The last few nights in Kiawah were just about the most beautiful that I've seen in a long time. There was a Cheshire Cat smile crescent moon over the starry saltmarshes as we drove back to the island after a day shopping in Charleston, and the air was just cool enough to remind you that it's the holiday time.
Lunch at the Sweetgrass café again this year before our two families parted for opposite poles: us to the north, them back to Atlanta. I swear, those hominy grits are the best that I have ever tasted, no question. We didn't make it home quite as soon as planned, due mostly to a detor to Brookgreen Gardens, a "refurbished" old plantation sight on the Carolina coast just south of the ugliest place on the face of the earth, Myrtle Beach. Lowcountry nature and the live oaks dripping sphagnum moss are indeed beautiful, and it's hard to mess up what's already there in the landscape unless you tried really freaking hard.
Brookgreen tries really, really hard. All of the buildings' and fountains' and walls' architecture is circa 1920, pure art deco (one of the tackiest movements in American art, as far as I'm concerned...and difficult to pull off): piles of bricks covered in now-flaking concrete. Eeeew. Plus, it's supposed to house the finest examples of 'American representational sculpture' from the past 150 years. Uuuh, did I miss something, or did reputable artists stop doing photo-realistic pieces about a century ago? Plus, the sculptor/owner's husband is a "poet" who liked to write in a neoromantic style with lots of internal rhyme and heavenly metaphors. Dripping with sappiness, thank you. It was a neoclassical revival about a century too late. I mean, I could almost understand if it were people from Byron's time doing this stuff, obsessed with Diana and Hermes and Pegausues, and whatnot, but it's not. It's from the 1940's. A throwback of a throwback, all done in lead, aluminum, and bronze. No, thanks, I'll skip it next time.
Thus, we did not arrive at home until well after 1:00 am, making today a day of unpacking, rearranging room, sneezing and watery eyes from dust raised as a result of said processes, and of course, Fake Christmas. Alex should be home soon, and she had better hurry her ass up, because I'm ready to eat the hot and sour soup that I just made, and open presents at last =).
Happy Holidays, all.
If, on a winter's night a traveler outside the town of Malbork, leaning from a steep slope without fear of wind or vertigo, looks down into the gathering shadow...on the carpet of leaves illuminated by the moon around an empty grave, what story there awaits its end? -italo calvino
Sunday, December 21, 2003
Day 1, Kiawah
Powering through the last 3.5 hours on interstates 95, 26, and 526, three of the 8 Williamsons currently in South Carolina arrived at 1124 Duneside Lane, approximately 11:00 pm, a good hour behind our estimated arrival time. True, part of the delay was a little backtracking for the almost-forgotten lefse that my roommate and I so dilligently made, whilst taking shots of stoli vanilla the night before we parted ways. But as my sister always says, "It just wouldn't be Christmas if we didn't have to turn the car around." Too true, too true.
In any case, I awoke this morning at a very decent hour (10:00) to find that there were no groceries in the house, save 6 tins of cookies (a decided dearth compared to years past), the lefse, and some old apples that we just *had* to bring from home. Luckily, the food situation was easily remedied, as was my non-wired status. How fortunate that the other Williamson cousins are even more technological geeks than I. We definitely had a debate this afternoon, when I got back from my beach run, about Macs vs. the PC. I love our family. So here I sit, post ALIAS rerun and pasta dinner, at Richard's new laptop (16 inch screen, it's O-O-C), clicking away on the dialup connection while Spain pictures are being broken out in front of the fireplace. I guess I had better go narrate =).
In any case, I awoke this morning at a very decent hour (10:00) to find that there were no groceries in the house, save 6 tins of cookies (a decided dearth compared to years past), the lefse, and some old apples that we just *had* to bring from home. Luckily, the food situation was easily remedied, as was my non-wired status. How fortunate that the other Williamson cousins are even more technological geeks than I. We definitely had a debate this afternoon, when I got back from my beach run, about Macs vs. the PC. I love our family. So here I sit, post ALIAS rerun and pasta dinner, at Richard's new laptop (16 inch screen, it's O-O-C), clicking away on the dialup connection while Spain pictures are being broken out in front of the fireplace. I guess I had better go narrate =).
Saturday, December 20, 2003
I HATE AMTRAK I HATE AMTRAK I HATE AMTRAK I HATE AMTRAK
Times 40, at the very least. Am never taking the train again.
I'm back at home in Va Beach, despite Amtrak's best efforts to keep me away, and am about to depart for Kiawah Island, SC for the annual Williamson clan gathering. It's freezing down there, which is counterintuative because there's also palm trees. It is also freezing in our house, because my parents like to "save money" on heating in the wintertime. I told my dad while we were watching Goldfinger last night that "I can't feel my toes" to which he replied: "That's what blankets are for. Am dubious as to how cost-effective this whole no heat policy is. At least my fat furry cat was there to share the warmth [aaaww].
So Amtrak.
Alas, but time runs short. Time to hit the road!
I'm back at home in Va Beach, despite Amtrak's best efforts to keep me away, and am about to depart for Kiawah Island, SC for the annual Williamson clan gathering. It's freezing down there, which is counterintuative because there's also palm trees. It is also freezing in our house, because my parents like to "save money" on heating in the wintertime. I told my dad while we were watching Goldfinger last night that "I can't feel my toes" to which he replied: "That's what blankets are for. Am dubious as to how cost-effective this whole no heat policy is. At least my fat furry cat was there to share the warmth [aaaww].
So Amtrak.
Alas, but time runs short. Time to hit the road!
Thursday, December 18, 2003
FI-NALS, whew.
Have just spilled coffee on myself. I think that's indicative of the mood at the moment. One should ingest the caffeine for optimal effectiveness, as opposed to attempting epidermal osmosis, by way of shirt sleeve. And it's damn good coffee too, its a shame.
Happy Birthday Alex...it's still Wednesday. Happy Birthday Sarah...it's technically Thursday.
Best bad weather ever today: I left the apartment at 4:15 for a meeting with David Sedley, PhD, Associate Professor of French and master of social graces (or staring awkwardly), and Founders' Hall was my destination. Upon exit of my abode, it was raining, with a mix of hail. By the time I reached the nature trail, full on hail was heard pitter patter on my umbrella. Ira D. Reid House, approximately 1.5 minutes later, the hail had mixed with snow, and by the time I walked in the Campus Center door to retrieve my Feria poster AND PRÍNCIPE COOKIES from Sasha Brady, goddess of world travel, it was full-on snowing.
Craziness, I tell you, craziness.
And speaking of craziness, I should get Bach to work. [Tocatta and Fugue style, to maximize productivity and get me thinking, at the very least subconsciously, about tomorrow's Fantasia paper.]
Happy Birthday Alex...it's still Wednesday. Happy Birthday Sarah...it's technically Thursday.
Best bad weather ever today: I left the apartment at 4:15 for a meeting with David Sedley, PhD, Associate Professor of French and master of social graces (or staring awkwardly), and Founders' Hall was my destination. Upon exit of my abode, it was raining, with a mix of hail. By the time I reached the nature trail, full on hail was heard pitter patter on my umbrella. Ira D. Reid House, approximately 1.5 minutes later, the hail had mixed with snow, and by the time I walked in the Campus Center door to retrieve my Feria poster AND PRÍNCIPE COOKIES from Sasha Brady, goddess of world travel, it was full-on snowing.
Craziness, I tell you, craziness.
And speaking of craziness, I should get Bach to work. [Tocatta and Fugue style, to maximize productivity and get me thinking, at the very least subconsciously, about tomorrow's Fantasia paper.]
Wednesday, December 17, 2003
"Do we walk in legends, or on the green earth in daylight?"
Left Haverford's campus at 9:15 last night with a hardy crew of three other LOTR fanatics. Okay, 2 other fanatics, and the boy. Marni at the wheel, driving Boston-style down Montgomery Avenue, hot caffeinated beverages in hand, we arrived at King of Prussia in time to stake our claim to the first section of the seating line for the final installment of the Fellowship: Return of the King. People applauded when Orlando and Viggo had their first closeup. [Sigh.] I sat there with my iBook, typing away dilligently as news cameras panned the huge line that wound around the lobby. Even saw some hard-core costumed fans; one dubiously sober adolescent male was dressed as Sauron's eye, carrying a 4-foot long cardboard cut out colored orange. Well done.
3 hours and 25 minutes of pure Peter Jackson magic, even if there were some *serious* departures from the book (don't worry, I won't give anything away), and a perfectly acceptable ending. I'm not ashamed to say I was a little weepy towards the final scenes. I, too, felt as though something was over, a fellowship was ending; three years is a long time to be attached to a concept, and now it's over.
There's always the extended versions! Woo hoo, Two Towers dvd. I'm so bad.
And so, running on little sleep (we didn't pull in to the South Lot until 4:30 am this morning), but with visions of Minas Tirith dancing in my head as opposed to sugarplums, I trudge ahead on the last two assignments of the semester. Two days to go. So many things to bake, so many things to write. An aside: I enjoyed how they portrayed Frodo as the 'ultimate tortured writer' at the end. Everything's so intertextual these days, I love it.
I *still* think that Eowyn deserved more screen time, dammit.
3 hours and 25 minutes of pure Peter Jackson magic, even if there were some *serious* departures from the book (don't worry, I won't give anything away), and a perfectly acceptable ending. I'm not ashamed to say I was a little weepy towards the final scenes. I, too, felt as though something was over, a fellowship was ending; three years is a long time to be attached to a concept, and now it's over.
There's always the extended versions! Woo hoo, Two Towers dvd. I'm so bad.
And so, running on little sleep (we didn't pull in to the South Lot until 4:30 am this morning), but with visions of Minas Tirith dancing in my head as opposed to sugarplums, I trudge ahead on the last two assignments of the semester. Two days to go. So many things to bake, so many things to write. An aside: I enjoyed how they portrayed Frodo as the 'ultimate tortured writer' at the end. Everything's so intertextual these days, I love it.
I *still* think that Eowyn deserved more screen time, dammit.
Tuesday, December 16, 2003
overconfident, overly-funded, flighty high school girls shoudln't be allowed to have 'blogs
And that's all I have to say about that.
In other news...Pics of Saddam on the NYTimes website remided me of the photos of Ché that the CIA sent to the papers to prove that he was dead. Weird coincidence, maybe it's the whole "I've-been-hiding-in-a-cave/mountain jungle-for-6months-beard" that does it.
The interesting stuff: so my omelet didn't stick.
For a very long time, I've practiced a general rule that apart from immediate family members I don't cook for boys. Years ago, I had several unsavory experiences (you like that culinary pun? I know you do.) that involved me cooking for males, most of them ending in either 1. embarrassment, *plus* lots of dirty dishes, 2. utter ruin, crying fits, and humiliation, yadda yadda, melodrama. Thus, by the middle of sophomore year, I was resolute. I said to my steadfast roommate: "If I ever think it's a good idea to cook for boys again, remind me that it's not. NO more. Tie me down and make me eat my own apron."
I may have left out that bit about the apron, but it was some time ago, my memory fails. Several weeks ago, I was reminded again, gently, that it might not be such a great idea to invest myself in a cooking project, as it would be in direct violation to the corrolary to the previously instated "boys suck" policy. Stoically, I maintained the decorum necessary to not get hurt by someone's mystified disinterest in a prepared meal, but my resolve has recently been somewhat less stoic than it was.
On Sunday, a positively slushy day brought about by three inches of snow, followed by 39 degree rain, someone came down to the apartment for brunch. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, that someone was of the male gender [gasps of shock from reading audience of say...three]. There was coffee, there were gruyére and fresh ricotta omelets with shallots, and there was easy conversation. There were hot pans lightly coated with just the right amount of olive oil so that the eggs don't adhere to the bottom, but don't get overly greasy. There was cheese, melted and goey, pepperey pepper, and omelets steamy delicious as they slid right out of the pan, their slightly oozy half-moons coming to rest on blue plates.
The first time I didn't get it right, and tried to rush through too many steps at once, so we had some sticking issues because there were bits of caramelized shallots still left on the pan that I only halfheartedly wiped clean. You've got to clean up the old mess or things get even worse if you try to pretend it's not there. But, learning from my mistakes, and having a little more prudence/patience with the next one, I barely had to touch it with a spatula. Turned over once, lowered the heat to a gentle flame, and let it set. If I were one who was more given to allegorical anectodes, I'd say that had some sort of resonance in my romantic escapades from the past several years. Then again, maybe that's just the Ella Fitzgerald from the afternoon ringing in my ears.
But hell, that second omelet didn't stick at all. That hardly *ever* happens.
NB: words randomly glanced at while looking up proper spelling of 'surreptitious:' sport utility vehicle (picture included, who knew?), succulent, sunnyside up. i [heart] dictionaries.
In other news...Pics of Saddam on the NYTimes website remided me of the photos of Ché that the CIA sent to the papers to prove that he was dead. Weird coincidence, maybe it's the whole "I've-been-hiding-in-a-cave/mountain jungle-for-6months-beard" that does it.
The interesting stuff: so my omelet didn't stick.
For a very long time, I've practiced a general rule that apart from immediate family members I don't cook for boys. Years ago, I had several unsavory experiences (you like that culinary pun? I know you do.) that involved me cooking for males, most of them ending in either 1. embarrassment, *plus* lots of dirty dishes, 2. utter ruin, crying fits, and humiliation, yadda yadda, melodrama. Thus, by the middle of sophomore year, I was resolute. I said to my steadfast roommate: "If I ever think it's a good idea to cook for boys again, remind me that it's not. NO more. Tie me down and make me eat my own apron."
I may have left out that bit about the apron, but it was some time ago, my memory fails. Several weeks ago, I was reminded again, gently, that it might not be such a great idea to invest myself in a cooking project, as it would be in direct violation to the corrolary to the previously instated "boys suck" policy. Stoically, I maintained the decorum necessary to not get hurt by someone's mystified disinterest in a prepared meal, but my resolve has recently been somewhat less stoic than it was.
On Sunday, a positively slushy day brought about by three inches of snow, followed by 39 degree rain, someone came down to the apartment for brunch. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, that someone was of the male gender [gasps of shock from reading audience of say...three]. There was coffee, there were gruyére and fresh ricotta omelets with shallots, and there was easy conversation. There were hot pans lightly coated with just the right amount of olive oil so that the eggs don't adhere to the bottom, but don't get overly greasy. There was cheese, melted and goey, pepperey pepper, and omelets steamy delicious as they slid right out of the pan, their slightly oozy half-moons coming to rest on blue plates.
The first time I didn't get it right, and tried to rush through too many steps at once, so we had some sticking issues because there were bits of caramelized shallots still left on the pan that I only halfheartedly wiped clean. You've got to clean up the old mess or things get even worse if you try to pretend it's not there. But, learning from my mistakes, and having a little more prudence/patience with the next one, I barely had to touch it with a spatula. Turned over once, lowered the heat to a gentle flame, and let it set. If I were one who was more given to allegorical anectodes, I'd say that had some sort of resonance in my romantic escapades from the past several years. Then again, maybe that's just the Ella Fitzgerald from the afternoon ringing in my ears.
But hell, that second omelet didn't stick at all. That hardly *ever* happens.
NB: words randomly glanced at while looking up proper spelling of 'surreptitious:' sport utility vehicle (picture included, who knew?), succulent, sunnyside up. i [heart] dictionaries.
Friday, December 12, 2003
Today Does NOT Blow
For the following reasons, all of which are valid...
1. Classes have ended, and things are winding down around Haverford. Less than a week left. I've brought my plants to the greenhouse, and have begun to asess the perishable contents of our refrigerator to use them up before we head out.
2.I bought a hot pink shirt today. I [heart] H&M. Ordinarily speaking, I don't wear a whole lot of pink; I tend to leave that up to the roomie, but I was feeling in a bright, hot, "hey-look-at-me-i'm-wearing-borderline-neon" kind of mood today and couldn't resist.
3. I will never have to go to another Chemistry of Art Class again.
4. Chemistry of Art is over. Took my last test today, and barring meteor showers or other sorts of catastrophic cataclysms, I will be exempt from taking the exam.
5.. Did I mention that I won't ever have to listen to another Valerie Walters lecture?
6. Helped out with production work today @ Hot Soup making punties for tumblers and such. Yay. I love glass. Plus, the artist that I was making the punties for is the guy who's KICK-ASS pieces are up in the gallery this month.
6a. It's good to be a cute girl in the hotshop. It's also good to be a cute girl who catches on quickly and makes a better than serviceable punty.
7. Walked down Chestnut St. today to get to work, instead of the usual Market, and got a *completely* different view of the city. It's strange how one block south really chages so much. Hello, only-white-girl-in-a-peacoat.
8. Have grand plans in store for rest of tonight/weekend, including but not limited to: watching a movie up in the North Dorms, dessert, finishing film paper, going to the darkroom, semiformal dance, final SFS presentation, and a good night's sleep.
So I'm going to get on that =).
1. Classes have ended, and things are winding down around Haverford. Less than a week left. I've brought my plants to the greenhouse, and have begun to asess the perishable contents of our refrigerator to use them up before we head out.
2.I bought a hot pink shirt today. I [heart] H&M. Ordinarily speaking, I don't wear a whole lot of pink; I tend to leave that up to the roomie, but I was feeling in a bright, hot, "hey-look-at-me-i'm-wearing-borderline-neon" kind of mood today and couldn't resist.
3. I will never have to go to another Chemistry of Art Class again.
4. Chemistry of Art is over. Took my last test today, and barring meteor showers or other sorts of catastrophic cataclysms, I will be exempt from taking the exam.
5.. Did I mention that I won't ever have to listen to another Valerie Walters lecture?
6. Helped out with production work today @ Hot Soup making punties for tumblers and such. Yay. I love glass. Plus, the artist that I was making the punties for is the guy who's KICK-ASS pieces are up in the gallery this month.
6a. It's good to be a cute girl in the hotshop. It's also good to be a cute girl who catches on quickly and makes a better than serviceable punty.
7. Walked down Chestnut St. today to get to work, instead of the usual Market, and got a *completely* different view of the city. It's strange how one block south really chages so much. Hello, only-white-girl-in-a-peacoat.
8. Have grand plans in store for rest of tonight/weekend, including but not limited to: watching a movie up in the North Dorms, dessert, finishing film paper, going to the darkroom, semiformal dance, final SFS presentation, and a good night's sleep.
So I'm going to get on that =).
Thursday, December 11, 2003
Today Blows, a Pseudo-scientific Proof
and it started off so well, for several reasons: it was 60 degrees outside, so not only did I get to wear flipflops, but my fun grey skirt. Had several Marilyn Monroe-esque moments on this windy afternoon which were fun. However, these things were not enough to counteract the following crappy events which shall be hitherto enumerated.
1. Received yet another job rejection. Yes, I know the economy sucks, yes, I know you have 20% more applicants this year, yes, I suck and you don't want me.
