Sadness! Someone has a blog called "absolute a," as I titled my journal in high school. Rather, mine was "absolut thea" but you get the picture. I guess I'm not as original as I thought.
In any case, I just felt the need to say that today was beautiful. And I mean multi-sensory, multi-layered metaphorically beautiful. Fridays usually kind of suck, being busy and stressful, and I'm usually too tired to enjoy life. Today, however, started off quite well indeed.
I showed up just barely on time to the English House at Bryn Mawr for my film class screening; this week: Casablanca. Now I know what you're all thinking, that "everybody loves Casablanca" and all that crap. So did I; in fact, I hadn't seen it all the way through until today.
There's a reason for all the hype.
It's so great, so beautifully filmed, so wonderfully acted, and the dialogue is nearly impeccable (although I STILL think that "here's looking at you kid" is stupid, cheesy, and non-sensical). It's the kind of movie that only an America in the midst of WWII could pull off, so weighty and *important* while being true to the heart of the Western soul. Fantastic.
Still high on life, I scooted off to the arboretum to have my aloe re-potted after class, and then it was on to the Farmers' Market, where I picked up a beautiful rockfish fillet and some fresh sourdough bread. Today was sunny, brisk, but cheerful, and the weather outside was screaming at me to leave the house, so I went for a deliciously mind-clearing run around Ardmore before my meeting with G. She was so busy that she didn't have time to really read through what I'd wrote, so I was saved from (most of her) criticism until Monday. Score.
Scurrying home, I fired up the oven to make myself an epicurean experience: pan-seared the striped bass once I put some spices on, broke out the last of the pinot grigio, and tossed the kale that I'd made last night in with a marsala pan sauce ready to be soaked up by chewy, cruncy sliced bread. Now, as I like to have some company when I'm dining alone in the apartment, I stuck in Ocean's 11, which I haven't seen in years, the memory of that night in the theater here in Philly with Mandi and my ex-friends from the customs group warming my sentimental little heart =).
Spinning, this time with delight...better than my other vertigo this week, the movie begins. Now, this is a guy's movie: bank heists, revenge, manly bonding, blowing things up and such, but damn, those guys look good. I swear, there are more good looking well dressed men in this flick than in 10 lame empty calorie movies with star billing. Sigh, Brad. Sigh, George. Sigh, Casey and Scott. Sigh, Matt. THEN, as I'm enjoying life on so many different levels, finishing off my coup in the kitchen with some nutella (again), I hear on the screen....
..."In all the gin joints in all the world..."
HA!!!! Proving, in one fell swoop, the intertexuality of movies, the validity of the filmic genre as art, and that Steven Soderbergh is indeed, a god. Shut UP, he was NOT just throwing in a random Casablanca quote. Can't you see it's so much *deeper* than that? Made my fucking day, man. Made my fucking day. I hope Klu gets back soon so that we can go enjoy another, though most likely less high quality cinematic event this evening. Yay for Fridays.
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
Friday, February 27, 2004
Tuesday, February 24, 2004
Vertigo
I feel like I'm trapped in some long-lost Borges story, living a metaphor. I've had a few abnormal days, what with classes being cancelled, my routine shaken up, and a few jarring events in my personal life.
Yesterday evening I got a call from my mom during tutorial. She never calls my cell phone, let alone that early, so when I listened to the message I thought that they'd heard bad news from the doctors about Dad. At least it wasn't that. My older cousin had died of a heroin overdose the night before. It's so hard to see drugs completely destroy someone's life. The surreality of it was that he was so 'together' the last time I saw him a year and a half ago.
I had to give a presentation about semiotic theory and my CompLit thesis today, and for god only knows what reason, I took a nap before class started at 4:00 pm. I should know better. I had most of Eco's diagrams worked out, and logical explanations for the things I was saying, all of which were lost in a haze of sleepiness in front of 7 very bored looking students and 2 perplexed professors.
It also snowed all day today, while managing to say 34, 35, and 33 on weather dot com. Weird.
My present state is (as can be assumed) that of vertigo, though for a much less metaphorical reason. In the last 5 minutes of our indoor soccer game, I got body-checked into the boards, resulting in a concussion. The event itself was rather odd, Twilight-Zone-esque. I felt it all in slow-mo, her knee go into my stomach, my feet lift off the turf, and my whole body fold over as it flew through the air into the plexiglass wall. I rember exhaling a quiet "fuck" right before my back slammed into the wall. What I don't remember is hitting my head on the boards, rolling off of them and onto the floor. The ref and several spectators confirmed this, so I'll take their word for it.
Needless to say (but I'll say it anyway), I was a little woozy when I tried to sit up, which turned out to be a bad idea. After a brief period of mild hysteria and lots of blinking, I made it to our bench, and I was done for the night. An angelic Jen Trowbridge drove me home, and upon my arrival I wandered around in my soccer clothing for a while, typing incoherent things to the boy over IM and nursing a healthy teaspoonfull of nutella. My synapses haven't quite gotten back up to speed, but hopefully a good night's rest will ease the dizziness. At least *one* of the vertigo-inducing factors has an easy remedy.
Yesterday evening I got a call from my mom during tutorial. She never calls my cell phone, let alone that early, so when I listened to the message I thought that they'd heard bad news from the doctors about Dad. At least it wasn't that. My older cousin had died of a heroin overdose the night before. It's so hard to see drugs completely destroy someone's life. The surreality of it was that he was so 'together' the last time I saw him a year and a half ago.
