anyone can fall back to education when all other career options fail. Why are people not outraged by this? Children are being taught by some of the lowest minds in the college society, learning from the slackers who decided everything else was too challenging or too much effort, so they decided to teach. People for some reason find this acceptable. While the nation mourns how our education is so much lower than that of other countries and funnels millions of dollars into trying to fix the problem, they fail to realize that the budget does no good when it is being poured into employees with little care, passion, or knowledge for what they do. What good will better supplies do when in the hands of someone who won't utilize them to their full potential, to someone who will treat their students the same way they treated their college career: meeting the bare, minimum requirements necessary to avoid being unemployed?

Almost any other degree-requiring job has higher, more competitive standards than teaching. For example, only the most brightest, most dedicated, and most passionate minds make it through the schooling necessary to become doctors, through years of intense effort, to earn enough of our trust to care for our bodies and physical health. Why, then, do we not have the same amount of concern and standards for the people who foster our thinking minds? Is our mind not so much more the essence of who we are, what we are, than the body, the mere shell, that houses it?

I spend so much of my time, too much of my time, allowing the things with which I disagree to pass me by, considering them as the inevitable things in life that will frustrate me. But no more. I'm no longer going to sit back and allow the state of education to continue as it is. I don't know where I start, I don't know how I, as one person, can make a difference, but I will find a way. Change has to start somewhere, maybe it already is and I can assist it, or maybe I'll be fighting a battle against people who don't care enough to listen or help. But what good is feeling this indignant if I'm not going to attempt to right it?

Mayans.

In 2012, the Mayans think the world is going to end. Or at least they just decided to only make a calendar to that point, and were going to tackle 2013 once they got there, which they saw no point in doing at the time, much like our Y2K crisis.

Anyways, in 2012, there will be a natural disaster and lots of people will die. Do I know this because of the Mayans? No, I know this because it inevitably and quite sadly happens every year.

But when it does happen, believe you me, they will say, "Those Mayans were right... they knew. They knew."