2. Have nearly resigned myself to my boring mediocrity. I do a great many things passably well, but can't quite manage to excel at anything.
3. It dropped about 15 degrees while I was at class, so when I left to check my mail (and receive said "wedon'tlikeyouthea" letter) I froze my exposed tootsies right off.
4. Am inexplicably tired and achy in spite of *very* good night's sleep last night, and nearly fell asleep at work tonight in the athletic office whilst alphabetizing envelopes.
5. My room is in bad shape. I'm talking execrably messy, papers strewn everywhere, and long blonde hairs floating around due to our completely ineffectual air filter/ventilation system.
6. Need to do fucking laundry. Damn clean socks.
So I'm going to go shower, shut myself up in an exceedingly steamy cubicle for a little while, and think about my fantastic friends, both of whom I will see in a week. Some things never need to change. Some people, after having been there for you (okay, "me", but we're talking hypothetically here) through all the bad times and melodrama, make sharing the good times with them that much more special. A demure shoutout to Cambridge and Blacksburg, if you're listening.
1. Received yet another job rejection. Yes, I know the economy sucks, yes, I know you have 20% more applicants this year, yes, I suck and you don't want me.
2. Have nearly resigned myself to my boring mediocrity. I do a great many things passably well, but can't quite manage to excel at anything.
3. It dropped about 15 degrees while I was at class, so when I left to check my mail (and receive said "wedon'tlikeyouthea" letter) I froze my exposed tootsies right off.
4. Am inexplicably tired and achy in spite of *very* good night's sleep last night, and nearly fell asleep at work tonight in the athletic office whilst alphabetizing envelopes.
5. My room is in bad shape. I'm talking execrably messy, papers strewn everywhere, and long blonde hairs floating around due to our completely ineffectual air filter/ventilation system.
6. Need to do fucking laundry. Damn clean socks.
So I'm going to go shower, shut myself up in an exceedingly steamy cubicle for a little while, and think about my fantastic friends, both of whom I will see in a week. Some things never need to change. Some people, after having been there for you (okay, "me", but we're talking hypothetically here) through all the bad times and melodrama, make sharing the good times with them that much more special. A demure shoutout to Cambridge and Blacksburg, if you're listening.
Wednesday, December 10, 2003
Let the Madness Begin
Oh, yes, it's finals. The strange thing is that the actual volume of work that is required in the next 10 days is not all that excessive, but the relative importance of said work to my college career is quite weighty indeed. I'd like to have a thesis that I'm proud to defend, that above all else makes sense.
It's also, somewhat inconveniently, Oscar hopeful season, and LOTR III comes out really really really really soon. [read: I'm very psyched.]
I had also had the impression that I had something more relevant to say, but I guess I was just imagining that. It happens. To work, or not to work, that is truly the question.
It's also, somewhat inconveniently, Oscar hopeful season, and LOTR III comes out really really really really soon. [read: I'm very psyched.]
I had also had the impression that I had something more relevant to say, but I guess I was just imagining that. It happens. To work, or not to work, that is truly the question.
Tuesday, December 09, 2003
Seminario
estudiante 1: "Y como vamos a a ser evaluado este semestre?"
profe: "con mucho cariño"
estudiante 2: "con mucho vino"
Went out to dinner last night, c/o the Haverford College Spanish Department with the rest of the Senior Sem peeps. It was so fun to hang out with the majors for a while, speak Spanish, and eat a nice meal at Mikado. Green tea icecream, sushi, and a good debate about Haverford College pedagogy and awkwardness. Apparently, the professors are all awkward too, so we really *do* have a unifying force in the community. Who knew?
The semester is winding down, and as we all know that means two things
1. paper writing
2. cookies
Not having spent all that much time in the ol' apartment lately, the cookie baking has been on hold, a tragedy which I intend to remedy shortly, now that we have groceries again for the first time since Thanksgiving (yes, we're that lazy).
Fun weekends, fun weeknights, what in the world is my life coming to? Maybe I should be a little more concerned with my work... then again, maybe not.
estudiante 1: "Y como vamos a a ser evaluado este semestre?"
profe: "con mucho cariño"
estudiante 2: "con mucho vino"
Went out to dinner last night, c/o the Haverford College Spanish Department with the rest of the Senior Sem peeps. It was so fun to hang out with the majors for a while, speak Spanish, and eat a nice meal at Mikado. Green tea icecream, sushi, and a good debate about Haverford College pedagogy and awkwardness. Apparently, the professors are all awkward too, so we really *do* have a unifying force in the community. Who knew?
The semester is winding down, and as we all know that means two things
1. paper writing
2. cookies
Not having spent all that much time in the ol' apartment lately, the cookie baking has been on hold, a tragedy which I intend to remedy shortly, now that we have groceries again for the first time since Thanksgiving (yes, we're that lazy).
Fun weekends, fun weeknights, what in the world is my life coming to? Maybe I should be a little more concerned with my work... then again, maybe not.
Wednesday, December 03, 2003
And the Drama Continues
I have finished with my anal, self-suffering, overly-involved power point presentation, and yes folks, all of the graphic elements have been placed to my satisfaction. In other words, I made Power Point my bitch. In some sick part of my soul, I enjoyed being able to show my creative side a little bit. A very small, small part of me.
As I walked around campus this morning, color-printed presentation grasped firmly in frozen hands ($.75 a page, are you kidding?), a fat, belligerent squirrel chatter/hissed at me from atop a dumpster next to the field house. Please, Mr. Rodent, can I steal your putrescent garbage? Yes, that's right, get angry at me, I have central heating and baked goods and you're gorging yourself on acorns so you don't DIE this winter. Mmmwaaahahahahahah. [evil laugh] It's really all about the little things in life, right?
And speaking of bitterness...the amarga quotient is dropping rapidly. I'm not talking puffy pink clouds and all that shit, but we're most definitely down to milk chocolate range: 45-50%. Or perhaps I should clarify; while I might not be solid dark chocolate any more, it has come to my attention that the composed and tempered outer coating is melting a bit, and cracking as it goes. Think: melting peppermint patty (one of my all-time favorite-est candies). Sure, you get around the bittersweet chocolate on the outside to the sweet minty filling, but it's messy as hell in the process and usually ends up cracking.
Or maybe I'm just obsessing because my stash of said confection has just run out, and should refrain from all further use of sweet metaphors in reference to my personality. I think that's a good idea. Let's go watch some O.C. now that I have kicked Chemistry's ass. That's a good idea too.
As I walked around campus this morning, color-printed presentation grasped firmly in frozen hands ($.75 a page, are you kidding?), a fat, belligerent squirrel chatter/hissed at me from atop a dumpster next to the field house. Please, Mr. Rodent, can I steal your putrescent garbage? Yes, that's right, get angry at me, I have central heating and baked goods and you're gorging yourself on acorns so you don't DIE this winter. Mmmwaaahahahahahah. [evil laugh] It's really all about the little things in life, right?
And speaking of bitterness...the amarga quotient is dropping rapidly. I'm not talking puffy pink clouds and all that shit, but we're most definitely down to milk chocolate range: 45-50%. Or perhaps I should clarify; while I might not be solid dark chocolate any more, it has come to my attention that the composed and tempered outer coating is melting a bit, and cracking as it goes. Think: melting peppermint patty (one of my all-time favorite-est candies). Sure, you get around the bittersweet chocolate on the outside to the sweet minty filling, but it's messy as hell in the process and usually ends up cracking.
Or maybe I'm just obsessing because my stash of said confection has just run out, and should refrain from all further use of sweet metaphors in reference to my personality. I think that's a good idea. Let's go watch some O.C. now that I have kicked Chemistry's ass. That's a good idea too.
Tuesday, December 02, 2003
It's Freezing
No really, I'm serious. I'm also serious about the fact that I've got a ton of shit to do in the next two weeks. It dawned on me today, in the middle of Senior Sem for Spanish that our final project is due a mere week from today. Oops.
Another sagacious revelation: ditto for CompLit, five days later. Next week is going to be, shall we say, interesting. Dammit, and I wanted to have fun on Saturday.
In the meantime, I wonder why my baking skills seem to have deserted me (ha, get it? dessert-ed?), and have ruined several attempts at dessert. I think that my somewhat distracted mental state has effected my ability to function with even the modicum of efficiency on which I ordinarily maintain a tenuous grasp. It seems to have disappeared sometime around the end of October, for mysterious reasons.
I also miss my cat. That's tangential, I know.
Also tangential, if veracious, is my delight at having the opportunity for some Alias this Sunday with the roomie, of whom I have not seen much of as of late.
But enough with the procrastination, on to more agreeable things. Such as sleep.
No really, I'm serious. I'm also serious about the fact that I've got a ton of shit to do in the next two weeks. It dawned on me today, in the middle of Senior Sem for Spanish that our final project is due a mere week from today. Oops.
Another sagacious revelation: ditto for CompLit, five days later. Next week is going to be, shall we say, interesting. Dammit, and I wanted to have fun on Saturday.
In the meantime, I wonder why my baking skills seem to have deserted me (ha, get it? dessert-ed?), and have ruined several attempts at dessert. I think that my somewhat distracted mental state has effected my ability to function with even the modicum of efficiency on which I ordinarily maintain a tenuous grasp. It seems to have disappeared sometime around the end of October, for mysterious reasons.
I also miss my cat. That's tangential, I know.
Also tangential, if veracious, is my delight at having the opportunity for some Alias this Sunday with the roomie, of whom I have not seen much of as of late.
But enough with the procrastination, on to more agreeable things. Such as sleep.
Monday, December 01, 2003
mooooonday
bleh. thesis-ifying is much more difficult to concentrate on than previously anticipated. luckily, today is much better than yesterday, when i had the attention span of a 6 year old child. yes, i painted my nails, when to the farmers' market, and rearranged my binders, but how much work did i *actually* get done? not much. 2 weeks left of class. yikes.
bleh. thesis-ifying is much more difficult to concentrate on than previously anticipated. luckily, today is much better than yesterday, when i had the attention span of a 6 year old child. yes, i painted my nails, when to the farmers' market, and rearranged my binders, but how much work did i *actually* get done? not much. 2 weeks left of class. yikes.
Sunday, November 30, 2003
"...and CUT!"
Over the past several days, I've found myself caught in several moments of cinematic irony or perfection, so much so that I keep waiting for someone to step out from behind the door or around the hall and tell me my scene's over. I have to stop looking upwards to see the fuzzy grey mic's suspended just out of the camera's range.
Act 1, Scene 1
Alex came to pick me up, like the good sister she is, on Tuesday. Spent the night and hung out with my crazy friends for a bit after we traversed Chinatown in the cold looking for stocking stuffers. We bought mom an anchor-shaped cookie ornament, in keeping with the eternal nautical theme of the past 4 years; long live the Mariners' Museum. Good times.
We hauled ourselves out of bed bright and early, and made the prerequisite stop at Dunkin' Donuts for breakfast. As we walk in the door, cameras are rolling...
...Three cops in uniform with large midsections tease the 'new guy,' clad in tight fitting pants and long-underwear shirt which accentuates formidable arm muscles and pecs. All of the law enforcement officers order donuts while relating the ocurrences of the past night's watch and intra-bureau gossip. Seasoned veterans indulge new pretty boy, brush powdered sugar off of their jackets, then pile into separate cars and head their own way down Lancaster Ave...
...cut to Scene 2
A pair of freckled blonde sisters on a road trip, racing through cold Thanksgiving air down country highways to meet the family. They catch up on the few months that they've been apart, interspersed with peals of laughter resulting from witty anecdotes of familial idiosyncracies. The younger one drifts off to sleep as Bonnie Raitt sings, the warm sun from the window too soporific for her to maintain consciousness.
Fade to black.
Scene 3
Family together at last, montage of 4 separate discussions of turkey cooking times, temperatures, and recipes. Reminiscence of Thanksgivings past....
Mom: Wasn't that when he was on the 10,000 calorie diet for swimming?
Sibling: I read that women need a minimum of 1800 calories to stay alive.
Mom: Well, Weight Watchers had us on 1000 a day, and you lost weight.
Sibling: Yeah, and how well did that work?
Mom: it worked fine, but...you get kind of hungry with only 1000 calories a day.
Family Friend: [aside, with a knowing smile] She has the gift, doesn't she?
Oh, for the gift of the obvious...cut to last dinner with group:
Scene 4
Dripping wet and disheveled, the sisters burst in the screen door with shopping bags and Spanish rioja. Dinner preparations begin, butter melted for garlic bread and pasta sauce bubbing happily on the stove while the assembled crowd breaks into small family groups enjoying a glass of wine before dinner. Three hours later, dinner finished, the "kids" (21-27) curled up on couches chatting, parents long gone to bed. Fade to black; End Act 1, 'Thanksgiving.'
Act 2, Scene 1
A early winter night in Phildadelphia, bare hands hold chilled gloved ones tight strolling through Rittenhouse square on the way to the movies. Colored light spheres dangle from leafless trees, brightly lit traffic whizzes by on all 4 sides of the square and every once in a while a gust of wind comes by to stir up leaves on the sidewalks or dislodge her scarf.
cut to Scene 2
Animatedly discussing the movie, the pair enters the warm, crowded bakery only to find no open tables. Her glasses fog and she laughs as she takes them off. He suggests takeout, and she agrees [pan the dessert case: chocolate ganache, 3 different buttercreams top glossy cakes], they leave hand in hand: one with a box stamped with "Pink Rose Pastry," the other with a hot cup of coffee. Steam curls up from the coffee cup as they cross 5th and Walnut, she looks around to check for camera crews, for the artifice that has to be hiding in the chilly shadows. Looks up at him, sips coffee, chuckles and says "it doesn't quite seem real." Fade to black
[male voice-over: "This is decidedly pleasant."]
Act 1, Scene 1
Alex came to pick me up, like the good sister she is, on Tuesday. Spent the night and hung out with my crazy friends for a bit after we traversed Chinatown in the cold looking for stocking stuffers. We bought mom an anchor-shaped cookie ornament, in keeping with the eternal nautical theme of the past 4 years; long live the Mariners' Museum. Good times.
We hauled ourselves out of bed bright and early, and made the prerequisite stop at Dunkin' Donuts for breakfast. As we walk in the door, cameras are rolling...
...Three cops in uniform with large midsections tease the 'new guy,' clad in tight fitting pants and long-underwear shirt which accentuates formidable arm muscles and pecs. All of the law enforcement officers order donuts while relating the ocurrences of the past night's watch and intra-bureau gossip. Seasoned veterans indulge new pretty boy, brush powdered sugar off of their jackets, then pile into separate cars and head their own way down Lancaster Ave...
...cut to Scene 2
A pair of freckled blonde sisters on a road trip, racing through cold Thanksgiving air down country highways to meet the family. They catch up on the few months that they've been apart, interspersed with peals of laughter resulting from witty anecdotes of familial idiosyncracies. The younger one drifts off to sleep as Bonnie Raitt sings, the warm sun from the window too soporific for her to maintain consciousness.
Fade to black.
Scene 3
Family together at last, montage of 4 separate discussions of turkey cooking times, temperatures, and recipes. Reminiscence of Thanksgivings past....
Mom: Wasn't that when he was on the 10,000 calorie diet for swimming?
Sibling: I read that women need a minimum of 1800 calories to stay alive.
Mom: Well, Weight Watchers had us on 1000 a day, and you lost weight.
Sibling: Yeah, and how well did that work?
Mom: it worked fine, but...you get kind of hungry with only 1000 calories a day.
Family Friend: [aside, with a knowing smile] She has the gift, doesn't she?
Oh, for the gift of the obvious...cut to last dinner with group:
Scene 4
Dripping wet and disheveled, the sisters burst in the screen door with shopping bags and Spanish rioja. Dinner preparations begin, butter melted for garlic bread and pasta sauce bubbing happily on the stove while the assembled crowd breaks into small family groups enjoying a glass of wine before dinner. Three hours later, dinner finished, the "kids" (21-27) curled up on couches chatting, parents long gone to bed. Fade to black; End Act 1, 'Thanksgiving.'
Act 2, Scene 1
A early winter night in Phildadelphia, bare hands hold chilled gloved ones tight strolling through Rittenhouse square on the way to the movies. Colored light spheres dangle from leafless trees, brightly lit traffic whizzes by on all 4 sides of the square and every once in a while a gust of wind comes by to stir up leaves on the sidewalks or dislodge her scarf.
cut to Scene 2
Animatedly discussing the movie, the pair enters the warm, crowded bakery only to find no open tables. Her glasses fog and she laughs as she takes them off. He suggests takeout, and she agrees [pan the dessert case: chocolate ganache, 3 different buttercreams top glossy cakes], they leave hand in hand: one with a box stamped with "Pink Rose Pastry," the other with a hot cup of coffee. Steam curls up from the coffee cup as they cross 5th and Walnut, she looks around to check for camera crews, for the artifice that has to be hiding in the chilly shadows. Looks up at him, sips coffee, chuckles and says "it doesn't quite seem real." Fade to black
[male voice-over: "This is decidedly pleasant."]
Monday, November 24, 2003
Homecoming
“Welcome home” he said to me, as I packed up my computer to go. I felt like I’d been away from Haverford for ages, not less than 48 hours. It’s a little ridiculous.
As I walked westward to Ardmore from the North dorms, the stars above caught my eye in their brilliance. I turned around to see the big dipper standing on end, balanced precariously on its handle, the flashing red lights on the radio towers to the north up by King of Prussia that reflect onto the duck pond, and a mist-swathed string of streetlights leading up the hill into the trees. A disembodied pair of headlights emerged from Duck Pond Lane as I passed Barclay into another soupy cloud of fog, and I couldn’t think as a result of all my conflicting sensations. The cool night air should have woken up my brain, sharpened my mental processes, but it only made the twinkling constellations more diamond-like on that dark navy velvet sky, and confused me even more. One of the things that I’ve learned about my often invasive introspection is that although I may be very critical about things and flatter myself observant, other phenomena take a surprisingly long time to sink in. It’s been nearly a month, and I still don’t really want to acknowledge that it’s real. It's hard enough to tell myself that I'm actually in a functioning relationship, let alone attribute my newfound peace of mind to the actions and/or presence of another person besides myself. Yes, I know I can be perversely self-reliant at times, not the most flattering of characteristics.
“Welcome home” he said, and it felt true, it felt right. “You sound happy,” Rachael said today on the phone (post-Rhodes-congratulation), and it sounded like the truth. I can’t quite admit it straight faced yet, but it shows through to the people that know me well, despite the wishes of my black little sarcastic heart. I am happy, and the scary thing is I know why.