I had to give a presentation about semiotic theory and my CompLit thesis today, and for god only knows what reason, I took a nap before class started at 4:00 pm. I should know better. I had most of Eco's diagrams worked out, and logical explanations for the things I was saying, all of which were lost in a haze of sleepiness in front of 7 very bored looking students and 2 perplexed professors.
It also snowed all day today, while managing to say 34, 35, and 33 on weather dot com. Weird.
My present state is (as can be assumed) that of vertigo, though for a much less metaphorical reason. In the last 5 minutes of our indoor soccer game, I got body-checked into the boards, resulting in a concussion. The event itself was rather odd, Twilight-Zone-esque. I felt it all in slow-mo, her knee go into my stomach, my feet lift off the turf, and my whole body fold over as it flew through the air into the plexiglass wall. I rember exhaling a quiet "fuck" right before my back slammed into the wall. What I don't remember is hitting my head on the boards, rolling off of them and onto the floor. The ref and several spectators confirmed this, so I'll take their word for it.
Needless to say (but I'll say it anyway), I was a little woozy when I tried to sit up, which turned out to be a bad idea. After a brief period of mild hysteria and lots of blinking, I made it to our bench, and I was done for the night. An angelic Jen Trowbridge drove me home, and upon my arrival I wandered around in my soccer clothing for a while, typing incoherent things to the boy over IM and nursing a healthy teaspoonfull of nutella. My synapses haven't quite gotten back up to speed, but hopefully a good night's rest will ease the dizziness. At least *one* of the vertigo-inducing factors has an easy remedy.
Monday, February 23, 2004
Stupidity Runs Rampant In 19003
I locked myself out of the apartment while doing laundry in my pajamas. Had to stand in the hallway in the acorns while listening to the über-loud Spanish pop blaring out of my speakers [muffled slightly by our door] until Security came to let me in 15 minutes later. Yeah, I'm a winner. At least I didn't leave water boiling or something like that. Oh, wait, I do that all the time.
My second class got cancelled [Deborah, I'm truly sorry that you're ill; you're too cute to be sick], so I headed off to Genuardi's, thinking myself clever for taking the back roads. Wound up in a fucking traffic jam trying to make a left turn on Lancaster, the Main Line. Pennysylvania has some sort of vengeance that it likes to exact on rush hour drivers, I swear to god. No rights on red, and every fucking stoplight is so poorly timed. Upwards of 30 cars trying to make the same left that I was, what's up with that?!!? Then, leaving the grocery store, munching with delicious guilt on a Cadbury Creme Egg [why, oh why am I so weak in the face of Easter candy? I'm not even a practicing Christian?], there were over a dozen cars trying to make a right out of the parking lot. Oh wait, YOU CAN'T TURN ON RED ANYWHERE IN THIS FUCKING STATE. Waited through another 2 light cycles (instead of 3, this time. We're making progress), turning my quick jaunt to the store into an hour-plus ordeal.
THEN, as if there weren't enough idiocy on the roads, who on earth decides to BACK OUT ONTO A MAJOR STREET to make a 3 point turn at 4:00 on a weekday? Oh, senile Ardmore residents, that's who. Yeah, whatever.
More thesising, and a surprisingly fun tutorial with the girls. I [heart] talkative underclasswomen. And procrastinating, c/o Alex Kelly. Apparently I'm One Hundred Years of Solitude
Lonely and struggling, you've been around for a very long time.
Conflict has filled most of your life and torn apart nearly everyone you know. Yet there is something majestic and even epic about your presence in the world. You love life all the more for having seen its decimation. After all, it takes a village.
or alternately, Love in the Time of Cholera
Like Odysseus in a work of Homer, you demonstrate undying loyalty by sleeping with as many people as you possibly can. But in your heart you never give consent! This creates a strange quandary of what love really means to you. On the one hand, you've loved the same person your whole life, but on the other, your actions barely speak to this fact. Whatever you do, stick to bottled water. The other stuff could get you killed.
Take the Book Quiz
So I've got a thing with G. G-M? Sweet.
My second class got cancelled [Deborah, I'm truly sorry that you're ill; you're too cute to be sick], so I headed off to Genuardi's, thinking myself clever for taking the back roads. Wound up in a fucking traffic jam trying to make a left turn on Lancaster, the Main Line. Pennysylvania has some sort of vengeance that it likes to exact on rush hour drivers, I swear to god. No rights on red, and every fucking stoplight is so poorly timed. Upwards of 30 cars trying to make the same left that I was, what's up with that?!!? Then, leaving the grocery store, munching with delicious guilt on a Cadbury Creme Egg [why, oh why am I so weak in the face of Easter candy? I'm not even a practicing Christian?], there were over a dozen cars trying to make a right out of the parking lot. Oh wait, YOU CAN'T TURN ON RED ANYWHERE IN THIS FUCKING STATE. Waited through another 2 light cycles (instead of 3, this time. We're making progress), turning my quick jaunt to the store into an hour-plus ordeal.
THEN, as if there weren't enough idiocy on the roads, who on earth decides to BACK OUT ONTO A MAJOR STREET to make a 3 point turn at 4:00 on a weekday? Oh, senile Ardmore residents, that's who. Yeah, whatever.
