... I should just kick my heels together and go home

I saw Rosie Thomas in concert a few nights ago. It was her Christmas show, snow was falling, and I was with my sister. It was great.

I only mention this here because the title of my blog is from one of her songs (my favorite one, in fact). She got together with two of my other favorite artists, Sufjan Stevens and Denison Witmer (what I wouldn't give to bump into the three of them hanging out somewhere) and made this album called "These Friends of Mine." It's really fantastic, in my book, and "Much Farther to Go" is hauntingly lovely. Give it a listen, please. I promise you won't regret it:

http://www.myspace.com/rosiethomasmusic

So anyway, I had prepared myself not to hear my song at the concert. For one, it was a Christmas concert, and secondly, my favorite bands never play my favorite songs at their concerts. Death Cab didn't play "A Lack of Color," Of Montreal didn't play "Wraith Pinned to a Mist," Guster didn't play "Rocketship." Yes, I'm still bitter three years later.

Imagine my delight when I heard Rosie start playing the opening guitar for the song. Well, you don't really need to imagine it, you could just ask any of the 30 people sitting closest to me how I felt. I think I left permanent fingernail marks in Anna's arm and there might have been borderline hyperventilation involved. (As a disclaimer, I don't think I would have reacted like that had I not spent most of the day running from one end of the campus to the other trying to accomplish the lengthy to-do list I had written on my hand. I was tired.)

Thanks Rosie. Sorry, fellow concert-goers.

ENGL 290 and POLS 312, no, CAS 312 and PHIL 211... wait...

I registered for my very last class at Calvin last week.

I'm not exactly jumping for joy. You have to understand that registering for classes is one of my favorite things to do. I drew up a semester-by-semester plan early in my freshman year of college (it's titled "Lerae's Life," if that gives you any clue of its significance to me). I eagerly awaited classes to be posted each semester, and painstakingly fit my classes and work schedule together, always taking into account the professors. I had first choices, second choices, and occasionally even third choices. My advising periods were record breaking; I laid my plan on my advisor's desk, they looked down at it and up at me with a hint of fear in their eyes, and signed off.

I like planning classes so much that I hired out my services to other people. Well, "hired out" might be a bit misleading; I begged people to let me plan their academic careers for them. My suitemate, my roommate, my sister, poor random freshmen on the path: no one was spared.

But now it's over.

It's not even a real class; Calvin has this January term they call "Interim," where you take the same class every day for three weeks. I'm taking this photography class that looks great called "Negotiating Documentary." Come January 27th, I'm no longer a Calvin Knight. Come February 2nd, I'll no longer be working or residing in the United States. Hard to believe. Sad. A bunch of "lasts" are coming up, and in some ways they're eclipsing the "firsts" that I know are around the bend.

Maybe my sister will let me register for her classes for her from Guatemala.

I'm a football star

From an article in my school newspaper entitled Fumblers fail to foil Les Jacques’ longstanding record of triumph: Through a superior show of strength, skill, bravery and dashing good looks, Les Jacques were victorious on the field once again.

"And none of the Fumblers defenders could keep track of “Quicker Than” Lerae “of Light” Kroon, whose blazing speed and unconventional passing routes fooled even the brightest minds in the Faculty secondary."

See, I am athletic. I've been fooling you all this time.

(http://clubs.calvin.edu/chimes/article.php?id=3834 if you want the whole facetious story)

Stay away, Fiskars

I consider myself a pretty brave girl. I love spiders, thrill rides, climbing up to high places, snakes and anything in the vein of skydiving, bungee jumping or flying through the air in some manner. (Ok, I have to admit those last few aren't based on any experience, but I can imagine that I would love all those things, if only given the opportunity.)

So I'm a little thrown off by a fear I've developed over the summer toward an unexpected object: scissors.

Unfortunately, I can tell you exactly when this aversion to the sharp utensils developed. Earlier this summer - back when the months ahead seemed to hold endless possibilities - I decided I wanted to sew a dress. You know, fulfill my crafty and indie potential. I played the situation over and over in my mind: someone would walk up to me, wowed by my style, and ask me where I got my new sundress. I would turn and respond casually, "Yeah, I made it. No big deal."

With this image in my mind, I headed to JoAnn Fabrics and spent an afternoon poring over the pattern books, trying innumerable combinations of styles and fabrics, until I finally settled on an olive green fabric and a vintage halter pattern. As soon as I reached home I realized what a bad choice this was, but at that point I already had the zipper, thread and various other notions so there was no turning back.

So where does my fear of scissors come into this story? Well, it was a warm June evening. I was kneeling on the floor of my house, cutting out the "Bodice Front." I turned to grab something and simultaneously stabbed the closed scissors about an inch into my knee. How I managed this graceful feat I know not. All I know is that as I watched the circle of blood seeping through my jeans quickly grow and I began to hyperventilate, my lifelong friendship with scissors came to an end.

I know it wasn't the scissors' fault, but I just don't like them anymore. Although I can now hold scissors in my hand again without my heart beating rapidly (it took a few weeks) I still get very nervous when I'm around them and avoid them if at all possible. Case in point: the extra 20 minutes I spent today at work trying to find precut labels for the inventory I was doing so I didn't have to cut the labels sitting on my desk to size. (I'm happy to report that although I was forced to team up with a red pair of 3Ms, there were no injuries.)

I have a haircut later this afternoon - I'm feeling a bit queasy.

Lies, Lies, Lies and Pies, Pies, Pies

For the past 5 summers, I’ve worked at a farm market a mile or so from my house. For the past 5 summers, I’ve hated my job.

To be fair, there have been some aspects of working there that I’ve loved: watching my sisters Anna and Jenice dress up as “Miss Cherry” and “Miss Strawberry,” for example. Kneeling on the floor stuffing balloons into their costumes and safety pinning their outfits really was a joy, as was watching the retired men waiting for their wives to select the perfect jam basket combination inappropriately hit on them (“Can I buy you by the quart?”)

But overall, I wasn’t a fan of making greasy donuts day after day, dreaded the inevitable drama between workers, and tired of the pastel clad tourists and their repetitive remarks about the smell, cuteness and quaintness of the store. When I found other employment this summer, I vowed never to return.

Guess where I started working two weeks ago?

Yeah, they needed someone to come in to make pies, and in a moment of weakness I volunteered. The only redeeming factor is that the market is closed by the time I get there. I get to mass produce cherry, cherry crunch, apple and dutch apple pies in peace and quiet - after I turn off the dulcimer music that is usually piped over the intercom, that is.

Usually, after looking at pies for a few hours I start serenading them, switching the lyrics from "Lies" by The Swell Season (the adorable duo from the movie Once, who I can't wait to see in concert next month) from "breaking us down with your lies, lies, lies" to "breaking me down with these pies, pies, pies," etc.

Playing this week in the bakery: Lerae's rendition of "American Pie."