As I walked westward to Ardmore from the North dorms, the stars above caught my eye in their brilliance. I turned around to see the big dipper standing on end, balanced precariously on its handle, the flashing red lights on the radio towers to the north up by King of Prussia that reflect onto the duck pond, and a mist-swathed string of streetlights leading up the hill into the trees. A disembodied pair of headlights emerged from Duck Pond Lane as I passed Barclay into another soupy cloud of fog, and I couldn’t think as a result of all my conflicting sensations. The cool night air should have woken up my brain, sharpened my mental processes, but it only made the twinkling constellations more diamond-like on that dark navy velvet sky, and confused me even more. One of the things that I’ve learned about my often invasive introspection is that although I may be very critical about things and flatter myself observant, other phenomena take a surprisingly long time to sink in. It’s been nearly a month, and I still don’t really want to acknowledge that it’s real. It's hard enough to tell myself that I'm actually in a functioning relationship, let alone attribute my newfound peace of mind to the actions and/or presence of another person besides myself. Yes, I know I can be perversely self-reliant at times, not the most flattering of characteristics.
“Welcome home” he said, and it felt true, it felt right. “You sound happy,” Rachael said today on the phone (post-Rhodes-congratulation), and it sounded like the truth. I can’t quite admit it straight faced yet, but it shows through to the people that know me well, despite the wishes of my black little sarcastic heart. I am happy, and the scary thing is I know why.
Thursday, November 20, 2003
Fancy Footwear
Yes, I know alliterations are cliched, but deal.
Also, the damn squirrels are getting bolder as the temperatures fall. Winter makes those bastards desperate, and one scared the fuck out of me this morning staring at me through the window. Repeated cursing did nothing to discourage him from attempting to eat through my screen. Bastards.
Anyway, these things are irrelevant to today's story; moving on...
In high school, my friend Rachael and I were infamous in our English class for finding blatant and not-so-blatant sexual innuendos in literature. We were brilliant, and lended an air of irreverence and informality to such readings as "Kublai Kahn" and "The Sun Also Rises," endlessly amusing our teacher. One day, in the middle of class, Mrs. Ulmer remarked "those are some strappy shoes, Thea." Perplexed, I didn't quite know how to respond. Rachael bursts into laughter, and I look quizzically at both my peer and teacher. Characteristically, the elder replied "well, you know what boys want to do with strappy shoes..." suggestively. Mystified and combative, I retorted "what, wear them?" "No, take them off!" I still don't quite buy her reasoning, but ever since then it's been a running joke that I enjoy suggestive footwear.
A year or so after the strappy shoe incident, I came across an old Eagles song called "Those Shoes" which is essentially about a prostitute who wears strappy heels. A few of the lyrics go something like "got those pretty little straps around your ankle / together with those chains around your heart...oh, no, you can't do that / once you started wearing those shoes." Unable to contain myself, I emailed the song to Rachael and hilarity ensued. So maybe Mrs. Ulmer wasn't the only one that though there were hidden messages in one's choice of podiatric accessories.
Then, the last straw: last summer, I heard a song by Kirsty McColl on our local alternative radio station. Not only was it about a liberated woman who enjoyed stiletto heels, but the chorus was in Spanish with a salsa beat. It tells the story of three different encounters that this femme fatal has with three men, each vignette hinging on her shoes. Fittingly enough, the song is called "In These Shoes." Story three goes like this...
Then I met an Englishman, 'Oh,' he said "What are you afraid of?"
"won't you walk up and down my spine? It makes me feel strangely alive"
I said: "In these, shoes? I doubt you'd survive."
Chorus:
No le gusta caminar.
No puede montar a caballo,
Como se puede bailar?
Es un escandalo!
(trans.)
She doesn't like to walk,
she can't ride a horse,
how on earth can she dance?
it's scandalous!
How's that for a shoe addict's anthem? Kaitlyn and I, in a fit of irresponsibility, under the auspices of getting her some interview shoes, made a trip to DSW on Monday night before Senior Sem. Unable to resist temptation, I bought a pair of black stilettos with buckles on the front. They are, if I may say, HOT. Definitely my tallest shoes yet, and the beauty of it is that I can walk in them perfectly fine over reasonable distances. A woman walks differently in heels; more rhythmically, and often times more confidently. Literally, a pick-me-up. We asked ourselves several times, after extravagantly purchasing frivolous shoes, if it's wrong that new shoes should make us so happy. I believe the verdict was no.
Whenever I walk around the city, sit on the train, or go to a new place, I always check out other people's shoes. They don't have to be 4 inch, impossibly narrow heels to catch my attention, but something inventive, cute, or different. Women wear shoes mainly for other women, and despite Mrs. Ulmer's theory on strappy sandals, it's been my experience that guys couldn't give a shit what girls wear on their feet. And that's fine with me, I'll keep on wearing my fancy footwear regardless of its psychological implications in members of the opposite sex. Heels and other such accessories are as much a personal thing for me as they are a fashion statement, but I'm as vain as any other female: I always get a little thrill when someone says (male or female) "hey, nice shoes!"
Also, the damn squirrels are getting bolder as the temperatures fall. Winter makes those bastards desperate, and one scared the fuck out of me this morning staring at me through the window. Repeated cursing did nothing to discourage him from attempting to eat through my screen. Bastards.
Anyway, these things are irrelevant to today's story; moving on...
In high school, my friend Rachael and I were infamous in our English class for finding blatant and not-so-blatant sexual innuendos in literature. We were brilliant, and lended an air of irreverence and informality to such readings as "Kublai Kahn" and "The Sun Also Rises," endlessly amusing our teacher. One day, in the middle of class, Mrs. Ulmer remarked "those are some strappy shoes, Thea." Perplexed, I didn't quite know how to respond. Rachael bursts into laughter, and I look quizzically at both my peer and teacher. Characteristically, the elder replied "well, you know what boys want to do with strappy shoes..." suggestively. Mystified and combative, I retorted "what, wear them?" "No, take them off!" I still don't quite buy her reasoning, but ever since then it's been a running joke that I enjoy suggestive footwear.
A year or so after the strappy shoe incident, I came across an old Eagles song called "Those Shoes" which is essentially about a prostitute who wears strappy heels. A few of the lyrics go something like "got those pretty little straps around your ankle / together with those chains around your heart...oh, no, you can't do that / once you started wearing those shoes." Unable to contain myself, I emailed the song to Rachael and hilarity ensued. So maybe Mrs. Ulmer wasn't the only one that though there were hidden messages in one's choice of podiatric accessories.
Then, the last straw: last summer, I heard a song by Kirsty McColl on our local alternative radio station. Not only was it about a liberated woman who enjoyed stiletto heels, but the chorus was in Spanish with a salsa beat. It tells the story of three different encounters that this femme fatal has with three men, each vignette hinging on her shoes. Fittingly enough, the song is called "In These Shoes." Story three goes like this...
Then I met an Englishman, 'Oh,' he said "What are you afraid of?"
"won't you walk up and down my spine? It makes me feel strangely alive"
I said: "In these, shoes? I doubt you'd survive."
Chorus:
No le gusta caminar.
No puede montar a caballo,
Como se puede bailar?
Es un escandalo!
(trans.)
She doesn't like to walk,
she can't ride a horse,
how on earth can she dance?
it's scandalous!
How's that for a shoe addict's anthem? Kaitlyn and I, in a fit of irresponsibility, under the auspices of getting her some interview shoes, made a trip to DSW on Monday night before Senior Sem. Unable to resist temptation, I bought a pair of black stilettos with buckles on the front. They are, if I may say, HOT. Definitely my tallest shoes yet, and the beauty of it is that I can walk in them perfectly fine over reasonable distances. A woman walks differently in heels; more rhythmically, and often times more confidently. Literally, a pick-me-up. We asked ourselves several times, after extravagantly purchasing frivolous shoes, if it's wrong that new shoes should make us so happy. I believe the verdict was no.
Whenever I walk around the city, sit on the train, or go to a new place, I always check out other people's shoes. They don't have to be 4 inch, impossibly narrow heels to catch my attention, but something inventive, cute, or different. Women wear shoes mainly for other women, and despite Mrs. Ulmer's theory on strappy sandals, it's been my experience that guys couldn't give a shit what girls wear on their feet. And that's fine with me, I'll keep on wearing my fancy footwear regardless of its psychological implications in members of the opposite sex. Heels and other such accessories are as much a personal thing for me as they are a fashion statement, but I'm as vain as any other female: I always get a little thrill when someone says (male or female) "hey, nice shoes!"
Monday, November 17, 2003
Good Weekend? Good Weekend.
It's come to my attention that I've been a little lax in updating the blog lately. I apologize profusely for such callousness, and shall endeavor to remedy the situation presently, as have decided that attending "Chemistry of Art and Artifacts" this morning would be a waste of time. Hey, I had a 'phone interview' for a job this summer, so I'm justifying it that way. As if I ever needed to rationalize things, ha!
I didn't do anything this weekend, in the same way that I haven't been doing anything for the past two weeks, which is to say I've been busy as hell. I remember having remarked what seems like ages ago that "I probably wouldn't even have time for a relationship" this semester, so now that someone actually wants to spend time with me (shock of shocks, I'm still having trouble processing this...), my ordinary schedule thrown together with nuts and bolts, barely able to withstand minor alterations, goes to hell. That said, I can't imagine a more pleasant way to destroy my monotonous routine.
Occasionally, to soothe away the weekday tradition of hurriedly prepared and eaten meals, running out the door to [insert meeting here], I have to remind myself that cooking makes me happy. On Friday, after a long day at Hot Soup, I dozed off on the train. An inauspicious start to another Hot, Hot Friday Night? Yes, perhaps. Famished by the time my partially frozen fingers managed to pry open our off-kilter door, in about 6.7 seconds I set up the kitchen for dinner.
Grabbed the "Tango" soundtrack from deep within my desk drawer where it had been buried all semester, cranked up the stereo, and lit a burner on the stove almost before I'd finished chopping up the quarter onion that I needed for risotto. As the percussion swelled and the accordion wailed desde un país muy muy lejos, my diced onions, garlic, and pine nuts sizzled away on the stove. Then, once the inital rush of sauteeing and deglazing the now aromatic pan was over, I took some time do wash the dishes. At the sink, a sense of calm enveloped me along with steamy risotto fumes. Its so relaxing to stand there knowing that the rice would sit there beside me tranquilly, absorbing the scents of thyme and sage as the chicken broth bubbled away. There's a fantastically uplifting feeling involved in finishing up a meal in my slippers, grating some salty parmesan over a bowl of hot ristotto, puring myself a glass of wine and twirling out of the kitchen to a heartwrenching tango, dinner in hand.
I sat there in my rolling desk chair with my yummy meal, Tango blaring out of my computer, kicked my feet up on the couch, and read a few pages of "The Soul of a Chef," feeling extraordinarily content, gastronomically speaking. I get a call telling me to expect company, who arrives conveniently as I'm enjoying dessert: a small chunk of Ghirardhelli dark to go with last of the red wine, and who proceeds to give me a shoulder massage. I almost fell out of my chair, I was so relaxed. Fantastic.
Then, on Saturday I got to actually blow glass for the first time since August, neatly negating the icky feeling that was hanging over me due to sinus infection and nearly missing my trains. Even went for run outside on Sunday, which, while it nearly killed me on the hills, was envigorating. I even remembered to
1. go grocery shopping (and even succumbed to the temptation of the holiday Martha Stewart Living)
2. call my sister to organize logistics of next weekend's adventure
3. have quality chat with roommate, of whom I have not seen much lately
4. attend film screening of "M" for class
5. get 8 hours of sleep.
And now it's Monday, so work begins again. I've got to be on the ball this week if I am indeed going to be gallavanting all over the Northeast corridor. Ha, yeah, like that's likely. In any case, I should at least pretend like I'm on task. Hasta pronto, todos.
Good enough, Charlie? =)
I didn't do anything this weekend, in the same way that I haven't been doing anything for the past two weeks, which is to say I've been busy as hell. I remember having remarked what seems like ages ago that "I probably wouldn't even have time for a relationship" this semester, so now that someone actually wants to spend time with me (shock of shocks, I'm still having trouble processing this...), my ordinary schedule thrown together with nuts and bolts, barely able to withstand minor alterations, goes to hell. That said, I can't imagine a more pleasant way to destroy my monotonous routine.
Occasionally, to soothe away the weekday tradition of hurriedly prepared and eaten meals, running out the door to [insert meeting here], I have to remind myself that cooking makes me happy. On Friday, after a long day at Hot Soup, I dozed off on the train. An inauspicious start to another Hot, Hot Friday Night? Yes, perhaps. Famished by the time my partially frozen fingers managed to pry open our off-kilter door, in about 6.7 seconds I set up the kitchen for dinner.
Grabbed the "Tango" soundtrack from deep within my desk drawer where it had been buried all semester, cranked up the stereo, and lit a burner on the stove almost before I'd finished chopping up the quarter onion that I needed for risotto. As the percussion swelled and the accordion wailed desde un país muy muy lejos, my diced onions, garlic, and pine nuts sizzled away on the stove. Then, once the inital rush of sauteeing and deglazing the now aromatic pan was over, I took some time do wash the dishes. At the sink, a sense of calm enveloped me along with steamy risotto fumes. Its so relaxing to stand there knowing that the rice would sit there beside me tranquilly, absorbing the scents of thyme and sage as the chicken broth bubbled away. There's a fantastically uplifting feeling involved in finishing up a meal in my slippers, grating some salty parmesan over a bowl of hot ristotto, puring myself a glass of wine and twirling out of the kitchen to a heartwrenching tango, dinner in hand.
I sat there in my rolling desk chair with my yummy meal, Tango blaring out of my computer, kicked my feet up on the couch, and read a few pages of "The Soul of a Chef," feeling extraordinarily content, gastronomically speaking. I get a call telling me to expect company, who arrives conveniently as I'm enjoying dessert: a small chunk of Ghirardhelli dark to go with last of the red wine, and who proceeds to give me a shoulder massage. I almost fell out of my chair, I was so relaxed. Fantastic.
Then, on Saturday I got to actually blow glass for the first time since August, neatly negating the icky feeling that was hanging over me due to sinus infection and nearly missing my trains. Even went for run outside on Sunday, which, while it nearly killed me on the hills, was envigorating. I even remembered to
1. go grocery shopping (and even succumbed to the temptation of the holiday Martha Stewart Living)
2. call my sister to organize logistics of next weekend's adventure
3. have quality chat with roommate, of whom I have not seen much lately
4. attend film screening of "M" for class
5. get 8 hours of sleep.
And now it's Monday, so work begins again. I've got to be on the ball this week if I am indeed going to be gallavanting all over the Northeast corridor. Ha, yeah, like that's likely. In any case, I should at least pretend like I'm on task. Hasta pronto, todos.
Good enough, Charlie? =)
Thursday, November 13, 2003
...and it's snowing
are you kidding me? huge fluffy flakes and it's 45 degrees outside? today is surreal.
Yellow Galoshes and Fat Squirrels
One day this week, I can't even remember which (it must have been Tuesday. Was it raining on Tuesday? Sure, why not), as I rushed the library before class, I saw a girl wearing bright lemoney-yellow galoshes over her jeans. I'm talking old school Paddington Bear style rubber boots; you could see them from 80 yards away. Kudos to her for having the fashionista balls to tromp around on a drizzly day in such brightly hued footwear. Either that, or negative 10 points for trying to be 'modster' chic.
Haverford College, and Pennsylvania in particular, has been the host of some seriously whacked out meteorological phenomena in the past week. Today, the power went out twice because it was so windy. Right now, outside my window in the small wind-tunnel created by apartments 14 and 18, howling gusts are sweeping large clumps of damp leaves in cyclones, while the yew bushes over in the parking lot up the hill are inclined at a 50 degree angle when the wind really picks up. It's gone from below freezing to 60, back down again in the frosty region, and then last night I hardly needed a jacket to go out to dinner. Weird shit, man. The squirrels know what's up.
All of them, including the hideously ugly ones like the half-tailed mongrel that lives behind our building, have been doing nothing but eating and fighting over acorns the past week in preparation for the wintry times ahead. It's odd how an animal's immediate self-preservation instincts can go completely to hell when they're preparing for the future. I feel as though there should be some sort of allegory there, for my own incipient plans, but I'm 1. not awake enough yet to find it, or 2. still so sleepily deluded that I think squirrels will be a source of personal inspiration. In any case, the plump creatures just sit there next to the path when people walk by, unperturbed by humans. Considering the bad blood that we've established over the course of this semester due to several cases of forced entry into the apartment, sometimes I have the urge to just kick one. This doesn't make me bad person, I swear! I'm sure there are perfectly nice squirrels out there...somewhere.
Anyway, the wind rages on outside, and I've got some reading to do before class this afternoon, so I should get on that.
Haverford College, and Pennsylvania in particular, has been the host of some seriously whacked out meteorological phenomena in the past week. Today, the power went out twice because it was so windy. Right now, outside my window in the small wind-tunnel created by apartments 14 and 18, howling gusts are sweeping large clumps of damp leaves in cyclones, while the yew bushes over in the parking lot up the hill are inclined at a 50 degree angle when the wind really picks up. It's gone from below freezing to 60, back down again in the frosty region, and then last night I hardly needed a jacket to go out to dinner. Weird shit, man. The squirrels know what's up.
All of them, including the hideously ugly ones like the half-tailed mongrel that lives behind our building, have been doing nothing but eating and fighting over acorns the past week in preparation for the wintry times ahead. It's odd how an animal's immediate self-preservation instincts can go completely to hell when they're preparing for the future. I feel as though there should be some sort of allegory there, for my own incipient plans, but I'm 1. not awake enough yet to find it, or 2. still so sleepily deluded that I think squirrels will be a source of personal inspiration. In any case, the plump creatures just sit there next to the path when people walk by, unperturbed by humans. Considering the bad blood that we've established over the course of this semester due to several cases of forced entry into the apartment, sometimes I have the urge to just kick one. This doesn't make me bad person, I swear! I'm sure there are perfectly nice squirrels out there...somewhere.
Anyway, the wind rages on outside, and I've got some reading to do before class this afternoon, so I should get on that.
Monday, November 10, 2003
Sparkly Nights
These first few weeks of November are always strange. The weather is always doing odd things. The leaves have pretty much all fallen from the trees, leaving a color fanatic like myself rather unimpressed with the dreary brown-ness of the Mid-Atlantic region. It's too far from the winter holidays to inspire a countdown, but it's already late enough in the year to make you wonder "what the fuck happened to October?" as deadlines encroach and work begins to snowball.
November is never a *good* month, yet it marks a point in time when it's acceptable to bake with pumpkin; I get to break out the cinnamon, allspice, and ginger to fill the kitchen with the spicy, warmth-inducing scents of autumn. Mom sent me some cheesy nonstick tart tins in the mail today (along with junk mail and useless credit card applications) increasing my haphazard collection of 4" diameter tartlet pans to 12. Three different kinds, some fluted, some not; some have the nice removeable bottoms, and some of them are just plain molded ones that you find in the supermarket. None of them match, but they work well enough for small batches. If I ever had to cater anything, there'd be a problem. Not having ventured far into baking endeavors of late, the new tart pans merited a christening. Of course, they had to be pumpkin. Creamy, fluffy, cinnamon-specked sienna colored disks of warm goodness were totally worth using up the very last of the flour in the house, and gave me a sense of purpose on this awkward Monday afternoon. I also shamelessly consumed much more tart filling than can be healthy for one person =).