More thesising, and a surprisingly fun tutorial with the girls. I [heart] talkative underclasswomen. And procrastinating, c/o Alex Kelly. Apparently I'm One Hundred Years of Solitude
Lonely and struggling, you've been around for a very long time.
Conflict has filled most of your life and torn apart nearly everyone you know. Yet there is something majestic and even epic about your presence in the world. You love life all the more for having seen its decimation. After all, it takes a village.
or alternately, Love in the Time of Cholera
Like Odysseus in a work of Homer, you demonstrate undying loyalty by sleeping with as many people as you possibly can. But in your heart you never give consent! This creates a strange quandary of what love really means to you. On the one hand, you've loved the same person your whole life, but on the other, your actions barely speak to this fact. Whatever you do, stick to bottled water. The other stuff could get you killed.
Take the Book Quiz
So I've got a thing with G. G-M? Sweet.
Sunday, February 22, 2004
Take Your Own Advice
Note to self: go grocery shopping. fridge is empty, save tortillas, 2 eggs, 1 pear.
Productivity? Sure, I guess so. At least I turned in everything that was due, and G didn't yell at me this week. That's a good Friday in my book. Also, in a fit of culinary regression, I ate bunny-shaped macaroni and cheese while watching Alias because my brain was so fried that I coudln't think much past boiling water. It was delicious, and nutritious. Salsa dancing in North Philly as pretty fun, although rather humbling. Got hit on by the police captain, who gave me his business card, and insisted that "me llamas para bailar." Sure, buddy.
Note to self: learn how do dance better.
Saturday, I actually [gasp] went to the library in an attempt to make up for my late rising. Mildly effective, although the weird weather was messing with my head. To clear said cerebral organ, I decided that it would be a good idea to go for a run.
Note to self: best not to go for first outdoor run since early January on the windiest day of February.
so that was interesting, but invigorating. Continuing with the windy theme, I also thought that it would be a good idea to wear my hair down on my date, and also wear lipgloss.
Note to self: if you don't want to end up eating your own coiffure all night, in addition to stellar emanadas and churros, put it in a ponytail.
But I felt as though the outfit I'd assembled merited the novelty of 'down' hair; I've never really thought of myself as a sort of "icing" girl, I like to have a substantial cake as well as frosting. I know that if you smother butter-cream on a dry, tasteless sponge cake, it still ends up tasting like crap. Maybe I've been neglecting substance lately, who knows. In any case, the icing was in top form last night. At the ardmore train station, chewing on my wind-blown locks already, a lady came up to me and said "I just have to say that your outfit is great. I mean, I don't know what you're wearing under the coat, but you look great. I sell wedding dresses, and I know fashion, so I like that stuff and I just had to tell you." Hell yeah. Made my fucking night. I don't delude myself that I'm a great beauty, but when I'm in a self-congratulatory mood I like to think that I can throw an outfit together. I was all in black and white, shoes, skirt, purse, sweater, and broke out the liquid liner for makeup. Too bad I left the house without the restaurant's address.
Note to self: when invariably looking for keys at moment of departure from house, don't forget to do other important information gathering.
We found Azafrán, if a bit circuitously, and the meal was indeed delicious. Worth the wait, and the trouble getting there. As we walked down Market, late for the r5 (which was already 31 minutes late), some ambiguously sober guys yelled out of their suburban "hey, you've got a HOT GIRLFRIEND." Ha. When does that happen in reference to me? Never. Then, in what would formerly have been deemed a very Un-Thea-like activity, I mingled with flair at Lloyd 50's; three sophomores from my spanish tutorial last year walked in to the common room to see me holding a Yuengling, decked out in a short skirt and three inch stilettos, and I think they nearly passed out. Ha. I was social, I chatted with people that I don't really know, and I had a good time.
Note to self: stick with this new phase, you've got the icing down. Stick to the frivolous and sarcastic; levity and insincerity come naturally to you. What's this nonesense about 'sincere feelings?' Bah. Screw the cake, just put on another coat of icing.
Productivity? Sure, I guess so. At least I turned in everything that was due, and G didn't yell at me this week. That's a good Friday in my book. Also, in a fit of culinary regression, I ate bunny-shaped macaroni and cheese while watching Alias because my brain was so fried that I coudln't think much past boiling water. It was delicious, and nutritious. Salsa dancing in North Philly as pretty fun, although rather humbling. Got hit on by the police captain, who gave me his business card, and insisted that "me llamas para bailar." Sure, buddy.
Note to self: learn how do dance better.
Saturday, I actually [gasp] went to the library in an attempt to make up for my late rising. Mildly effective, although the weird weather was messing with my head. To clear said cerebral organ, I decided that it would be a good idea to go for a run.
Note to self: best not to go for first outdoor run since early January on the windiest day of February.
so that was interesting, but invigorating. Continuing with the windy theme, I also thought that it would be a good idea to wear my hair down on my date, and also wear lipgloss.
Note to self: if you don't want to end up eating your own coiffure all night, in addition to stellar emanadas and churros, put it in a ponytail.