I hadn't eaten pumpkin-flavored goodies in ages; in fact, I don't know that I remember the last time that I enjoyed this temporal delicacy, I just know it's been a while.
It's also been a long time since I've felt the dry, chill air of a not-quite-winter night tingle my nose when I leave a building on my way home. Every year, there's that one night, the first time that it's cold enough to crystallize water on the tips of the grass, on already crunchy dried leaves, and it gets to me every year. The past week, as I trudge home from the library or venture out of the apartment after dark, I look forward to reaching the Campus Center green. Where the streetlights don't quite reach the whole field, and reflections from brightly lit windows or even the moon scatter bits of light across my path. The facets glint differently with every step, and as I walk on there's no time to think about whatever crazy bullshit is running around in my head. I'm too busy marvelling at the glittery path in front of me, that crackles as I go.
I'm a simple girl, easily amused by sparkly things. In November, I need that smack of cold air to revive my senses: to pull me out of my introversion and back into the real world of twinkling stars and frost, of warm pumpkin tarts.
November is never a *good* month, yet it marks a point in time when it's acceptable to bake with pumpkin; I get to break out the cinnamon, allspice, and ginger to fill the kitchen with the spicy, warmth-inducing scents of autumn. Mom sent me some cheesy nonstick tart tins in the mail today (along with junk mail and useless credit card applications) increasing my haphazard collection of 4" diameter tartlet pans to 12. Three different kinds, some fluted, some not; some have the nice removeable bottoms, and some of them are just plain molded ones that you find in the supermarket. None of them match, but they work well enough for small batches. If I ever had to cater anything, there'd be a problem. Not having ventured far into baking endeavors of late, the new tart pans merited a christening. Of course, they had to be pumpkin. Creamy, fluffy, cinnamon-specked sienna colored disks of warm goodness were totally worth using up the very last of the flour in the house, and gave me a sense of purpose on this awkward Monday afternoon. I also shamelessly consumed much more tart filling than can be healthy for one person =).
I hadn't eaten pumpkin-flavored goodies in ages; in fact, I don't know that I remember the last time that I enjoyed this temporal delicacy, I just know it's been a while.
It's also been a long time since I've felt the dry, chill air of a not-quite-winter night tingle my nose when I leave a building on my way home. Every year, there's that one night, the first time that it's cold enough to crystallize water on the tips of the grass, on already crunchy dried leaves, and it gets to me every year. The past week, as I trudge home from the library or venture out of the apartment after dark, I look forward to reaching the Campus Center green. Where the streetlights don't quite reach the whole field, and reflections from brightly lit windows or even the moon scatter bits of light across my path. The facets glint differently with every step, and as I walk on there's no time to think about whatever crazy bullshit is running around in my head. I'm too busy marvelling at the glittery path in front of me, that crackles as I go.
I'm a simple girl, easily amused by sparkly things. In November, I need that smack of cold air to revive my senses: to pull me out of my introversion and back into the real world of twinkling stars and frost, of warm pumpkin tarts.
Tuesday, November 04, 2003
I shall not tolerate incompetence!
From the hours of 10:36 to 10:55 EST, one Bob Kieft sent no less than thirty copies of a document of indeterminate length to the 2nd tier laser printer in Magill. An average of 2 copies per minute (a conservative figure; sometimes there were more) for 29 minutes. Now, ordinarily one would think that after the first, oh, FIVE copies didn't print, he would have stopped to investigate what was going on, emerged from his office to see why the fuck things weren't functioning properly. I don't profess to be any sort of mechanical genius, but I know enough to push the large, visible, user-friendly touch screen that says "PRINT MONITOR" to see what the hell's going on.
What I found when I attempted the aforementioned process looked something like this:
10:36 rkieft...word doc...printing in progress
10:36 rkieft.....printing
10:37 rkieft.....printing
10:38 rkieft.....printing
10:38 rkieft.....printing
10:38 rkieft.....printing
10:39 rkieft.....printing
10:39 rkieft.....printing
10:40 rkieft.....printing
...and so on.
Hmmm, mysterious, no? Indecipherable? Yes, I know it's complex. Cryptic, even.
So the printer, the functional hub of library activity on the ground floor, is dead. He killed the printer with the most ridiculous violation of library etiquette that I have seen in a long time. But Thea, aren't you being excessively critical? Isn't this excuseable for a freshman, an upperclassperson unacquainted with the laws of library behavior? Yes, that I'll concede. So who is this elusive rkeift who does not seem to understand the concept of logical and courteous codes of printer usage?
HAVERFORD COLLEGE'S HEAD LIBRARIAN.
This is a man who is responsible for all of the goings-on in the college library system, who hypothetically has some degree of technical savvy as a prerequisite for his position of leadership. This is a man in charge of the library administration, a man with a CompLit PhD. If this is what a doctoral degree in Comparative Literature will get you, God save me from academia! All I can think about, standing there in front of the printer, realizing that the library research area is not the appropriate environment for throwing things and yelling, calmly pressing the touch screen every 15 seconds to delete copy after copy of "-SENENG.doc" from the print cue is my mental picture of him sitting in his office pondering this enigma: clicking the cute printer icon in Windows ME XP 98 2020 or whatever, and saying either 1. out loud, or 2. in his head (the audible option lending a certain air of the surreal to the whole picture which I personally find appealing)
"gee, that's odd. It didn't work. I'd better try again."
"Hmm, still no luck. I'll try again."
"Didn't work, I'll try again."
"what could be wrong? I'd better try again." for a full THIRTY MINUTES. That's some serious stamina.
I was absolutely incredulous that someone could be so idiotic, so oblivious to what was going on around them. At first, it irritated me that he printer was non-functional, but I became curious as to just how long and to what extent he'd tried to print this thing. As I saw the print log multiply before my eyes, I got this strange fascination with how utterly ridiculous the situation was. My film readings couldn't be that far behind, because I recalled that I'd glanced at my watch to see 10:58 after I'd deleted the first few files. It was now 11:22, and I'd gotten through Bob's 10:55 printings (there were three that minute). On the third one, the poor, exhausted, confused printer peetered out and jammed. I'd have to re-send my film essays anyway, so I used the one working printer and let some other altruistic soul finish recessitating the Canon Laserwriter for the good of the rest of the community. I'll never know just how many times he printed his lecture notes, nor what in the name of everything sacred inspired such mechanical non-thinking behavior.
Livid, but with my readings in hand, I left the library, amazed once again at the stupidity of my fellow human beings.
Who does that? Honestly.
What I found when I attempted the aforementioned process looked something like this:
10:36 rkieft...word doc...printing in progress
10:36 rkieft.....printing
10:37 rkieft.....printing
10:38 rkieft.....printing
10:38 rkieft.....printing
10:38 rkieft.....printing
10:39 rkieft.....printing
10:39 rkieft.....printing
10:40 rkieft.....printing
...and so on.
Hmmm, mysterious, no? Indecipherable? Yes, I know it's complex. Cryptic, even.
So the printer, the functional hub of library activity on the ground floor, is dead. He killed the printer with the most ridiculous violation of library etiquette that I have seen in a long time. But Thea, aren't you being excessively critical? Isn't this excuseable for a freshman, an upperclassperson unacquainted with the laws of library behavior? Yes, that I'll concede. So who is this elusive rkeift who does not seem to understand the concept of logical and courteous codes of printer usage?
HAVERFORD COLLEGE'S HEAD LIBRARIAN.
This is a man who is responsible for all of the goings-on in the college library system, who hypothetically has some degree of technical savvy as a prerequisite for his position of leadership. This is a man in charge of the library administration, a man with a CompLit PhD. If this is what a doctoral degree in Comparative Literature will get you, God save me from academia! All I can think about, standing there in front of the printer, realizing that the library research area is not the appropriate environment for throwing things and yelling, calmly pressing the touch screen every 15 seconds to delete copy after copy of "-SENENG.doc" from the print cue is my mental picture of him sitting in his office pondering this enigma: clicking the cute printer icon in Windows ME XP 98 2020 or whatever, and saying either 1. out loud, or 2. in his head (the audible option lending a certain air of the surreal to the whole picture which I personally find appealing)
"gee, that's odd. It didn't work. I'd better try again."
"Hmm, still no luck. I'll try again."
"Didn't work, I'll try again."
"what could be wrong? I'd better try again." for a full THIRTY MINUTES. That's some serious stamina.
I was absolutely incredulous that someone could be so idiotic, so oblivious to what was going on around them. At first, it irritated me that he printer was non-functional, but I became curious as to just how long and to what extent he'd tried to print this thing. As I saw the print log multiply before my eyes, I got this strange fascination with how utterly ridiculous the situation was. My film readings couldn't be that far behind, because I recalled that I'd glanced at my watch to see 10:58 after I'd deleted the first few files. It was now 11:22, and I'd gotten through Bob's 10:55 printings (there were three that minute). On the third one, the poor, exhausted, confused printer peetered out and jammed. I'd have to re-send my film essays anyway, so I used the one working printer and let some other altruistic soul finish recessitating the Canon Laserwriter for the good of the rest of the community. I'll never know just how many times he printed his lecture notes, nor what in the name of everything sacred inspired such mechanical non-thinking behavior.
Livid, but with my readings in hand, I left the library, amazed once again at the stupidity of my fellow human beings.
Who does that? Honestly.
Monday, November 03, 2003
non-Halloween
I didn't do anything for Halloween this year, which was mildly sad, but since there's never anything fun to do at Haverford for Halloween, survey says that I turned the weekend into a *very* fun non-Halloween instead. So much so, that I have muchísimo trabajo for tomorrow, and shouldn't even be wasting my time blogging. That said, I'm going to bed. Or to work. Can't decide which.
Friday, October 31, 2003
Friday, Friday
It's already dark here on Strawberry Street, and the lights of the restaurants across the parking lot are glowing warmly at Cafe Spice and Cuba Libre. I love Old City in the evenings, people all around relaxing and enjoying the neighborhood. I've only got one more hour to kill here at work in the studio before I'll be able to join them.
I was out there last night as well, dining at Cuba Libre with the Advanced Intermediate Spanish tutorial, headed by the uber-enthusiastic EMJ. Dinner was, um, interesting. I wasn't blown away by the food, and my damn salmon was overcooked from sitting under a heat lamp/plate warmer too long (major faux pas). I also thought that the freshmen were going to try and order alcoholic beverages and get carded, thoroughly embarrassing us all. But they did not (sigh of relief), and behaved themselves rather well. Dinner parties with more than 5 are just asking for trouble, in my opinion, unless everyone knows each other. Alas, Cuba Libre is indeed more about the atmosphere than the food, but a beautiful atmosphere it was.
The company was delightful, the mojitos minty, and the cafe cubano hot, sweet, and strong: just the way it should be. That qualifies the evening as a success in my book. Plus, as an added bonus, I got to wear the cool t-strap shoes in my 1950's outfit. Leaving the apartment I asked Kaitlyn if I was "schoolteacher stuffy" or "swinger hip." She laughed and told me that I just want to be Heather Graham from Swingers. Although the character is quite cute, appealing, I don't think that I'll EVER want to be Heather Graham.
And so I'm back in Philly again tonight, on more culinary adventures. The company this evening, while smaller in number, should be just as good. Let's hope so [fingers crossed].
I was out there last night as well, dining at Cuba Libre with the Advanced Intermediate Spanish tutorial, headed by the uber-enthusiastic EMJ. Dinner was, um, interesting. I wasn't blown away by the food, and my damn salmon was overcooked from sitting under a heat lamp/plate warmer too long (major faux pas). I also thought that the freshmen were going to try and order alcoholic beverages and get carded, thoroughly embarrassing us all. But they did not (sigh of relief), and behaved themselves rather well. Dinner parties with more than 5 are just asking for trouble, in my opinion, unless everyone knows each other. Alas, Cuba Libre is indeed more about the atmosphere than the food, but a beautiful atmosphere it was.
The company was delightful, the mojitos minty, and the cafe cubano hot, sweet, and strong: just the way it should be. That qualifies the evening as a success in my book. Plus, as an added bonus, I got to wear the cool t-strap shoes in my 1950's outfit. Leaving the apartment I asked Kaitlyn if I was "schoolteacher stuffy" or "swinger hip." She laughed and told me that I just want to be Heather Graham from Swingers. Although the character is quite cute, appealing, I don't think that I'll EVER want to be Heather Graham.
And so I'm back in Philly again tonight, on more culinary adventures. The company this evening, while smaller in number, should be just as good. Let's hope so [fingers crossed].
Wednesday, October 29, 2003
The marvels of chlorophyll
Everyone, and I mean everyone should have a basil plant in their kitchen. I don't care if you can't cook with it, if you kill it after 2 weeks; get a new one! I got mine at Genuardi's (the haven of all things vegetable...reasonably priced) for 99 cents. Every human being should be able to brush by those delicately soft matte leaves and have this sweet, savory odor make you want to bury your face in the branches. I'm glad that my baby is back from being watched over in the arboretum greenhouse over fall break.
It's been a long week. Longer, when you take into account that it's not over yet, but *hopefully* there are über-fun things in store for the next two days. Two outings to philly in one weekend again? I'm going to have to find a way to financially support my Old City restaurant addiction. So tonight, in celebration of getting through yet another painfully long CompLit senior seminar, I decided that a proper dining experience was in order. The possibility of another cereal dinner depressed me slightly, but as we haven't been grocery shopping in about 2 weeks, my choices were slim. I'm talking like painfully bare cupboards...I couldn't even find an onion, let alone the shallots I wanted. That said, tonight's meal was proof that you can indeed make something out of nothing, and a very good something at that.
Tomato Vodka Penne with toasted pine nuts was just what I needed tonight, and the generous chiffonade of fresh basil that got tossed in at the end made me appreciate the little extra touch that good, true, ingredients can have on an otherwise blah dish. Something about bubbling salted pasta water and the smell of sauteeing garlic just makes you forget about everything but your immediate sensory perception. That puff of steam that comes off a saucepan when you throw al dente pasta onto sauce is invaluable; it makes the basil smell like it should be worth its weight in gold, or at least some other sort of valuable metal, not 99¢.
It's not that I made the most fantastic dinner ever, and I ate it alone at my desk with a glass of shiraz ($8 a bottle, I love my sister the wine conoisseur for the rec.), still in my workout clothes, unabashedly procrastinating on the 5 pages of thesis that are due in less than 48 hours. But I'm glad that I took the extra 45 minutes or so out of my evening to try and make something nice, something delicious, out of what seemed like hopeless options.
If I were a little more prone to allegorical thinking, I might project my own advice from the kitchen on to my more amarga pensamientos which while they have declined from a dangerously bakers' chocolate-esqe 80% last week to a more palatable 66% at present, could use some work. But that's a rather weighty task for tonight, and I've got several other more important weighty tasks in store before the weekend arrives.
As a sagacious old Englishman once said
Serenely full, the epicure would say
Fate cannot harm me, I have dined today
And so the epicurious Thea has staved off the ravages of Fate for one more day, although she might have fallen victim to melodrama =).
It's been a long week. Longer, when you take into account that it's not over yet, but *hopefully* there are über-fun things in store for the next two days. Two outings to philly in one weekend again? I'm going to have to find a way to financially support my Old City restaurant addiction. So tonight, in celebration of getting through yet another painfully long CompLit senior seminar, I decided that a proper dining experience was in order. The possibility of another cereal dinner depressed me slightly, but as we haven't been grocery shopping in about 2 weeks, my choices were slim. I'm talking like painfully bare cupboards...I couldn't even find an onion, let alone the shallots I wanted. That said, tonight's meal was proof that you can indeed make something out of nothing, and a very good something at that.
Tomato Vodka Penne with toasted pine nuts was just what I needed tonight, and the generous chiffonade of fresh basil that got tossed in at the end made me appreciate the little extra touch that good, true, ingredients can have on an otherwise blah dish. Something about bubbling salted pasta water and the smell of sauteeing garlic just makes you forget about everything but your immediate sensory perception. That puff of steam that comes off a saucepan when you throw al dente pasta onto sauce is invaluable; it makes the basil smell like it should be worth its weight in gold, or at least some other sort of valuable metal, not 99¢.
It's not that I made the most fantastic dinner ever, and I ate it alone at my desk with a glass of shiraz ($8 a bottle, I love my sister the wine conoisseur for the rec.), still in my workout clothes, unabashedly procrastinating on the 5 pages of thesis that are due in less than 48 hours. But I'm glad that I took the extra 45 minutes or so out of my evening to try and make something nice, something delicious, out of what seemed like hopeless options.
If I were a little more prone to allegorical thinking, I might project my own advice from the kitchen on to my more amarga pensamientos which while they have declined from a dangerously bakers' chocolate-esqe 80% last week to a more palatable 66% at present, could use some work. But that's a rather weighty task for tonight, and I've got several other more important weighty tasks in store before the weekend arrives.
As a sagacious old Englishman once said
Serenely full, the epicure would say
Fate cannot harm me, I have dined today
And so the epicurious Thea has staved off the ravages of Fate for one more day, although she might have fallen victim to melodrama =).
Tuesday, October 28, 2003
En un lugar de la Mancha, de cuyo nombre no quiero recordar...
Has nothing to do with anything, other than the fact that I love Cervantes. Well, I suppose I have been feeling slightly quixotic as of late, what with the bizarreness of gaining an extra hour of sleep, then spending 48 hours not knowing which clocks had the correct time or not. Despite various portents of craziness, this weekend was fun, action-packed, and vitamin-enriched. I spent half of it running to catch trains, the other half knitting in the studio, half pretending to do work on theses, and the rest of it sleeping.
yay for weekends, and...
* Danish glassblowers
* Kaitlyn's mysterious dream-inducing bed
* wine and cheese receptions in the D.C. with the Spanish Department faculty; awkward much? I think so
* hot, hot, Friday nights with Sarah: white chocolate martinis whilst melting dark chocolate for walnut brownies
* "gallery openings" and a successful end to photography! yay for va beach pics
* a *fun* Haverford party (gasp!)
* 3, yes count them, threee outings to Philly in one weekend.
* Rittenhouse Square in the fall, urban activity, cannolis at Reading Terminal (as usual)
* daylight savings time, even if it does get dark at like 4:00 now
* finally getting package from parents with dictionaries, halloween costume, and new skirt; strange priorities? yes.
* FINALLY acquiring some direction, c/o visiting literary theorist, for Spanish thesis
* the online Zagat guide for Philly, and udon noodles, of course.
yay for weekends, and...