But I felt as though the outfit I'd assembled merited the novelty of 'down' hair; I've never really thought of myself as a sort of "icing" girl, I like to have a substantial cake as well as frosting. I know that if you smother butter-cream on a dry, tasteless sponge cake, it still ends up tasting like crap. Maybe I've been neglecting substance lately, who knows. In any case, the icing was in top form last night. At the ardmore train station, chewing on my wind-blown locks already, a lady came up to me and said "I just have to say that your outfit is great. I mean, I don't know what you're wearing under the coat, but you look great. I sell wedding dresses, and I know fashion, so I like that stuff and I just had to tell you." Hell yeah. Made my fucking night. I don't delude myself that I'm a great beauty, but when I'm in a self-congratulatory mood I like to think that I can throw an outfit together. I was all in black and white, shoes, skirt, purse, sweater, and broke out the liquid liner for makeup. Too bad I left the house without the restaurant's address.
Note to self: when invariably looking for keys at moment of departure from house, don't forget to do other important information gathering.
We found Azafrán, if a bit circuitously, and the meal was indeed delicious. Worth the wait, and the trouble getting there. As we walked down Market, late for the r5 (which was already 31 minutes late), some ambiguously sober guys yelled out of their suburban "hey, you've got a HOT GIRLFRIEND." Ha. When does that happen in reference to me? Never. Then, in what would formerly have been deemed a very Un-Thea-like activity, I mingled with flair at Lloyd 50's; three sophomores from my spanish tutorial last year walked in to the common room to see me holding a Yuengling, decked out in a short skirt and three inch stilettos, and I think they nearly passed out. Ha. I was social, I chatted with people that I don't really know, and I had a good time.
Note to self: stick with this new phase, you've got the icing down. Stick to the frivolous and sarcastic; levity and insincerity come naturally to you. What's this nonesense about 'sincere feelings?' Bah. Screw the cake, just put on another coat of icing.
Wednesday, February 18, 2004
I'm Meeeelting!
No, not really. At least not as bad as the W.W.o.t.W. [Wicked Witch of the West] did in her mop water.
My marathon library session this morning, which inadvertently turned into Spanish Thesis Party near the Phillips Wing, did wonders to delude me into thinking that I'm accomplishing things, and we'll see how G. takes that on viernes, when we have the "State of the Thesis" address.
Unfortuntately, CompLit has hit a roadblock, and in order to free it up I need to free up a large chunk of time in my daily routine. Did I mention that I have no time in my daily routine? And that the college seems to think that I'm trying to cheat them out of upwards of $5,000? Yeah. It's a good thing that the Valentine's Day peppermint patties were on sale at the grocery store, or my hysteria might not have been subdued by minty chocolateyness. I feel as though each of the theses are alternately the 'red-headed-stepchild' of my academic life: that annoying thing that you just can't seem to find time to deal with. I also feel as though the prophesied (sp?) all consuming entity of such a large writing project is beginning to emerge. I think perhaps Alex is right; I need a flow chart, or something visually comprehensible that I can wrap my brain around. Yes, that's right, my salvation lies in the craft store. BACK TO WORK, THEA!
My marathon library session this morning, which inadvertently turned into Spanish Thesis Party near the Phillips Wing, did wonders to delude me into thinking that I'm accomplishing things, and we'll see how G. takes that on viernes, when we have the "State of the Thesis" address.
Unfortuntately, CompLit has hit a roadblock, and in order to free it up I need to free up a large chunk of time in my daily routine. Did I mention that I have no time in my daily routine? And that the college seems to think that I'm trying to cheat them out of upwards of $5,000? Yeah. It's a good thing that the Valentine's Day peppermint patties were on sale at the grocery store, or my hysteria might not have been subdued by minty chocolateyness. I feel as though each of the theses are alternately the 'red-headed-stepchild' of my academic life: that annoying thing that you just can't seem to find time to deal with. I also feel as though the prophesied (sp?) all consuming entity of such a large writing project is beginning to emerge. I think perhaps Alex is right; I need a flow chart, or something visually comprehensible that I can wrap my brain around. Yes, that's right, my salvation lies in the craft store. BACK TO WORK, THEA!
Tuesday, February 17, 2004
Cheese is Good
Yes, the wonders of curdled milk have impressed me once again. Yesterday, feeling a little pissed off at the world in general (specifically, the mildly irritating sophomores in my English class; the Haverford College Business Office/Federal Government; my thesis; my theses; the Spanish Film Series; my lost paycheck; my alarm clock), I decided to make an impromptu trip to Genuardi's in search of 1. the cheesecloth that I needed to make paneer, which I'd forgotten the last three trips to the grocery store, and 2. a really great loaf of bread.
My journey was supremely successful, and when I arrived at home (aftre snacking on the sourdough in the car) I set to work on Madhur Jaffrey's recipe for Saag Paneer. 20 minutes later, I had freshly made Indian cheese draining in my sink, the creamy whole milk having turned from warm rich goodness to sickly green water with white chunks floating around, finally to a round firm delicious cylinder of cheese. I made cheese in my apartment. Isn't that cool to anyone else? So in spite of the tutorial that was to begin in an hour, I started on the saag part of dinner. I should know better by now than to rush Indian cooking, it never works. Good think that shit is so good that even at sub-par, eaten in a rush while running off to the library was divine. So simple, just some carefully selected spices in spinach plus the secret ingredient (cornmeal: who knew?), and you have a steamy cumin-ey mash of yumminess. Also a good thing that it makes great leftovers, as I've discovered this evening.