* Danish glassblowers
* Kaitlyn's mysterious dream-inducing bed
* wine and cheese receptions in the D.C. with the Spanish Department faculty; awkward much? I think so
* hot, hot, Friday nights with Sarah: white chocolate martinis whilst melting dark chocolate for walnut brownies
* "gallery openings" and a successful end to photography! yay for va beach pics
* a *fun* Haverford party (gasp!)
* 3, yes count them, threee outings to Philly in one weekend.
* Rittenhouse Square in the fall, urban activity, cannolis at Reading Terminal (as usual)
* daylight savings time, even if it does get dark at like 4:00 now
* finally getting package from parents with dictionaries, halloween costume, and new skirt; strange priorities? yes.
* FINALLY acquiring some direction, c/o visiting literary theorist, for Spanish thesis
* the online Zagat guide for Philly, and udon noodles, of course.
Wednesday, October 22, 2003
An Abundance of Conundrums
It's become apparent to me that I have problems thinking in a linear fashion when I get stressed. Therefore, in lieu of having anything logical to say, I present, for your viewing and/or contemplative pleasure: a symphony of rhetorical questions
-I have run out of clean socks, yet lack the necessary 9 quarters to do a load of whites. How to procede? I know not.
-My room is frigid, and there are no windows open. The kitchen, with both windows wide open, dangerously vulnerable to squirrel invasion, is a veritable sauna. How is this possible?
-Regardless of the amount of reading that I do for classes, I am always behind. Am I really all that much worse off if I stopped reading altogether?
-If I have to do Wednesdays' CompLit reading for Monday afternoons on Sunday, Mondays' Spanish reading on Saturdays and Sundays, the past Thursdays' film reading(which I have invariably not finished) on Friday evenings, and teach tutorial on the two nights when I don't have class, when is there time for thesis reading?
-What the fuck is Dadaism?
-It was 60 degrees this afternoon, and dropped to about 44 degrees over a period of less than three hours. Why does it feel like freaking winter all of a sudden?
-How much caffeine is too much caffeine?
-the pre-punched hole in my ID card has just broken, the cheap ass thing only lasted through half a semester. Who can I call about this? Someone needs to be bitched at.
Thank you, this concludes your random thoughts for the day. Have a pleasant evening.
Tuesday, October 21, 2003
better?
I suppose that imminent cataclysm might be a bit of a hyperbole for life at the 'ford. Thanks to toasting oats and cinnamon raisin scones filling the apartment's newly cleaned kitchen this afternoon (instead of me writing my photo critique), I'm not quite so angry at well, everything, anymore. But the fact remains that there is work to be done, and I should be doing that =).
I suppose that imminent cataclysm might be a bit of a hyperbole for life at the 'ford. Thanks to toasting oats and cinnamon raisin scones filling the apartment's newly cleaned kitchen this afternoon (instead of me writing my photo critique), I'm not quite so angry at well, everything, anymore. But the fact remains that there is work to be done, and I should be doing that =).
Grr.
Reasons why being back at Haverford could be dangerous to my health
1. Am overcome with desire to wear nothing but the Red sweatshirt and jeans, every day.
2. Feel compelled to listen to old school depressed Shakira
3. Feel compelled to blast old school angry Ani until my weakling iMac speakers threaten to break
4. Have selected masochistically difficult theses topics requiring knowledge of semiotic philosopy
4a. Am not semiotic philosopher.
5. Remarked only half jokingly to roommate this afternoon that her playing songs which include the lyrics I'm gonna be lonely for the rest of my life... repeated several times in a row was not exactly beneficial to current psychological state.
6. There are still 7 weeks of school left until Winter Break.
6a. Roommate astutely obeserved that within those 7 weeks are 15-20 pages of theses each (4 total, in apartment 2C. We like to feel sorry for ourselves), two federal holidays, and exams.
7. Have given up the use of extraneous subject pronouns and helping verbs.
8. Need to sleep more.
1. Am overcome with desire to wear nothing but the Red sweatshirt and jeans, every day.
2. Feel compelled to listen to old school depressed Shakira
3. Feel compelled to blast old school angry Ani until my weakling iMac speakers threaten to break
4. Have selected masochistically difficult theses topics requiring knowledge of semiotic philosopy
4a. Am not semiotic philosopher.
5. Remarked only half jokingly to roommate this afternoon that her playing songs which include the lyrics I'm gonna be lonely for the rest of my life... repeated several times in a row was not exactly beneficial to current psychological state.
6. There are still 7 weeks of school left until Winter Break.
6a. Roommate astutely obeserved that within those 7 weeks are 15-20 pages of theses each (4 total, in apartment 2C. We like to feel sorry for ourselves), two federal holidays, and exams.
7. Have given up the use of extraneous subject pronouns and helping verbs.
8. Need to sleep more.
Saturday, October 18, 2003
Shocking.
Apart from the title of the fashion exhibit that I want to see at the PMA, shocking has been my experience today. I was absolutely astounded to find myself having such a good time.
In the midst of bitterness at Haverford, preoccupation with the present and my future situation (as in its lack of direction), I had forgotten that there are some really great people in my past. I was dumbfounded (shocked, some would say) to remember that I do have some great friends. I spent the day in Harvard Square, shopping with Rachael in the morning, meeting up with Elizabeth, whom I haven't seen in about a year and a half, and then spent some quality time with another Sevilla bud, catching up over the best hot chocolate that I've had in ages and kick-ass thrift store shopping. Urban Outfitters officially irritates me, but that's another story entirely.
As Teal left to catch the T, I headed back through the windy streets of Cambridge towards the Quad, and my home away from Haverford for the weekend; I couldn't keep myself from smiling at the 5 or so hours I'd just spent with three girls (nearly women, we are) that I can honestly call my good friends. People who I know well enough to be sarcastic, irreverent, and not feel on my guard or inferior. People who know me well enough to put up with my sarcasm, my slightly wacky ways. I think that it's funny that I felt more at ease here in Boston than I have in many situations back at the 'ford. Maybe it's that I just needed a change of scenery: needed a bright sunny sandy beach and a bit of brightly colored New England foliage to rejuvinate my perspective on the world. Or maybe it's that it feels so good to see old friends, and to have the time that you've spent apart melt away in seconds.
It's good to know that Teal will always leave dinner with chocolate indelicately smudged somewhere on her impeccable clothing, Rachael will smile indulgently at my loud, flowered vintage dress, Elizabeth will laugh at my crush stories and listen to bullshit about Spain.
I have also spent a fantastic evening clubbing with Cabot House suite 102 in Boston, dancing to spanish pop, merengue, and hip-hop in a borderline euro-trash bar, whilst being hit on by a 17 year old prospective student from L.A.. Why is do all the young guys find me attractive now? Where were they in high school? Alas, if I could only find someone my own age. In any case, my flight leaves in about 9 hours, and I'd love it if some of those were somnambulent ones. Yay for fall break. Así es la vida.
Apart from the title of the fashion exhibit that I want to see at the PMA, shocking has been my experience today. I was absolutely astounded to find myself having such a good time.
In the midst of bitterness at Haverford, preoccupation with the present and my future situation (as in its lack of direction), I had forgotten that there are some really great people in my past. I was dumbfounded (shocked, some would say) to remember that I do have some great friends. I spent the day in Harvard Square, shopping with Rachael in the morning, meeting up with Elizabeth, whom I haven't seen in about a year and a half, and then spent some quality time with another Sevilla bud, catching up over the best hot chocolate that I've had in ages and kick-ass thrift store shopping. Urban Outfitters officially irritates me, but that's another story entirely.
As Teal left to catch the T, I headed back through the windy streets of Cambridge towards the Quad, and my home away from Haverford for the weekend; I couldn't keep myself from smiling at the 5 or so hours I'd just spent with three girls (nearly women, we are) that I can honestly call my good friends. People who I know well enough to be sarcastic, irreverent, and not feel on my guard or inferior. People who know me well enough to put up with my sarcasm, my slightly wacky ways. I think that it's funny that I felt more at ease here in Boston than I have in many situations back at the 'ford. Maybe it's that I just needed a change of scenery: needed a bright sunny sandy beach and a bit of brightly colored New England foliage to rejuvinate my perspective on the world. Or maybe it's that it feels so good to see old friends, and to have the time that you've spent apart melt away in seconds.
It's good to know that Teal will always leave dinner with chocolate indelicately smudged somewhere on her impeccable clothing, Rachael will smile indulgently at my loud, flowered vintage dress, Elizabeth will laugh at my crush stories and listen to bullshit about Spain.
I have also spent a fantastic evening clubbing with Cabot House suite 102 in Boston, dancing to spanish pop, merengue, and hip-hop in a borderline euro-trash bar, whilst being hit on by a 17 year old prospective student from L.A.. Why is do all the young guys find me attractive now? Where were they in high school? Alas, if I could only find someone my own age. In any case, my flight leaves in about 9 hours, and I'd love it if some of those were somnambulent ones. Yay for fall break. Así es la vida.
Thursday, October 16, 2003
Boston
So here I am, sitting in 'the Quad' at Cambridge, having breakfasted c/o Harvard's dining services, and this morning while eating my waffle and coffee, I realized that I hadn't been in a cafeteria in nearly a year. Hell yeah. Isn't it funny to anyone else that I have to travel several hundred miles to get the college experience? Yes, yes it is.
I arrived in Boston last night, just after the Red Sox beat the Yankees, which they announced on the intercom of the commuter rail on which I rode. Spent a good portion of the decidedly gusty evening negotiating stairs with my mostrosity of a bag filled with books and winter clothes; Rachael remarked "you're usually such an efficient packer." Yeah, I know, but it's tough to get shit from Virginia to Pennsylvania if it's not in your luggage. So after a blustery reunion at Harvard Square, we headed off to Finale, the famous dessert place, for a pick-me-up. The molten chocolate cake was divine, so much so that I had to "have a moment" as they say. The whole meal was hilarious because I got an after-dinner sherry (having dined already in Providence, with Molly, mi niña sevillana) to go with, and was carded.
Reaching into my huge wheely suitcase, I dug out my green courderoy wallet a la 7th grade, and felt a little sheepish as the sound of velcro ripped across the restaurant. Whatever, man, it was like a Wednesday night and it wasn't busy. Have decided that this weekend's project, among other things, is to find a reasonably priced grown-up wallet.
I felt like such a business traveler yesterday, getting up and going for a quick run before catching my flight up the east coast. It gave me the illusion of maturity: a dangerous drug. From Baltimore to Providence, I saw the entire Eastern Seaboard from the air: Philadelphia, Manhattan, Long Island, and I think I even recognized New Haven. The trees are just starting to turn up here, which means that Haverford won't be far behind as fall creeps down the coast. I'm ready for the maples to be set on fire, and for clear crisp evenings in the city. Change is good, is necessary.
Except of course, when it involves me making important life decisions. Spent too much time with Rachael pondering post-graduation prospects last night over chocolatey goodness. Hmm, why don't I watch an Alias episode instead, and pretend like I'm going to be a secret double agent, because I'm so qualified? Klu was right, there is NO work getting done now that I've got Season 1 on DVD. This bodes poorly for next week... =)
So here I am, sitting in 'the Quad' at Cambridge, having breakfasted c/o Harvard's dining services, and this morning while eating my waffle and coffee, I realized that I hadn't been in a cafeteria in nearly a year. Hell yeah. Isn't it funny to anyone else that I have to travel several hundred miles to get the college experience? Yes, yes it is.
I arrived in Boston last night, just after the Red Sox beat the Yankees, which they announced on the intercom of the commuter rail on which I rode. Spent a good portion of the decidedly gusty evening negotiating stairs with my mostrosity of a bag filled with books and winter clothes; Rachael remarked "you're usually such an efficient packer." Yeah, I know, but it's tough to get shit from Virginia to Pennsylvania if it's not in your luggage. So after a blustery reunion at Harvard Square, we headed off to Finale, the famous dessert place, for a pick-me-up. The molten chocolate cake was divine, so much so that I had to "have a moment" as they say. The whole meal was hilarious because I got an after-dinner sherry (having dined already in Providence, with Molly, mi niña sevillana) to go with, and was carded.
Reaching into my huge wheely suitcase, I dug out my green courderoy wallet a la 7th grade, and felt a little sheepish as the sound of velcro ripped across the restaurant. Whatever, man, it was like a Wednesday night and it wasn't busy. Have decided that this weekend's project, among other things, is to find a reasonably priced grown-up wallet.
I felt like such a business traveler yesterday, getting up and going for a quick run before catching my flight up the east coast. It gave me the illusion of maturity: a dangerous drug. From Baltimore to Providence, I saw the entire Eastern Seaboard from the air: Philadelphia, Manhattan, Long Island, and I think I even recognized New Haven. The trees are just starting to turn up here, which means that Haverford won't be far behind as fall creeps down the coast. I'm ready for the maples to be set on fire, and for clear crisp evenings in the city. Change is good, is necessary.
Except of course, when it involves me making important life decisions. Spent too much time with Rachael pondering post-graduation prospects last night over chocolatey goodness. Hmm, why don't I watch an Alias episode instead, and pretend like I'm going to be a secret double agent, because I'm so qualified? Klu was right, there is NO work getting done now that I've got Season 1 on DVD. This bodes poorly for next week... =)
Sunday, October 12, 2003
Sometimes a girl just needs to paint her toenails "Blackberry"
Well, Thea's "Hot Hot Friday Nights" continue to impress; yesterdayn here in Va Beach, it was almost 75 degrees. Literally "hot." I arrived in Newport News at 6:45 pm and started my drive home, after sitting next to bad-smelling sketchy guy on train from DC onward. I forget how freaking humid it is around here, but if I have to put up with that so that I can come up from the Hampton Roads Bridge-Tunnel's last leg to find myself driving on two piling-supported lanes just above the water. It was high tide, so the windy evening chopped up the water quite a bit, and swirled the seagulls around in gusts through the pools of yellow streelight on the water. No meetings, no responsibilities, and late for nothing.
The best thing about my urban comsumer-driven day was its complete frivolity. I spent 30 min at Reading Terminal Market having frisbee sized hotcakes at the mennonite diner, contemplated buying a $14.50 set of 1950's parody magnets. There was one set called "bitter women" and another one called "shoe fetish." My willpower to resist was significant. I then blew half my cash on cannolis for mom's birthday, which was worth it. The rest of my green went towards a pair of t-strap heels that I found in a discount store, just like the ones Kaitlyn and I were lusting after on the 9 West website (and which froze my computer...how does that happen to a Mac? I mean, honestly, they were only brown leather pumps), except I got mine for $17, not $71. Too bad they have absolutely no natural materials and will probably fall apart by the end of the winter =).
I'd never been to the market on a weekday, which was a totally different experience than I'm used to. The people that own the stores were all eating breakfast in the food area around the cash machine, and vegetable trucks unloaded Lancaster's finest produce into the stalls as the market quitetly bustled. Instead of aisles clogged with convention center groups with nametags or high school field trips, everyone in search of the fastest to go lunch that they can find, there were people who work in the city with time enough to hang around and gossip, bitch about the Eagles' season, or talk with the waitstaff about their golf game. The atmosphere in the diner and the other breakfast places was one of efficiency, a comfortable early morning routine. The warm air hovering around the chrome stools and brushed steel countertop was their comfort zone, filled with local customers and clinking coffee spoons in coffee cups. Sure, there were a few travelers like myself, and a scattering of tourists that probably rose about the same time the bread did that moring, but for the most part it was a space for Philadelphians, and I felt priveleged to be there. With a smiled greeting and an extra-large tip, I paid for my admission to this metropolitan show, and then I was on my way.
All the way home, I was on a bit of a high from a productive and entertaining morning, and I couldn't believe my good fortune to be given a relaxing, pleasure-filled day over fall break, which for the past three years has been filled with stressful trips to faraway soccer games, trying to remember why I love the sport enough to give up all my free time. This year, I got to come *home* during first semester (an unprecedented occurrence), kick back in the recliner with my cat on my lap and a cardboard cup of starbucks coffee on the table beside me, guiltily enjoying the wonders of cable television. You know there's something seriously wrong when Julia Stiles' performance in "Save the Last Dance" makes you weepy. I'm writing it off to lack of sleep, and we'll leave it at that. 9 days left, and I intend to savor every one.
Well, Thea's "Hot Hot Friday Nights" continue to impress; yesterdayn here in Va Beach, it was almost 75 degrees. Literally "hot." I arrived in Newport News at 6:45 pm and started my drive home, after sitting next to bad-smelling sketchy guy on train from DC onward. I forget how freaking humid it is around here, but if I have to put up with that so that I can come up from the Hampton Roads Bridge-Tunnel's last leg to find myself driving on two piling-supported lanes just above the water. It was high tide, so the windy evening chopped up the water quite a bit, and swirled the seagulls around in gusts through the pools of yellow streelight on the water. No meetings, no responsibilities, and late for nothing.
The best thing about my urban comsumer-driven day was its complete frivolity. I spent 30 min at Reading Terminal Market having frisbee sized hotcakes at the mennonite diner, contemplated buying a $14.50 set of 1950's parody magnets. There was one set called "bitter women" and another one called "shoe fetish." My willpower to resist was significant. I then blew half my cash on cannolis for mom's birthday, which was worth it. The rest of my green went towards a pair of t-strap heels that I found in a discount store, just like the ones Kaitlyn and I were lusting after on the 9 West website (and which froze my computer...how does that happen to a Mac? I mean, honestly, they were only brown leather pumps), except I got mine for $17, not $71. Too bad they have absolutely no natural materials and will probably fall apart by the end of the winter =).
I'd never been to the market on a weekday, which was a totally different experience than I'm used to. The people that own the stores were all eating breakfast in the food area around the cash machine, and vegetable trucks unloaded Lancaster's finest produce into the stalls as the market quitetly bustled. Instead of aisles clogged with convention center groups with nametags or high school field trips, everyone in search of the fastest to go lunch that they can find, there were people who work in the city with time enough to hang around and gossip, bitch about the Eagles' season, or talk with the waitstaff about their golf game. The atmosphere in the diner and the other breakfast places was one of efficiency, a comfortable early morning routine. The warm air hovering around the chrome stools and brushed steel countertop was their comfort zone, filled with local customers and clinking coffee spoons in coffee cups. Sure, there were a few travelers like myself, and a scattering of tourists that probably rose about the same time the bread did that moring, but for the most part it was a space for Philadelphians, and I felt priveleged to be there. With a smiled greeting and an extra-large tip, I paid for my admission to this metropolitan show, and then I was on my way.
All the way home, I was on a bit of a high from a productive and entertaining morning, and I couldn't believe my good fortune to be given a relaxing, pleasure-filled day over fall break, which for the past three years has been filled with stressful trips to faraway soccer games, trying to remember why I love the sport enough to give up all my free time. This year, I got to come *home* during first semester (an unprecedented occurrence), kick back in the recliner with my cat on my lap and a cardboard cup of starbucks coffee on the table beside me, guiltily enjoying the wonders of cable television. You know there's something seriously wrong when Julia Stiles' performance in "Save the Last Dance" makes you weepy. I'm writing it off to lack of sleep, and we'll leave it at that. 9 days left, and I intend to savor every one.
Wednesday, October 08, 2003
a Feline Day
Life at Haverford is no utopia, I think I've been quite explicit about that in the past; perhaps excessively so. Yet in spite of all that, when I leave Hall at 6:45 after talking about Bartleby and Borges for three hours, walk down the hill to the apartments with a smile on my face, mind whirring gently with thesis questions, it can't be all bad. The master of the uncanny makes my experience here "unheimlich" a lot: familiar, home-like, and uncomfortably unsettling all at the same time.
I've developed a rather cat-like sleep pattern lately, and I think it's been invading other aspects of my life as well. This afternoon, when I came back from a decent stint in the Science Library working on a paper, I had just enough time on this uncannily warm afternoon to snatch a few winks. A cat nap, as they say. Some soothing tunes in the background, I curled up on my westward facing bed, windows on 2 sides, took off my dangly silver earrings so that I could properly snooze, and let the 3-4:25 pm sun melt me into my leopard-spotted pillows. I think I might have actually woken up to my alarm purring. Maybe not. It's so easy to empathize with the tendencies of my furry friends to sleep during the afternoon hours to compensate for nocturnal activities, although mine might be slightly more intellectually demanding than, say, mouse hunting.
Also, in true feline fashion, I noticed the V's of Canada geese flying over the fieldhouse through a salmon colored sunset this evening. The birds are going south, as am I. Both of us headed down the coast to the Beach, which makes me happy. I like the beach in the fall, and it will be nice to have some time to get work done in a different setting, watch some cable TV, and see the flaming blue van again. I might even spend some time working on my baby, if I get overly ambitious =).
In 48 hours I'll be able to regroup, get some sleep, and bond with the cat, of whom I seem to be resembling of late, especially with regards to my fur-bristling nature. Retract those claws, Thea. I've had to add the caveat "or that could just be me being bitchy" to far too many statements this week, and have been nearing the cacao quotient of unsweetened baking chocolate (super-híper-amarga, como dicen), so I need a little time to temper myself back into a more agreeable state.
But at the moment, one more paper, a trip to the gym, and an early morning trip to the PMA are what are in store. Almost there...
I've developed a rather cat-like sleep pattern lately, and I think it's been invading other aspects of my life as well. This afternoon, when I came back from a decent stint in the Science Library working on a paper, I had just enough time on this uncannily warm afternoon to snatch a few winks. A cat nap, as they say. Some soothing tunes in the background, I curled up on my westward facing bed, windows on 2 sides, took off my dangly silver earrings so that I could properly snooze, and let the 3-4:25 pm sun melt me into my leopard-spotted pillows. I think I might have actually woken up to my alarm purring. Maybe not. It's so easy to empathize with the tendencies of my furry friends to sleep during the afternoon hours to compensate for nocturnal activities, although mine might be slightly more intellectually demanding than, say, mouse hunting.
Also, in true feline fashion, I noticed the V's of Canada geese flying over the fieldhouse through a salmon colored sunset this evening. The birds are going south, as am I. Both of us headed down the coast to the Beach, which makes me happy. I like the beach in the fall, and it will be nice to have some time to get work done in a different setting, watch some cable TV, and see the flaming blue van again. I might even spend some time working on my baby, if I get overly ambitious =).
In 48 hours I'll be able to regroup, get some sleep, and bond with the cat, of whom I seem to be resembling of late, especially with regards to my fur-bristling nature. Retract those claws, Thea. I've had to add the caveat "or that could just be me being bitchy" to far too many statements this week, and have been nearing the cacao quotient of unsweetened baking chocolate (super-híper-amarga, como dicen), so I need a little time to temper myself back into a more agreeable state.
But at the moment, one more paper, a trip to the gym, and an early morning trip to the PMA are what are in store. Almost there...
Tuesday, October 07, 2003
Darkroom Comedy
You've got to be joking. Maybe if it weren't all happening at once and to me I'd think it was funny.
Last night, after sitting in the library freezing my ass off, watching the senior librarian explain to me for the second time how to use the online book catalog for THREE HOURS (keep in mind, these would be hours 4, 5, and 6 for me, as opposed to the rest of my Spanish Senior Seminar), I trudged back to the darkroom to finish my project. Said project, aka "An exercise in Futility" by Thea Williamson, salvaging photos from ruined negatives with nonexistent photo paper to print on, didn't start until 1:00 am, due to an excess of students in the darkroom.
Also loitering among the toxic, funeral parlor-esque chemicals was another hanger-on of indeterminate origin. Some cute blonde artsy chick that clearly didn't have a purpose. It was beautiful: she was consummately supurfluous, and always right in my path on the way from the enlarger to the developer. Hanging on to some guy in our class, the paragon of the 'hipster' aesthetic. Short choppy blonde hair pinned back in an oh-so-deliberatey mussed fashion by bobby pins, one highlighted chunk of bangs a shade more platinum than her natural color; a dubiously "handmade" courderoy skirt with brightly colored stitching over baggy jeans, topped off with paint-spattered shoes and yes, legwarmers. Cable knitted olive green FRAYED legwarmers.
Why is it that every guy I've seen lately is irresistably drawn to vapidity? She actually said at one point: "Oops! oh, my God!, I'm *so* sorry I bumped you! Did I ruin the picture." And she used the asterisks. Her friend graciously replied "Uh, yeah. I can just reprint it, it's no big deal." Why must people like this exist in my immediate vicinity, let alone within my 6 feet of personal space?
It's time to get off campus. Out of the state, preferrably.
Last night, after sitting in the library freezing my ass off, watching the senior librarian explain to me for the second time how to use the online book catalog for THREE HOURS (keep in mind, these would be hours 4, 5, and 6 for me, as opposed to the rest of my Spanish Senior Seminar), I trudged back to the darkroom to finish my project. Said project, aka "An exercise in Futility" by Thea Williamson, salvaging photos from ruined negatives with nonexistent photo paper to print on, didn't start until 1:00 am, due to an excess of students in the darkroom.
Also loitering among the toxic, funeral parlor-esque chemicals was another hanger-on of indeterminate origin. Some cute blonde artsy chick that clearly didn't have a purpose. It was beautiful: she was consummately supurfluous, and always right in my path on the way from the enlarger to the developer. Hanging on to some guy in our class, the paragon of the 'hipster' aesthetic. Short choppy blonde hair pinned back in an oh-so-deliberatey mussed fashion by bobby pins, one highlighted chunk of bangs a shade more platinum than her natural color; a dubiously "handmade" courderoy skirt with brightly colored stitching over baggy jeans, topped off with paint-spattered shoes and yes, legwarmers. Cable knitted olive green FRAYED legwarmers.
Why is it that every guy I've seen lately is irresistably drawn to vapidity? She actually said at one point: "Oops! oh, my God!, I'm *so* sorry I bumped you! Did I ruin the picture." And she used the asterisks. Her friend graciously replied "Uh, yeah. I can just reprint it, it's no big deal." Why must people like this exist in my immediate vicinity, let alone within my 6 feet of personal space?
It's time to get off campus. Out of the state, preferrably.
Sunday, October 05, 2003
INSC
Mmm, internet connection in the Science Library carrells (how exactly does one spell that?) is a good thing. I love my iBook. I also made myself Sunday brunch today, at 10:30--grits and scrambled eggs. Warm, steamy breafasts are always a good way to start the day.
Blue skies and cool weather on this Sunday early afternoon should be conducive to productivity, and there's another intramural game this afternoon to take my mind off of less agreeable activities. Six days till fall break, and all I've got to do is write a paper about pre-1918 film, along with various and asundry thesis projects. Vacation, here I come...
Mmm, internet connection in the Science Library carrells (how exactly does one spell that?) is a good thing. I love my iBook. I also made myself Sunday brunch today, at 10:30--grits and scrambled eggs. Warm, steamy breafasts are always a good way to start the day.
Blue skies and cool weather on this Sunday early afternoon should be conducive to productivity, and there's another intramural game this afternoon to take my mind off of less agreeable activities. Six days till fall break, and all I've got to do is write a paper about pre-1918 film, along with various and asundry thesis projects. Vacation, here I come...
Amarga.
Amarga, in Spanish, means bitter. It's the name of a García Lorca character, and it's also the designation for dark chocolate. In Barcelona last year, walking around with my sister, we ran across a bakery/confectionary that made its own chocolate. They also sold t-shirts to match the designs on their specialty bars: coffee, pistachio, milk, white, and yes, bittersweet. 66% amarga, the shirt said. It was royal blue with a great minimalistic sans-serif font on the front, and it came with hot chocolate mix and a bar of the specified chocolatey goodness. Too bad they only had extra large in stock. I would have been proud to say that I'm only 66% bitter, like the Valrhona bar. Alex said that was too generous of an estimate, and that I haven't been 66% since sometime in the height of my secondary education, circa junior year of high school. Now, I'm not so sure, but I think I'm fast approaching the 66% mark.
I've always loved dark, bittersweet chocolate, and if I were a little cheesier, I would say that I fancied myself to resemble it: something not everyone wants to eat, but a little sweet...you know: really great in small bites, and fantastically delicious, but if consumed in mass quantities just kind of makes you sick. Never been one to gravitate towards large group settings, and it does take a certain quality to really appreciate the more uh, euphemistically "ecclectic" aspects of me. But I'm not cheesy, and have never been given to speaking allegorically, so just ignore all of that.
Tried to go out tonight, shouldn't have. I hate what Haverford does to me. Oh well, at least I have all of Sunday to get work done.
I've always loved dark, bittersweet chocolate, and if I were a little cheesier, I would say that I fancied myself to resemble it: something not everyone wants to eat, but a little sweet...you know: really great in small bites, and fantastically delicious, but if consumed in mass quantities just kind of makes you sick. Never been one to gravitate towards large group settings, and it does take a certain quality to really appreciate the more uh, euphemistically "ecclectic" aspects of me. But I'm not cheesy, and have never been given to speaking allegorically, so just ignore all of that.
Tried to go out tonight, shouldn't have. I hate what Haverford does to me. Oh well, at least I have all of Sunday to get work done.
Saturday, October 04, 2003
amarga?
Some people have mentioned in the past year or so that I don't really merit the moniker of "bitter" any more. Lately I'm not so sure. Perhaps it's Haverford that does it to me. Perhaps it's being in a static social scene. Perhaps it's my incessant desire for change and movement in my life, that is completely unsatisfied at the moment. Quizás, Quizás, Quizás.
Procrastinating tomorrow (as with this evening, when fell asleep while reading Borges...in English...for CompLit) shall include rationalization of title. I know you're all enthralled.
Procrastinating tomorrow (as with this evening, when fell asleep while reading Borges...in English...for CompLit) shall include rationalization of title. I know you're all enthralled.
Thursday, October 02, 2003
Bzzzzzz,
just a little.
When I left the fieldhouse this evening, on a tight schedule to get cleaned up before the first Spanish Film Series presentation of the semester, I walked out into brisk air. It made me slow down mid-stride and look up at the sky, to see if I could find what I'd been waiting for. I'd been waiting for a night like those I remember from autumns past in Pennsylvania; those nights coming home from the library, a practice that ran late, a looping suburban run. A night when all of the divergent jumbles of thoughts in my head get frozen for a moment, and I realize the power that something purely aesthetic can have over me.
Tonight was one of those evenings when the sky, cloudles and stardusted, seems to go on forever, infinitely deep and smooth. Tall pines and maples cut out backlit silouettes that frame my walk home across the quad, the lead overlay on my glassy sky: un cielo infinito so clear and bright, that starts off cerulean, passes imperceptibly into shades of royal blue, and on into a cobalt so dark and pure that you'd swear if you dropped it on kitchen tiles, it would shatter. As my gaze travels upwards, I can't help but shut up, tell myself to stop jabbering on inside my head about whatever trivial stress is bothering me, and look for that first star. Yadda yadda, puny feeling in relation to celestial universe, blah, blah, berate self for not looking up at sky more often. You know the drill.
My ghetto digital watch kept flashing the seconds, and I had to book it home in order to shower, feed myself something on the run, and be present to kick off the 'Serie.'
"Duh, I knew about that shit all along, no biggie." said the omniscient, infallible narrator with an artfully haughty raised eyebrow. And she went back to studying chemistry.
When I left the fieldhouse this evening, on a tight schedule to get cleaned up before the first Spanish Film Series presentation of the semester, I walked out into brisk air. It made me slow down mid-stride and look up at the sky, to see if I could find what I'd been waiting for. I'd been waiting for a night like those I remember from autumns past in Pennsylvania; those nights coming home from the library, a practice that ran late, a looping suburban run. A night when all of the divergent jumbles of thoughts in my head get frozen for a moment, and I realize the power that something purely aesthetic can have over me.
Tonight was one of those evenings when the sky, cloudles and stardusted, seems to go on forever, infinitely deep and smooth. Tall pines and maples cut out backlit silouettes that frame my walk home across the quad, the lead overlay on my glassy sky: un cielo infinito so clear and bright, that starts off cerulean, passes imperceptibly into shades of royal blue, and on into a cobalt so dark and pure that you'd swear if you dropped it on kitchen tiles, it would shatter. As my gaze travels upwards, I can't help but shut up, tell myself to stop jabbering on inside my head about whatever trivial stress is bothering me, and look for that first star. Yadda yadda, puny feeling in relation to celestial universe, blah, blah, berate self for not looking up at sky more often. You know the drill.
My ghetto digital watch kept flashing the seconds, and I had to book it home in order to shower, feed myself something on the run, and be present to kick off the 'Serie.'
"Duh, I knew about that shit all along, no biggie." said the omniscient, infallible narrator with an artfully haughty raised eyebrow. And she went back to studying chemistry.
Buzzkill
So I'm not sure what it is about October that just wants to piss me off so badly...it's only been two days. Maybe it's the weather. I feel like I'm trapped in that Shakira song:
Si es la lluvia de todos los dias que ha aumentado su nivel
ya la musica no tiene el mismo efecto que solia tener
que no se ni que idoma hablo...
Y por mas que yo lo intente,
no me escucho ni mi propio voz.
Ya no sé si he vivido diez mil días
o un día diez mil veces....
Maybe its that it's been raining more,
because music doesn't have the same effect
as it's supposed to.
I don't even know what language to speak in...
And as much as I've tried,
I don't even listen to my own voice.
And I don't know if I've lived a thousand days
or just one day a thousand times.
Only problem is that the Spanish pop goddess is talking about love (the song's called "I Need You" for christ's sake), and all that's getting me down is life in general. I feel that "oh-shit-i'm-overinvolved" vibe coming on, like I've been blowing off schoolwork to deal with ostensibly 'real life' stuff, and eventually that's going to be a problem.
Part of the problem is that I hate looking like a slacker. I'm a procrastinator, to be sure, and I may not be the most organized person in the entire world, but I do my work. Having my Spanish prof. think that I just don't care enough to find a thesis topic kind of blows, because that's very much not the case.
Having my photo prof. think that I just have "sloppy" composition only because I can't afford a tripod also, as they say, blows. Especially since I spent an inordinate amount of time taking what I thought were really cool pictures of coffee, and worked really hard on the assignment; too bad the class thought that i 'failed to execute' what I was attempting; usually the teacher says "Okay ____, thanks for showing us your pictures. Let's move on." With me this morning, all that I got was her looking at the grade sheet, tilting her head with a sort of quizzical "hmm...." and some arched eyebrows. Give me a fucking break. They weren't that horrible, were they? Other people in the class just did theirs the night before!
Having the Watson committee eat pizza on the dean's couch in his cluttered office didn't really impart the seriousness I had hoped for in the interview, and I just want to go in and shake them all, yelling "look, you stupid people, I put a lot of work into this, and I know half of the other applicants just threw their shit together the week before!"
And of course, having to objectively look at all that shit and realize that none of it's really that important, and that if I'd been just a little more organized, a little more observant, and a little more aware of the fact that I'm not going to get by on just my *charming* personality, I could have remedied all of the aforementioned situations before they squashed me down a bit. What's that, Thea having problems with overconfidence? That's a new one. It has not been a good week for my interactions with authority figures, which worries me. Usually, I have difficulties enough dealing with my peers, and I can handle adults just fine, but when that falls apart too, it's a bit of a downer.
Fortunately, I have in the cupboard what I discovered in Sevilla is the remedy for any and all bad moods or buzzkills: Nutella. Crusty, slightly warmed french bread and sweet chocolate hazelnut spread tempers bitterness quite effectively. I am a little perplexed as to why professional basketball players are advertsing it; apparently I should "TRY KOBE'S FAVORITE." Whatever, man. I don't ask questions as long as it keeps tasting good.
Hopefully this weekend will be fun; big plans for First Friday in Old City, and much productivity with regards to work.
Si es la lluvia de todos los dias que ha aumentado su nivel
ya la musica no tiene el mismo efecto que solia tener
que no se ni que idoma hablo...
Y por mas que yo lo intente,
no me escucho ni mi propio voz.
Ya no sé si he vivido diez mil días
o un día diez mil veces....
Maybe its that it's been raining more,
because music doesn't have the same effect
as it's supposed to.
I don't even know what language to speak in...
And as much as I've tried,
I don't even listen to my own voice.
And I don't know if I've lived a thousand days
or just one day a thousand times.
Only problem is that the Spanish pop goddess is talking about love (the song's called "I Need You" for christ's sake), and all that's getting me down is life in general. I feel that "oh-shit-i'm-overinvolved" vibe coming on, like I've been blowing off schoolwork to deal with ostensibly 'real life' stuff, and eventually that's going to be a problem.
Part of the problem is that I hate looking like a slacker. I'm a procrastinator, to be sure, and I may not be the most organized person in the entire world, but I do my work. Having my Spanish prof. think that I just don't care enough to find a thesis topic kind of blows, because that's very much not the case.
Having my photo prof. think that I just have "sloppy" composition only because I can't afford a tripod also, as they say, blows. Especially since I spent an inordinate amount of time taking what I thought were really cool pictures of coffee, and worked really hard on the assignment; too bad the class thought that i 'failed to execute' what I was attempting; usually the teacher says "Okay ____, thanks for showing us your pictures. Let's move on." With me this morning, all that I got was her looking at the grade sheet, tilting her head with a sort of quizzical "hmm...." and some arched eyebrows. Give me a fucking break. They weren't that horrible, were they? Other people in the class just did theirs the night before!