But wait, there's more cheese! I know, how could it get any better than homemade paneer, right? Aah, just hold your, uh, tounges? This afternoon, in my 30 free minutes of Tuesday, I made the best sandwich I've had in a long time. Probably since that white cheddar on fresh bread in New Hampshire, but enough of that. THIS sandwich was on my sliced sourdough, half toasted under the broiler with smoked mozzarella bubbling down the sides, the other half drizzled wtih balsamic vinegar and loaded with fresh mixed greens. As I ate it in solitude in front of my computer reading over my nascent thesis, suddenly I didn't feel as though the days were tumbling by, dragging me with them. I know I've got a lot of work to do between now and April 16th and 27th, but I'm going to drive my self crazy if I'm so stressed that I can't think clearly enough to work on things.
I understand that my profession at the moment is a student, but contrary to some of my peers' perceptions of said occupation, I refuse to subsume my humanity to my student-like activities. Yes, writing a thesis or two is a large endeavor, but please don't freak the fuck out of my by saying that "tiene que estar en su mente desde ahora hasta abril." It must be constantly on your mind from now until April. Fuck, that's like 2 months from now, and getting closer every day. The calendar seems to collapse on itself just like my melting mozzarella, but not nearly as tastily nor gratifyingly.
My journey was supremely successful, and when I arrived at home (aftre snacking on the sourdough in the car) I set to work on Madhur Jaffrey's recipe for Saag Paneer. 20 minutes later, I had freshly made Indian cheese draining in my sink, the creamy whole milk having turned from warm rich goodness to sickly green water with white chunks floating around, finally to a round firm delicious cylinder of cheese. I made cheese in my apartment. Isn't that cool to anyone else? So in spite of the tutorial that was to begin in an hour, I started on the saag part of dinner. I should know better by now than to rush Indian cooking, it never works. Good think that shit is so good that even at sub-par, eaten in a rush while running off to the library was divine. So simple, just some carefully selected spices in spinach plus the secret ingredient (cornmeal: who knew?), and you have a steamy cumin-ey mash of yumminess. Also a good thing that it makes great leftovers, as I've discovered this evening.
But wait, there's more cheese! I know, how could it get any better than homemade paneer, right? Aah, just hold your, uh, tounges? This afternoon, in my 30 free minutes of Tuesday, I made the best sandwich I've had in a long time. Probably since that white cheddar on fresh bread in New Hampshire, but enough of that. THIS sandwich was on my sliced sourdough, half toasted under the broiler with smoked mozzarella bubbling down the sides, the other half drizzled wtih balsamic vinegar and loaded with fresh mixed greens. As I ate it in solitude in front of my computer reading over my nascent thesis, suddenly I didn't feel as though the days were tumbling by, dragging me with them. I know I've got a lot of work to do between now and April 16th and 27th, but I'm going to drive my self crazy if I'm so stressed that I can't think clearly enough to work on things.
I understand that my profession at the moment is a student, but contrary to some of my peers' perceptions of said occupation, I refuse to subsume my humanity to my student-like activities. Yes, writing a thesis or two is a large endeavor, but please don't freak the fuck out of my by saying that "tiene que estar en su mente desde ahora hasta abril." It must be constantly on your mind from now until April. Fuck, that's like 2 months from now, and getting closer every day. The calendar seems to collapse on itself just like my melting mozzarella, but not nearly as tastily nor gratifyingly.
Sunday, February 15, 2004
"the worst band for the worst day"
Valentine's Day has never been great for me. All of my close friends know this, and are smart enough to 1. leave me the hell alone, or 2. send chocolate.
Last year in Seville, I wanted to dress in all black and go bar hopping with the girls. I ended up sitting on the floor of a Morroccan tea house in black skirt, shirt and heels, nursing a bowl of ice cream from an indulgent British waiter.
Two years ago, Kaitlyn and I protested by being anti-social (what a novel statement, ladies. Way to go out on a limb), even though I ran into an ex-un-boyfriend in the D.C. Kaitlyn wore here Hanson shirt (the worst band), and I regailed all with the quote of the day, c/o my English teacher at the time: Sure, love comes to those who wait...but so does death. What a lovely, romantic sentiment, eh?
Three years ago I was too doped up on decongestants and conversation hearts to even think about what day it was, and then in high school...Well, we won't talk about high school.
This year for the first time, I have someone who actually wants to spend V-Day with me, and I'll be damned if I let TFA applications and my Spanish thesis kill my one chance at enjoying this candy-coated holiday. TFA is posted, and although our plans for dinner out got sidetracked again [note to self: Chestnut Hill is just a bad restaurant destination, period] the night ended well thanks to FoodSource. Wine and cheese back @ the apartment may not rank among the most glamorous outings ever, but it's good enough for me.
Exploding glass and near burns today, mostly due to *other* people's mistakes [grr], and now it's time to get to work. For real now.
Last year in Seville, I wanted to dress in all black and go bar hopping with the girls. I ended up sitting on the floor of a Morroccan tea house in black skirt, shirt and heels, nursing a bowl of ice cream from an indulgent British waiter.