Having the Watson committee eat pizza on the dean's couch in his cluttered office didn't really impart the seriousness I had hoped for in the interview, and I just want to go in and shake them all, yelling "look, you stupid people, I put a lot of work into this, and I know half of the other applicants just threw their shit together the week before!"
And of course, having to objectively look at all that shit and realize that none of it's really that important, and that if I'd been just a little more organized, a little more observant, and a little more aware of the fact that I'm not going to get by on just my *charming* personality, I could have remedied all of the aforementioned situations before they squashed me down a bit. What's that, Thea having problems with overconfidence? That's a new one. It has not been a good week for my interactions with authority figures, which worries me. Usually, I have difficulties enough dealing with my peers, and I can handle adults just fine, but when that falls apart too, it's a bit of a downer.
Fortunately, I have in the cupboard what I discovered in Sevilla is the remedy for any and all bad moods or buzzkills: Nutella. Crusty, slightly warmed french bread and sweet chocolate hazelnut spread tempers bitterness quite effectively. I am a little perplexed as to why professional basketball players are advertsing it; apparently I should "TRY KOBE'S FAVORITE." Whatever, man. I don't ask questions as long as it keeps tasting good.
Hopefully this weekend will be fun; big plans for First Friday in Old City, and much productivity with regards to work.
Monday, September 29, 2003
Breaking and Entering
Fucking arboreal rodents ripped a scone-sized hole in our kitchen screen this morning and stole one of my crispety glazed pastries. This now marks the second intra-apartment squirrel incident, one of too many here on Haverford's campus. Those little fuckers, along wtih the multitude of rabbits out back, have no shame, no healthy fear of humans, and apparently nothing better to do than to break into our second story windows. We throw things at them to try and establish the *true* order of the foodchain, but to no avail. We're omnivores, dammit! Doesn't that count for anything anymore? The world has gone mad.
I baked up a storm today, pretending that I don't have work to do, and that my Spanish thesis is going to materialize out of nowhere, that I'll be able to snatch a topic out of the mists of formlessness and indecision. The grand plan is to leave the biscotti for the interview and my caramel-ginger cookies all laid out in a row, with the windows cracked juuuuust enough for the bushy-tailed bastards to smell them, but not get in. When I get back from photo tomorow morning, I want to look up from the path and see a row of buck teeth chattering in drooling mouths, just wishing they could eat my baked goods.
Mmmmwwaaahahahahahahha. [evil laugh]
Maybe I just didn't get enough sleep last night.
I baked up a storm today, pretending that I don't have work to do, and that my Spanish thesis is going to materialize out of nowhere, that I'll be able to snatch a topic out of the mists of formlessness and indecision. The grand plan is to leave the biscotti for the interview and my caramel-ginger cookies all laid out in a row, with the windows cracked juuuuust enough for the bushy-tailed bastards to smell them, but not get in. When I get back from photo tomorow morning, I want to look up from the path and see a row of buck teeth chattering in drooling mouths, just wishing they could eat my baked goods.
Mmmmwwaaahahahahahahha. [evil laugh]
Maybe I just didn't get enough sleep last night.
Sunday, September 28, 2003
Sunday Morning Scones
An astute observer present in the apartment this morning remarked "who the hell just gets up in the morning and says 'I'm going to bake something'?" Well, to that I'd say, um, me.
It was just one of those mornings when I needed to breakfast on something warm and crispy, but soft and steamy inside. The smell of toasting oats early-ish (10:30...not bad) is something that inherently deactivates whatever sort of negativity might surface on Sunday, the consummate "work" day of the college student. Last week at the Italian market, I'd treated myself to last month's issue of Cooks' Illustrated magazine. Their recipe for Toasted Oat Scones looked delectable, so I thought I'd better try it.
Waking up and not having the entire day mapped out in hour or half-hour blocks is liberating, a small pleasure that I realized on Saturday afternoon, when I returned home from my weekly trip to the farmers' market with the best fresh mozzarella that I've had in ages, and a whole monkfish fillet. Warm afternoon sunlight streamed lazily in through the kitchen window on my happily photosynthesizing basil plant, also illuminating the sink full of last week's dirty dishes. As many people know, I've never been one to keep an orderly household; my room tends towards entropy, and endlessly vacillates between various degrees of disorder. Doing the dishes has NEVER been my strong point, although it's one of the things that I've been working to change (over the past several years, hee hee). So I thought to myself, I'm going to clean the kitchen.
It was in need of a serious cleansing. My knives need to be sharpened, which, incidentally is a most diverting activity; how many girls do you know that can properly use a sharpening steel? I put my receipts away, washed all of the dishes, and wiped down the sink before I even started on dinner. It felt so good to have a clean counter to work on, these little activities that I take for granted usually. Hell, I even did the dishes from dinner before we started the movie! I was a maniac.
Lately I haven't even had the time to cook dinner, let alone clean up after it, so the luxury of having free time (even if I did use it to do the dishes) made me happy. That, and opening up the refrigerator to see shelves stacked with green asparagus, papery-thin prosciutto cut by surly deli workers, new cheeses in their butcher paper wrapping, and a chilly bottle of Pellegrino instead of 2 eggs, a stick of margerine, and 3 tortillas (the contents of the fridge on Thursday) had an ameliorating effect on my psyche. Our freezer is still mysteriously dripping water at inopportune times, flooding the bottom of the fridge and ruining its contents, but at least there's stuff in there to get soaked, right? The floor is kind of gross, and there's the mystery stuff from past occupants stuck behind the stove, but I'd say we're doing okay at the moment.
I was tired this weekend, tired of running around purposelessly. If occupying myself with bread crumb-covered plates and lemon dishwashing liquid for an hour is enough to make me feel as though I've actually accomplished something tangible amidst the all too academic existence that I lead during the week, then that counts as a good thing for me. That said, I still hate the dishpan hands.
It was just one of those mornings when I needed to breakfast on something warm and crispy, but soft and steamy inside. The smell of toasting oats early-ish (10:30...not bad) is something that inherently deactivates whatever sort of negativity might surface on Sunday, the consummate "work" day of the college student. Last week at the Italian market, I'd treated myself to last month's issue of Cooks' Illustrated magazine. Their recipe for Toasted Oat Scones looked delectable, so I thought I'd better try it.
Waking up and not having the entire day mapped out in hour or half-hour blocks is liberating, a small pleasure that I realized on Saturday afternoon, when I returned home from my weekly trip to the farmers' market with the best fresh mozzarella that I've had in ages, and a whole monkfish fillet. Warm afternoon sunlight streamed lazily in through the kitchen window on my happily photosynthesizing basil plant, also illuminating the sink full of last week's dirty dishes. As many people know, I've never been one to keep an orderly household; my room tends towards entropy, and endlessly vacillates between various degrees of disorder. Doing the dishes has NEVER been my strong point, although it's one of the things that I've been working to change (over the past several years, hee hee). So I thought to myself, I'm going to clean the kitchen.
It was in need of a serious cleansing. My knives need to be sharpened, which, incidentally is a most diverting activity; how many girls do you know that can properly use a sharpening steel? I put my receipts away, washed all of the dishes, and wiped down the sink before I even started on dinner. It felt so good to have a clean counter to work on, these little activities that I take for granted usually. Hell, I even did the dishes from dinner before we started the movie! I was a maniac.
Lately I haven't even had the time to cook dinner, let alone clean up after it, so the luxury of having free time (even if I did use it to do the dishes) made me happy. That, and opening up the refrigerator to see shelves stacked with green asparagus, papery-thin prosciutto cut by surly deli workers, new cheeses in their butcher paper wrapping, and a chilly bottle of Pellegrino instead of 2 eggs, a stick of margerine, and 3 tortillas (the contents of the fridge on Thursday) had an ameliorating effect on my psyche. Our freezer is still mysteriously dripping water at inopportune times, flooding the bottom of the fridge and ruining its contents, but at least there's stuff in there to get soaked, right? The floor is kind of gross, and there's the mystery stuff from past occupants stuck behind the stove, but I'd say we're doing okay at the moment.
I was tired this weekend, tired of running around purposelessly. If occupying myself with bread crumb-covered plates and lemon dishwashing liquid for an hour is enough to make me feel as though I've actually accomplished something tangible amidst the all too academic existence that I lead during the week, then that counts as a good thing for me. That said, I still hate the dishpan hands.
Saturday, September 27, 2003
Guilty Pleasures
It's been a while since I've posted, mainly due to to me actually having things to *do* at work, and therefore not being left alone to screw around on the internet. I've finally started to get caught up on my work that I blew off to finish the Watson, and now that it's turned in, I'm left with a bit of a loss. Not that I have loads of free time or anything crazy like that, but it's just a very different "no-impending-deadlines-hanging-over-one's-head" feeling.
Also, it means that (yes, I know this leads to trouble) I've had more time to just sit and think about things. It has come to my attention that I do not feel guilty about several things that I thought I might, and the things about which I do feel slightly culpable were unexpected.
Things that are NOT weighing heavily on my mind
1. the fact that I'm not playing soccer anymore (at least not for Haverford). yep, that's right, not missing it a bit. i feel like i should be more overwraught about this.
2. last night, in a fit of girly-ness, Klu and I watched "The Princess Diaries" on dvd. Including all the special features. It's good....I swear!
3. Haverford's social scene blows; I mean is really abysmal, and I just haven't had the energy/time to try and convince people to go off campus with me. At the moment, I'm to worried about reading literary theory to give a shit, but it's going to come back to haunt me later.
3a. caveat: I do feel bad that I haven't yet been to even ONE of the super cool bars in Old City, but it's kind of hard to go bar-hopping alone, and I don't have a 'wingman,' as they say.
So that's about it. Life moves on slowly, and my computer printouts of readings are piling up around my bed, couch, and desk, so I think that it's about time I do something to remedy the veritable forest of looseleaf papers fluttering about. It's finally the weekend, and time to work.
It's been a while since I've posted, mainly due to to me actually having things to *do* at work, and therefore not being left alone to screw around on the internet. I've finally started to get caught up on my work that I blew off to finish the Watson, and now that it's turned in, I'm left with a bit of a loss. Not that I have loads of free time or anything crazy like that, but it's just a very different "no-impending-deadlines-hanging-over-one's-head" feeling.
Also, it means that (yes, I know this leads to trouble) I've had more time to just sit and think about things. It has come to my attention that I do not feel guilty about several things that I thought I might, and the things about which I do feel slightly culpable were unexpected.
Things that are NOT weighing heavily on my mind
1. the fact that I'm not playing soccer anymore (at least not for Haverford). yep, that's right, not missing it a bit. i feel like i should be more overwraught about this.
2. last night, in a fit of girly-ness, Klu and I watched "The Princess Diaries" on dvd. Including all the special features. It's good....I swear!
3. Haverford's social scene blows; I mean is really abysmal, and I just haven't had the energy/time to try and convince people to go off campus with me. At the moment, I'm to worried about reading literary theory to give a shit, but it's going to come back to haunt me later.
3a. caveat: I do feel bad that I haven't yet been to even ONE of the super cool bars in Old City, but it's kind of hard to go bar-hopping alone, and I don't have a 'wingman,' as they say.
So that's about it. Life moves on slowly, and my computer printouts of readings are piling up around my bed, couch, and desk, so I think that it's about time I do something to remedy the veritable forest of looseleaf papers fluttering about. It's finally the weekend, and time to work.
Tuesday, September 23, 2003
Not with a bang, but a whimper
Lots of whining going on lately from apartment 14. The sinus infection continues to kick advil's ass, which makes me sad, but hopefully my T-cells are going to get into gear. I'm loading up on vitamin C in the meantime. The "three day birthday extravaganza" didn't turn out in exactly the way that we expected it, but as far as birthdays go, it was one of the better ones that I've had. And hey--the nice thing about taking it easy on Saturday night was that I was all set to work on the Watson Sunday morning. I *would* have liked to have been hit on for my birthday, but come on now people, this is Haverford.
One last whine, and then I'm done, I swear. The whole two theses thing is pissing me off, but I meekly submit to those wiser than I (aka, Heads of Departments, the college demigods) and shall indeed write both of them. The roommate helped me brainstorm last night, which was invaluable, so hopefully by the time class rolls around tomorrow night, i'll be able to have a coherent idea to present
Now for more uplifting commentary: there were parts of this weekend that were fantastic. Really exemplary.
Part the first: had really great Indian food on Friday night with some of the girls, followed by movie night (Matchstick Men) at the old theater. Sure, I was ready to fall asleep standing up at 9:30, but we had fun.
Secondly: finally made it to the Italian Market, 9th St., South Philly. Splurged on cooking supplies, skipped the first half of the lame ass Study Abroad conference at U-Penn, and hung out with decent Haverfordians. Good times.
Thing Number 3: I played soccer for the first time in about 10 months, on a real grass field, 11 v. 11.
I can't even fully describe how good it felt, along with a few butterflies, to carry my cleats up to Featherbed field, stop by my friends' softball game to cheer them on for a while, and then stroll through the late summer afternoon sun to the soccer pitch.
Laced up the muddied, slightly crusty boots, knotted the laces twice, and shook out my stiff legs a bit while I shot the shit with my new intramural teammates. Then, as the kangaroo leather made contact with that slightly vinyl-coated bubble of air and synthetic fibers, crushing down the soft green grass beneath, everything rollling as one movement, I knew what I missed. Someone asked me if I missed soccer. "Haverford soccer, Not a bit. But this? This I've missed so much." Being out on the field, scraping my knee trying to get a cross off, and having enough adrenaline to want to sprint somewhere, that's euphoric.
Plus, several underclassmen (yes, I do mean underclassmen, as in boys) were sufficiently awestruck by my soccer skills, and the fact that they'd never noticed who the hell I was before. I tend to go unnoticed, so when they're all like "what year are you?!?" It's fun to tell them I'm a senior.
Lastly: I love the Sunday paper. The New York Times in particular, but in general, the concept of taking an hour or two on a Sunay afternoon (say, after a trip to the yuppie grocery store for expensive cheese and a sourdough boule) to just sit and read about what's going on in the world, whilst sipping on freshly brewed coffee. That's a good thing too.
...and before I go, life is a little more settled. Watson got in to Haverford, so that's out of my hands now. I felt a little nauseous turning in the damn thing, since I've been working on it for so long, but I can only hope for the best now. School presses on, and hopefully I'll get my first paycheck soon so that I can go out on the town. Whenever I'm through obsessing about not having theses topics, that is.
One last whine, and then I'm done, I swear. The whole two theses thing is pissing me off, but I meekly submit to those wiser than I (aka, Heads of Departments, the college demigods) and shall indeed write both of them. The roommate helped me brainstorm last night, which was invaluable, so hopefully by the time class rolls around tomorrow night, i'll be able to have a coherent idea to present
Now for more uplifting commentary: there were parts of this weekend that were fantastic. Really exemplary.
Part the first: had really great Indian food on Friday night with some of the girls, followed by movie night (Matchstick Men) at the old theater. Sure, I was ready to fall asleep standing up at 9:30, but we had fun.
Secondly: finally made it to the Italian Market, 9th St., South Philly. Splurged on cooking supplies, skipped the first half of the lame ass Study Abroad conference at U-Penn, and hung out with decent Haverfordians. Good times.
Thing Number 3: I played soccer for the first time in about 10 months, on a real grass field, 11 v. 11.
I can't even fully describe how good it felt, along with a few butterflies, to carry my cleats up to Featherbed field, stop by my friends' softball game to cheer them on for a while, and then stroll through the late summer afternoon sun to the soccer pitch.
Laced up the muddied, slightly crusty boots, knotted the laces twice, and shook out my stiff legs a bit while I shot the shit with my new intramural teammates. Then, as the kangaroo leather made contact with that slightly vinyl-coated bubble of air and synthetic fibers, crushing down the soft green grass beneath, everything rollling as one movement, I knew what I missed. Someone asked me if I missed soccer. "Haverford soccer, Not a bit. But this? This I've missed so much." Being out on the field, scraping my knee trying to get a cross off, and having enough adrenaline to want to sprint somewhere, that's euphoric.
Plus, several underclassmen (yes, I do mean underclassmen, as in boys) were sufficiently awestruck by my soccer skills, and the fact that they'd never noticed who the hell I was before. I tend to go unnoticed, so when they're all like "what year are you?!?" It's fun to tell them I'm a senior.
Lastly: I love the Sunday paper. The New York Times in particular, but in general, the concept of taking an hour or two on a Sunay afternoon (say, after a trip to the yuppie grocery store for expensive cheese and a sourdough boule) to just sit and read about what's going on in the world, whilst sipping on freshly brewed coffee. That's a good thing too.
...and before I go, life is a little more settled. Watson got in to Haverford, so that's out of my hands now. I felt a little nauseous turning in the damn thing, since I've been working on it for so long, but I can only hope for the best now. School presses on, and hopefully I'll get my first paycheck soon so that I can go out on the town. Whenever I'm through obsessing about not having theses topics, that is.
Thursday, September 18, 2003
Isabel is a Bitch
So apparently MSNBC is on "the Strip" reporting live through the hurricane, Waterside is under water, and I wouldn't doubt that Norfolk is a veritable miasma. Talked to the padres last night, and my dad bought a brand new flashlight/lantern/am-fm radio thingie in preparation. Personally, I think that hurricane season is just an excuse to buy gadgets and have a run on bottled water in the grocery store. Except this year, for the first time in about a decade (at least as long as I've been living in Va Beach), it's for real.
It's odd to see the big hurricane force wind swaths cover Cape Henry and the Tidewater area on the NOAA website (and very very cool, in my opinion, although I have been informed ["Nerd alert! Nerd alert!" according to Mandi] that it is quite dorky to harbor such sentiments), and to hear my dad tell me that he and our neighbors had parked all the cars in the middle of the cul-de-sac yesterday so that they wouldn't get blown over by trees.
Personally, I don't mind all that much having Isabel steal the thunder (ha, unintentional meteorological puns!) from my big b-day; the photo critique didn't go all so horribly, and while having the tutorial group read Borges on a Thursday afternoon looked to be more painful than drawing blood, it's been a relatively calm, uneventful day. This makes me happy, because the people that I care about sent greetings my way, and a few of them pleasantly surprising to boot. My ever-industrious and solicitous roommate has been an ass-kicking party planner this week, and despite her hesitancy to immerse herself in the Haver-social world again, is (i dare say) enjoying it.
My parents even found time amidst disaster planning to send out a package to me containing several amusing gifts, all of which remind me why I love my weird, random family. One of said objects is a ceramic cat that is hollow, with a hole in its head, and magnet affixed to the back. Said chotchke of ambiguous functionality made me laugh, because it exemplifies every care package I've ever got from my well-meaning mother. Kaitlyn, in a fit of genius, discovered by reading the bottom that its ostensible purpose is that of a "flower holder." I swear, I NEVER would have figured that out.