Two years ago, Kaitlyn and I protested by being anti-social (what a novel statement, ladies. Way to go out on a limb), even though I ran into an ex-un-boyfriend in the D.C. Kaitlyn wore here Hanson shirt (the worst band), and I regailed all with the quote of the day, c/o my English teacher at the time: Sure, love comes to those who wait...but so does death. What a lovely, romantic sentiment, eh?
Three years ago I was too doped up on decongestants and conversation hearts to even think about what day it was, and then in high school...Well, we won't talk about high school.
This year for the first time, I have someone who actually wants to spend V-Day with me, and I'll be damned if I let TFA applications and my Spanish thesis kill my one chance at enjoying this candy-coated holiday. TFA is posted, and although our plans for dinner out got sidetracked again [note to self: Chestnut Hill is just a bad restaurant destination, period] the night ended well thanks to FoodSource. Wine and cheese back @ the apartment may not rank among the most glamorous outings ever, but it's good enough for me.
Exploding glass and near burns today, mostly due to *other* people's mistakes [grr], and now it's time to get to work. For real now.
Monday, February 09, 2004
The Youth of America, or Is That What Kids are Calling It These Days?
The car has been towed. The paper has been handed in. The red food coloring is not far behind, and I'm using proper punctuation and capitalization rules again, so we're all happy.
So this weekend...
Three twentysomething girls set out in a car for the movies, after I'd finished about a 20 second shower, put on one black sock (my own possession) and one pink polka dotted-sock belonging to my gracious roommate but matching my hot pink shirt. Hell yeah. We arrived a mere five minutes late after sprinting through 200 yards of asphalt parking lot to arrive at the King of Prussia All-Stadium Cineplex, with probably 12 theaters. [read: this is no back-alley hole in the wall breeding ground for sketchiness. It's suburban Pennsylvania, for god's sake].
After tickets and popcorn, I was 12 bucks poorer, and we burst in the back door of the theater. The movie in question was "Win A Date With Tad Hamilton" [read: we didn't go to a fucking porn movie; it wasn't even rated R], and as it is quite the popular film these days, most of the seats were occupied. As the credits began to roll, we searched out seats in the dark, finding a nice half-empty row three rows back from the front of the theater, placing Topher Grace directly above our heads, distorted yet still *so* cute. Swoon. We note that there isn't much free space, and observe two high school aged youths scurry back and forth like rats in the second row, just in front of us. Did I say rats? I meant rabbits. "Oh, cute, they're gossiping with their little friends" we think, and smile indulgently. Several scenes later, I notice out of the corner of my eye that they're making out. Still finding this amusing, I lean over and mention to my moviegoing peers Kaitlyn and Liz what's going on one row in front of us, one aisle over. Movie continues, as does the make out session [read: dry humping] until we realize by degrees that not only has male adolescent removed his own shirt, but his female counterpart's corresponding outergarment. Are you kidding? Who takes their clothes off in a movie theater, and a crowded one at that? We cease to be amused.
Not only is this mildly disgusting in those nasty used movie seats, but the little twerp's skinny white chest was reflecting the glow from the movie screen into our eyes. This was not to be tolerated. Some sort of "hooking up" [read: partial exchange of bodily fluids] had been going on for full on 30 minutes when Liz suggested that a well-aimed projectile might instill a little dignity in them. I reach for the popcorn, but all we had left were crumbs. By now things had progressed to a point well beyond the standards of public decency [read: she was straddling him, I could see her bra from 20 yards, and more than half of his arm/head region was under her shirt] so the champion of moviegoers everywhere, Kaitlyn Luther, goes over at our request to tell them "Do you know that people can see you?" At least they put their clothing back on.
I've never made out in a movie theater, although I know a few perfectly respectable people who have engaged in said activity. I don't know what's wrong with the youth of America today, but in MY day, we sure as hell kept our pants on. And shirts. And shoes, generally speaking.
The remainder of the movie was quite enjoyable, although I'm a little ashamed to admit that a few tears were shed at the end. Hey, it was cute, give me a break. As we left for the car, Liz mused whether it was the movie that was so fun, or the drama that was played out in front of the screen. Art mirroring life, mirroring art? Yeah, or something Dada like that. The walk back to the station wagon was cold, I slipped on my ass getting in and have acquired a purple elbow (damn black ice), but well worth the overall experience of the evening. I [heart] self-righteous moralizing.
Good weekend =). I also made the best cylinder in class on Sunday, made my fucking day. And we just won't *talk* about Monday.
So this weekend...
Three twentysomething girls set out in a car for the movies, after I'd finished about a 20 second shower, put on one black sock (my own possession) and one pink polka dotted-sock belonging to my gracious roommate but matching my hot pink shirt. Hell yeah. We arrived a mere five minutes late after sprinting through 200 yards of asphalt parking lot to arrive at the King of Prussia All-Stadium Cineplex, with probably 12 theaters. [read: this is no back-alley hole in the wall breeding ground for sketchiness. It's suburban Pennsylvania, for god's sake].
After tickets and popcorn, I was 12 bucks poorer, and we burst in the back door of the theater. The movie in question was "Win A Date With Tad Hamilton" [read: we didn't go to a fucking porn movie; it wasn't even rated R], and as it is quite the popular film these days, most of the seats were occupied. As the credits began to roll, we searched out seats in the dark, finding a nice half-empty row three rows back from the front of the theater, placing Topher Grace directly above our heads, distorted yet still *so* cute. Swoon. We note that there isn't much free space, and observe two high school aged youths scurry back and forth like rats in the second row, just in front of us. Did I say rats? I meant rabbits. "Oh, cute, they're gossiping with their little friends" we think, and smile indulgently. Several scenes later, I notice out of the corner of my eye that they're making out. Still finding this amusing, I lean over and mention to my moviegoing peers Kaitlyn and Liz what's going on one row in front of us, one aisle over. Movie continues, as does the make out session [read: dry humping] until we realize by degrees that not only has male adolescent removed his own shirt, but his female counterpart's corresponding outergarment. Are you kidding? Who takes their clothes off in a movie theater, and a crowded one at that? We cease to be amused.
Not only is this mildly disgusting in those nasty used movie seats, but the little twerp's skinny white chest was reflecting the glow from the movie screen into our eyes. This was not to be tolerated. Some sort of "hooking up" [read: partial exchange of bodily fluids] had been going on for full on 30 minutes when Liz suggested that a well-aimed projectile might instill a little dignity in them. I reach for the popcorn, but all we had left were crumbs. By now things had progressed to a point well beyond the standards of public decency [read: she was straddling him, I could see her bra from 20 yards, and more than half of his arm/head region was under her shirt] so the champion of moviegoers everywhere, Kaitlyn Luther, goes over at our request to tell them "Do you know that people can see you?" At least they put their clothing back on.
I've never made out in a movie theater, although I know a few perfectly respectable people who have engaged in said activity. I don't know what's wrong with the youth of America today, but in MY day, we sure as hell kept our pants on. And shirts. And shoes, generally speaking.
The remainder of the movie was quite enjoyable, although I'm a little ashamed to admit that a few tears were shed at the end. Hey, it was cute, give me a break. As we left for the car, Liz mused whether it was the movie that was so fun, or the drama that was played out in front of the screen. Art mirroring life, mirroring art? Yeah, or something Dada like that. The walk back to the station wagon was cold, I slipped on my ass getting in and have acquired a purple elbow (damn black ice), but well worth the overall experience of the evening. I [heart] self-righteous moralizing.
Good weekend =). I also made the best cylinder in class on Sunday, made my fucking day. And we just won't *talk* about Monday.
adklfjadflkafakdfj/asdfj
car is broken.
i am really bad at distracting myself.
actually persuaded myself that i think better in pigtails.
paper due in 17 hours.
did not (unlike Mandi) make out with a rockstar this weekend.
*did* see an impromptu strip show in the KOP movie theater
[awaiting post, subj.: "Youth in America"]
have no way of getting to car dealership.
have no red food coloring.
thanks. back to work.
i am really bad at distracting myself.
actually persuaded myself that i think better in pigtails.
paper due in 17 hours.
did not (unlike Mandi) make out with a rockstar this weekend.
*did* see an impromptu strip show in the KOP movie theater
[awaiting post, subj.: "Youth in America"]
have no way of getting to car dealership.
have no red food coloring.
thanks. back to work.
Saturday, February 07, 2004
Pancakes, Advice About Stuff Other Than Pancakes
Saturday morning, the air is above freezing, coffee wafts through the kitchen as perfectly leavened batter sizzles on a hot griddle. There are few things that impress me as much as the magic of baking powder. I mean, just over a teaspoon of a white powdery substance makes gloopy circles of liquid puff up into moist sweet breakfast food. How cool is that? Very. Especially when these little warm circles are drizzled with real maple syrup, the kind that tastes like trees. Mmmmmm. Not to fucking bad for a Saturday, and all before noon.
My long-awaited road trip was tragically cancelled on Thursday afternoon, as I realized that a wall of ice and sleet was headed for the Blue Ridge, and it was already hailing in Blacksburg, my intended destination. Sadness, I know. On the up side, I got my work jumpstarted because I was planning to goof off with Mandi, so now I'm a little more on track.
It is also probably fortuitous that my car didn't die on the way down south, instead of sitting on Ardmore Ave. where it is at present. I'd made plans to join in the "Woe Is Me Fest 2004" with Kristin, AK, and Klu, without really having any woe to speak of (I assumed they'd allow me to join them anyway), but aquired the prerequisite woe rather quickly when I went out to start the car, only to be greeted by a sad grinding sound, and the "check engine" light. Fuck. The flaming blue chariot just couldn't take it any more. Maybe it was the HOUR LONG DRIVE to rent Dr. Zhivago in K.O.P. when the car subconsciously knew (but didn't feel like telling me) that they had it in the Campus Center.
So that might be on the agenda for today: attempt a restart, get a jump if necessary. Also on the agenda for today: being irritated at weight room etiquette.
Lately, I have been severely irritated with underclassmen's behavior in the subterranean miasma-filled concrete hole known as the Haverford College gym.
1. Don't be That Guy that's lifting weights clearly to heavy for you because you want to impress god knows who, so much so that you drop them on your own foot, or perilously close.
2. Don't be That Girl that does 30 minutes of cardio on the elliptical, followed by 30 minutes of cardio on the bike, followed 30 minutes of cardio on the treadmill. That's scary. Stop that.
3. Don't be That Guy that stands there in front of the free weights, either a). alone, or b). with a group of your little friends, and flexes for 10 minutes admiring your less-than-impressive biceps/pec's.