The other gift in the box, this one from my dad, is a bottle opener. Now, this wouldn't ordinarily be so funny, but my sister and I have for literally years mocked my father for the non-functionality of said corkscrew, which he keeps around solely based on the fact that he bought it in France in the 1960's during his tour of duty in Europe. When I opened the Fed-Ex box, I busted out laughing and might have actually said out loud "that bastard." Fortunately, after conversing telephonically with male parental unit, he informed me that not only is the gaudily bright blue and purple metal object designed slighty differently than the one that we have at home, but engraved on the side (as I noted earlier) is "made in Italy," which is cute, because Dad knows how I have an irrational fondness for imported culinary products. I'll probably refuse to throw it out when my (hypothetical) children mock me for its outdatedness.
I [heart] my family.
It's odd to see the big hurricane force wind swaths cover Cape Henry and the Tidewater area on the NOAA website (and very very cool, in my opinion, although I have been informed ["Nerd alert! Nerd alert!" according to Mandi] that it is quite dorky to harbor such sentiments), and to hear my dad tell me that he and our neighbors had parked all the cars in the middle of the cul-de-sac yesterday so that they wouldn't get blown over by trees.
Personally, I don't mind all that much having Isabel steal the thunder (ha, unintentional meteorological puns!) from my big b-day; the photo critique didn't go all so horribly, and while having the tutorial group read Borges on a Thursday afternoon looked to be more painful than drawing blood, it's been a relatively calm, uneventful day. This makes me happy, because the people that I care about sent greetings my way, and a few of them pleasantly surprising to boot. My ever-industrious and solicitous roommate has been an ass-kicking party planner this week, and despite her hesitancy to immerse herself in the Haver-social world again, is (i dare say) enjoying it.
My parents even found time amidst disaster planning to send out a package to me containing several amusing gifts, all of which remind me why I love my weird, random family. One of said objects is a ceramic cat that is hollow, with a hole in its head, and magnet affixed to the back. Said chotchke of ambiguous functionality made me laugh, because it exemplifies every care package I've ever got from my well-meaning mother. Kaitlyn, in a fit of genius, discovered by reading the bottom that its ostensible purpose is that of a "flower holder." I swear, I NEVER would have figured that out.
The other gift in the box, this one from my dad, is a bottle opener. Now, this wouldn't ordinarily be so funny, but my sister and I have for literally years mocked my father for the non-functionality of said corkscrew, which he keeps around solely based on the fact that he bought it in France in the 1960's during his tour of duty in Europe. When I opened the Fed-Ex box, I busted out laughing and might have actually said out loud "that bastard." Fortunately, after conversing telephonically with male parental unit, he informed me that not only is the gaudily bright blue and purple metal object designed slighty differently than the one that we have at home, but engraved on the side (as I noted earlier) is "made in Italy," which is cute, because Dad knows how I have an irrational fondness for imported culinary products. I'll probably refuse to throw it out when my (hypothetical) children mock me for its outdatedness.
I [heart] my family.
El Cumple
Well, I've decided that it's true; the world is indeed conspiring against me. The brainless non-functional idiots in my photo class were clogging up the darkroom for 6 hours this evening, so immediately AFTER I was informed that I will be writing not one, but TWO (yes, that's 2, dos, due, two) theses this year by my CompLit advisor, I had to wait another 3 before I could finish my prints that are due in, oh, 7 hours. Let's just say that there was a brief period of freak out-age.
Now that I've gotten that out of the way, it's finally Thursday, and I'm no longer 'not yet one and twenty.' Had a chat with my dad tonight just to make sure that they don't get blown to bits by Isabel, but you know how these things go; it's probaly going to head back out to sea and not bother anyone. I also, after spending a good 2.5 hours inhaling D-76 developer (most likely happily feeding the strep-throat bacteria I'm currently cultivating around my tonsils), received several *unexpected* happy birthday IM's, which was pleasant. I was hoping that someone would send me some sort of electronic shout-out to counter my current irritation with anything resembling academic life, and hearing from one person in particular turned the corners of mouth slightly upward. It's nice when old friends remember that sort of crap sometimes.
So it's now 1:11 am, on September 18th, and it's way past my bedtime from September 17th. I choose not to think about all the shit that I've got to do this weekend, not to worry about the dreaded fellowship committee, and how my thesis advisor thinks I'm an incompetent idiot. None of it can be that important, right?
Well, I've decided that it's true; the world is indeed conspiring against me. The brainless non-functional idiots in my photo class were clogging up the darkroom for 6 hours this evening, so immediately AFTER I was informed that I will be writing not one, but TWO (yes, that's 2, dos, due, two) theses this year by my CompLit advisor, I had to wait another 3 before I could finish my prints that are due in, oh, 7 hours. Let's just say that there was a brief period of freak out-age.
Now that I've gotten that out of the way, it's finally Thursday, and I'm no longer 'not yet one and twenty.' Had a chat with my dad tonight just to make sure that they don't get blown to bits by Isabel, but you know how these things go; it's probaly going to head back out to sea and not bother anyone. I also, after spending a good 2.5 hours inhaling D-76 developer (most likely happily feeding the strep-throat bacteria I'm currently cultivating around my tonsils), received several *unexpected* happy birthday IM's, which was pleasant. I was hoping that someone would send me some sort of electronic shout-out to counter my current irritation with anything resembling academic life, and hearing from one person in particular turned the corners of mouth slightly upward. It's nice when old friends remember that sort of crap sometimes.
So it's now 1:11 am, on September 18th, and it's way past my bedtime from September 17th. I choose not to think about all the shit that I've got to do this weekend, not to worry about the dreaded fellowship committee, and how my thesis advisor thinks I'm an incompetent idiot. None of it can be that important, right?
Tuesday, September 16, 2003
Dates and Deadlines
Yay for posting at work, eh?
It's a beautiful day today, finally. Rain and more rain in store for the East Coast; I went to the NOAA website to check up on Isabella, and yesterday it was headed straight for Va Beach. Luckily it's starting to turn a little south, so Tidewater might miss out on the brunt of the storm. I wish I were at home for hurricane season...it's always interesting.
In the meantime, life goes on here, rather quickly. A little too quickly as far as I'm concerned, because all sorts of important dates are getting nearer. My lovely roommate and assorted friends are organizing a 3 day long 'Thea turns 21 extravaganza' starting on the 18th, which confounds me a little. No shit, I really didn't realize that I had that many acquaintances and random friends at Haverford; it's nice to be reminded that there are some people out in the world who care about your presence. I forget that at times, especially during the dehumanizing process of fellowship application and all that bullshit. Taking into account my 3-4 year string of shitty birthdays (me always ending up in pajamas and tears by about 8:00 or 9:00 pm for one silly reason or another), I don't want to get my hopes up with expectations of good times, but I can't help but be a little bit excited about it. If I get my photo assignment done, the Watson polished, and my work for next week started [aka perform the impossible task of staying dilligent] it should be a kick ass weekend (as those kids are known to say).
Haven't had any graded work yet, so of course academically speaking I'm in a good mood, and my internship in Philly starts up again after a 9 month hiatus. It will be fun to be back in Old City on Friday afternoons; gives me a bit of stability, even if it does take a huge chunk of time out of my schedule.
Well, I probably shouldn't be wasting any more time writing here, when there's so much more writing to be done for other things...back to the grind =)
It's a beautiful day today, finally. Rain and more rain in store for the East Coast; I went to the NOAA website to check up on Isabella, and yesterday it was headed straight for Va Beach. Luckily it's starting to turn a little south, so Tidewater might miss out on the brunt of the storm. I wish I were at home for hurricane season...it's always interesting.
In the meantime, life goes on here, rather quickly. A little too quickly as far as I'm concerned, because all sorts of important dates are getting nearer. My lovely roommate and assorted friends are organizing a 3 day long 'Thea turns 21 extravaganza' starting on the 18th, which confounds me a little. No shit, I really didn't realize that I had that many acquaintances and random friends at Haverford; it's nice to be reminded that there are some people out in the world who care about your presence. I forget that at times, especially during the dehumanizing process of fellowship application and all that bullshit. Taking into account my 3-4 year string of shitty birthdays (me always ending up in pajamas and tears by about 8:00 or 9:00 pm for one silly reason or another), I don't want to get my hopes up with expectations of good times, but I can't help but be a little bit excited about it. If I get my photo assignment done, the Watson polished, and my work for next week started [aka perform the impossible task of staying dilligent] it should be a kick ass weekend (as those kids are known to say).
Haven't had any graded work yet, so of course academically speaking I'm in a good mood, and my internship in Philly starts up again after a 9 month hiatus. It will be fun to be back in Old City on Friday afternoons; gives me a bit of stability, even if it does take a huge chunk of time out of my schedule.
Well, I probably shouldn't be wasting any more time writing here, when there's so much more writing to be done for other things...back to the grind =)
Saturday, September 13, 2003
Lemon-ey Fresh
It's the weekend, at last. I needed that.
The briskness of fall has arrived in Pennsylvania as of today; I needed a cardigan to wear to class this morning, and the light breeze was just enough to jolt me awake upon exiting quite possibly the most excruciatingly boring class I've ever sat through. An hour can seem incredibly long when a middle aged, nondescript, soft voiced woman who dresses similarly to my mother is explaining how to convert degrees Fahrenheit to degrees Celsius. Are you kidding me? Did we not cover that in like, oh, Middle School?.
Luckily the Ardmore farmers' market was open today, so I was able to get a head start on tomorrow night's dinner. I absolutely love the weekday afternoon bustle of that place, the fact that it's filled with members of the community (yes, too wealthy Philadelphia suburbanites talking on headsets, soccer moms, and trophy wives. But hey--that's our community), fully functional and reasonably priced to boot! I can, after a miraculously short 20 minute walk, find smoked mozzarella, ricotta salata, amish organic cornish game hens, and fresh flowers. The plum and lavender carnations, while beautiful (and I don't even like carnations), were a bit too much of an extravagance for my budget, after I splurged on good coffee. That's a shame, because we could use a little color in our lives around 2C. Our sad looking refrigerator was almost empty by the end of this week, as we've both been far too busy to run off to the store for silly things like milk or fresh fruit, luxuries for the weekday overinvolved college senior. It's funny that on a day like today I can get excited about both imported cheese and condensed water vapor dripping down a glass of cold, plain, skim milk.
I had a nice sushi dinner with a friend from up campus (in other words, who I never see on a normal shedule), bitched about the spectre of evil in literary criticism aka Harold Bloom, talked about feminist Romantic poetry, and then went grocery shopping again at the supermarket to pick up the stuff that I couldn't find at the farmers' market earlier. By 9:30 pm, I was in my pajamas (red sweats, of course: athletic issued 00-107) and up to my wrists in soap suds, doing the last three days' accumulated dishes. A short while later, a gleaming kitchen in front of me, the lemon juice scrubbed copper bowl that I'd just untarnished rocking lazily on the drying rack, Kaitlyn said "it smells kind of good in here."
It did. The new basil plant on the windowsill lent a savory hint to the normally stale kitchen air, and the lemon juice (along with the citrus zest for tonight's biscotti that spattered my shirt) sent a zing throught the apartment that reminded me of sunny days. Either that or dish detergent, I can't decide which. Clean smells all around makes for a good environment to cook in, hell, to exist in. Throw in some loudly sung pop music from Klu's CD player, and I'd say that makes for a Friday night to rival some of the best. Now, if only that damn biscotti would finish baking, and I could get to bed. And it's only Friday =).
The briskness of fall has arrived in Pennsylvania as of today; I needed a cardigan to wear to class this morning, and the light breeze was just enough to jolt me awake upon exiting quite possibly the most excruciatingly boring class I've ever sat through. An hour can seem incredibly long when a middle aged, nondescript, soft voiced woman who dresses similarly to my mother is explaining how to convert degrees Fahrenheit to degrees Celsius. Are you kidding me? Did we not cover that in like, oh, Middle School?.
Luckily the Ardmore farmers' market was open today, so I was able to get a head start on tomorrow night's dinner. I absolutely love the weekday afternoon bustle of that place, the fact that it's filled with members of the community (yes, too wealthy Philadelphia suburbanites talking on headsets, soccer moms, and trophy wives. But hey--that's our community), fully functional and reasonably priced to boot! I can, after a miraculously short 20 minute walk, find smoked mozzarella, ricotta salata, amish organic cornish game hens, and fresh flowers. The plum and lavender carnations, while beautiful (and I don't even like carnations), were a bit too much of an extravagance for my budget, after I splurged on good coffee. That's a shame, because we could use a little color in our lives around 2C. Our sad looking refrigerator was almost empty by the end of this week, as we've both been far too busy to run off to the store for silly things like milk or fresh fruit, luxuries for the weekday overinvolved college senior. It's funny that on a day like today I can get excited about both imported cheese and condensed water vapor dripping down a glass of cold, plain, skim milk.
I had a nice sushi dinner with a friend from up campus (in other words, who I never see on a normal shedule), bitched about the spectre of evil in literary criticism aka Harold Bloom, talked about feminist Romantic poetry, and then went grocery shopping again at the supermarket to pick up the stuff that I couldn't find at the farmers' market earlier. By 9:30 pm, I was in my pajamas (red sweats, of course: athletic issued 00-107) and up to my wrists in soap suds, doing the last three days' accumulated dishes. A short while later, a gleaming kitchen in front of me, the lemon juice scrubbed copper bowl that I'd just untarnished rocking lazily on the drying rack, Kaitlyn said "it smells kind of good in here."
It did. The new basil plant on the windowsill lent a savory hint to the normally stale kitchen air, and the lemon juice (along with the citrus zest for tonight's biscotti that spattered my shirt) sent a zing throught the apartment that reminded me of sunny days. Either that or dish detergent, I can't decide which. Clean smells all around makes for a good environment to cook in, hell, to exist in. Throw in some loudly sung pop music from Klu's CD player, and I'd say that makes for a Friday night to rival some of the best. Now, if only that damn biscotti would finish baking, and I could get to bed. And it's only Friday =).
Thursday, September 11, 2003
Productivity
Today at work, I learned that there's a private school in California called "Lick-Wilmerding." Is it just me, or does that seem like 1. a very bad idea, and 2. a strange sort of request? I mean, kids who go to that school are just asking to get beat up on their way home. At least my independent college preparatory school's nomiker was rather innocuous: Cape Henry Collegiate isn't exactly suggestive of anything...at least not that I know of.
I also had my Spanish tutorial read poetry out in the sun on Founders' Green this afternoon, as the atmosphere on campus today was highly conducive to Neruda's musical syllables. To complete the perfect image, of course, it was recited by a cute little circle of liberal arts students bent intently over their photocopies, gazing respectfully but lovingly at me, their cool, hip, yet intellectual TA. I expected a tour to walk by any second, or someone with a camera to snap the "look-at-the-brochure-worthy-students" photo, but alas, our small display of the quintessence of the small East Coast school went undocumented. And perhaps it didn't look *quite* as picturesque as I imagined it.
Finally there is some semblance of order in my academic life, and I'm greatly looking forward to the next 3 relatively free days to get caught up on all the shit that I didn't do this week, while simultaneously doing what I need to get done for next week, and sqeezing in something fun as well. Yeah, like that's all going to work. Shit, and I have my last summer photos waiting for me at Ritz; need to get on that.
It's also 9-11 today, and I didn't really clue into the fact that the date might mean something until after lunch; felt a little (very little) pang of guilt that I hadn't realized it, but then soothed my guilty conscience by listening to All Things Considered this afternoon. I don't mean to be coarse, but I'm just so damn sick of how every single faction in this country manipulates that specific event, along with many others, for stupid political goals. It gives Dubb-ya an excuse to preach about military might, justification for maintaining the completely futile and ignorant US presence in Iraq, and our asinine Secretary of Defense has leave to bolster support for the "Homeland Security Act." What doesn't make it any better is parading weepy-eyed children around ground zero in an attempt to make the memorial all that much more dramatic. I understand the significance of reading victims' names, taking time out of the day to remember what happened and mourn for those lost, but I honestly feel as though it's gratuitous (not to mention heavy-handed) to have all children doing the reading. Please, get me a large doe-eyed blonde six year old to whimper over something, therefore giving it national importance. 4 times on the news cycle they mentioned this, immediately followed by the fact that 'significantly' less people showed up in NYC for the 2 year anniversary. And really, shouldn't everything be about or 'for the children?'
Oh, American populace, how quickly you forget anything that isn't immediately relevant to your own well-being. [myself included, most of the time, she adds sheepishly]
Today at work, I learned that there's a private school in California called "Lick-Wilmerding." Is it just me, or does that seem like 1. a very bad idea, and 2. a strange sort of request? I mean, kids who go to that school are just asking to get beat up on their way home. At least my independent college preparatory school's nomiker was rather innocuous: Cape Henry Collegiate isn't exactly suggestive of anything...at least not that I know of.
I also had my Spanish tutorial read poetry out in the sun on Founders' Green this afternoon, as the atmosphere on campus today was highly conducive to Neruda's musical syllables. To complete the perfect image, of course, it was recited by a cute little circle of liberal arts students bent intently over their photocopies, gazing respectfully but lovingly at me, their cool, hip, yet intellectual TA. I expected a tour to walk by any second, or someone with a camera to snap the "look-at-the-brochure-worthy-students" photo, but alas, our small display of the quintessence of the small East Coast school went undocumented. And perhaps it didn't look *quite* as picturesque as I imagined it.
Finally there is some semblance of order in my academic life, and I'm greatly looking forward to the next 3 relatively free days to get caught up on all the shit that I didn't do this week, while simultaneously doing what I need to get done for next week, and sqeezing in something fun as well. Yeah, like that's all going to work. Shit, and I have my last summer photos waiting for me at Ritz; need to get on that.
It's also 9-11 today, and I didn't really clue into the fact that the date might mean something until after lunch; felt a little (very little) pang of guilt that I hadn't realized it, but then soothed my guilty conscience by listening to All Things Considered this afternoon. I don't mean to be coarse, but I'm just so damn sick of how every single faction in this country manipulates that specific event, along with many others, for stupid political goals. It gives Dubb-ya an excuse to preach about military might, justification for maintaining the completely futile and ignorant US presence in Iraq, and our asinine Secretary of Defense has leave to bolster support for the "Homeland Security Act." What doesn't make it any better is parading weepy-eyed children around ground zero in an attempt to make the memorial all that much more dramatic. I understand the significance of reading victims' names, taking time out of the day to remember what happened and mourn for those lost, but I honestly feel as though it's gratuitous (not to mention heavy-handed) to have all children doing the reading. Please, get me a large doe-eyed blonde six year old to whimper over something, therefore giving it national importance. 4 times on the news cycle they mentioned this, immediately followed by the fact that 'significantly' less people showed up in NYC for the 2 year anniversary. And really, shouldn't everything be about or 'for the children?'
Oh, American populace, how quickly you forget anything that isn't immediately relevant to your own well-being. [myself included, most of the time, she adds sheepishly]
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