4. Don't be That Girl that shows up in a). a matching spandex workout outfit, makeup, and perfectly coiffed hair, or b). a teensy eensy sports bra top and running shorts that show the bottom of your ass, asking a dubiously cute fellow freshman/sophomore to be "your brand new personal trainer." Gag (okay, so that last one was just one specific incident, but don't get any ideas).
Please keep these friendly suggestions in mind when working out, and for god's sake, don't butt in line for the elliptical!
My long-awaited road trip was tragically cancelled on Thursday afternoon, as I realized that a wall of ice and sleet was headed for the Blue Ridge, and it was already hailing in Blacksburg, my intended destination. Sadness, I know. On the up side, I got my work jumpstarted because I was planning to goof off with Mandi, so now I'm a little more on track.
It is also probably fortuitous that my car didn't die on the way down south, instead of sitting on Ardmore Ave. where it is at present. I'd made plans to join in the "Woe Is Me Fest 2004" with Kristin, AK, and Klu, without really having any woe to speak of (I assumed they'd allow me to join them anyway), but aquired the prerequisite woe rather quickly when I went out to start the car, only to be greeted by a sad grinding sound, and the "check engine" light. Fuck. The flaming blue chariot just couldn't take it any more. Maybe it was the HOUR LONG DRIVE to rent Dr. Zhivago in K.O.P. when the car subconsciously knew (but didn't feel like telling me) that they had it in the Campus Center.
So that might be on the agenda for today: attempt a restart, get a jump if necessary. Also on the agenda for today: being irritated at weight room etiquette.
Lately, I have been severely irritated with underclassmen's behavior in the subterranean miasma-filled concrete hole known as the Haverford College gym.
1. Don't be That Guy that's lifting weights clearly to heavy for you because you want to impress god knows who, so much so that you drop them on your own foot, or perilously close.
2. Don't be That Girl that does 30 minutes of cardio on the elliptical, followed by 30 minutes of cardio on the bike, followed 30 minutes of cardio on the treadmill. That's scary. Stop that.
3. Don't be That Guy that stands there in front of the free weights, either a). alone, or b). with a group of your little friends, and flexes for 10 minutes admiring your less-than-impressive biceps/pec's.
4. Don't be That Girl that shows up in a). a matching spandex workout outfit, makeup, and perfectly coiffed hair, or b). a teensy eensy sports bra top and running shorts that show the bottom of your ass, asking a dubiously cute fellow freshman/sophomore to be "your brand new personal trainer." Gag (okay, so that last one was just one specific incident, but don't get any ideas).
Please keep these friendly suggestions in mind when working out, and for god's sake, don't butt in line for the elliptical!
Thursday, February 05, 2004
An Epitaph for Bitterness
Is the amarga really gone from Thea? I know it's shocking, but generally speaking, I'm about as bitter as extra-rich milk chocolate, you know that kind that almost makes me ill it's so creamy. Disgusting, uncharacteristic, yes. Healthier for me? Probably. I was chatting with a friend from high school last night, discussing my newfound problem of "expressing positive emotions" to which he replied "Thea and positive emotions? no way." Ha, ha. Very funny, I get it.
This is not to say that I've lost my healthy cynicism, nor the witty irreverence that oh so many of you out there find endearing, but I'm clearly not as aggressive about my bitterness as I have been in times past. A little more resilient? Yeah.
Also, around these times in my life when things start to come together (see also: end of senior year, while not obsessing about AP exams...semester abroad), now-estranged friends or acquaintances feel the need to remove their heads from their asses and admit that they were assholes. Happened in high school, one certain Brad Litz had a a flash of lucidity, remarking "Thea, I was pretty mean to you in middle school, wasn't I." Yes, Brad, you were. Thanks for recognizing that.
Again, last night, different friend, different context but same shtick; discussing my amorous drama second semester freshman year here, one certain TFA recruiter smiled sheepishly at my "You were a bit of an asshole" comment. Yes, Rob, you were. Thanks for recognizing that, even if you were doing it ostensibly 'for my benefit...to save me from an awful guy.' People need to stop thinking that being assholes is beneficial in some way to the objects of this idiotic behavior.
Keep it up boys, I want the groveling apologies coming in all semester; we've all got time to make amends =). I can think of a few who might owe me one, but I'm not bitter about it at all. Wink, wink.
This is not to say that I've lost my healthy cynicism, nor the witty irreverence that oh so many of you out there find endearing, but I'm clearly not as aggressive about my bitterness as I have been in times past. A little more resilient? Yeah.
Also, around these times in my life when things start to come together (see also: end of senior year, while not obsessing about AP exams...semester abroad), now-estranged friends or acquaintances feel the need to remove their heads from their asses and admit that they were assholes. Happened in high school, one certain Brad Litz had a a flash of lucidity, remarking "Thea, I was pretty mean to you in middle school, wasn't I." Yes, Brad, you were. Thanks for recognizing that.
Again, last night, different friend, different context but same shtick; discussing my amorous drama second semester freshman year here, one certain TFA recruiter smiled sheepishly at my "You were a bit of an asshole" comment. Yes, Rob, you were. Thanks for recognizing that, even if you were doing it ostensibly 'for my benefit...to save me from an awful guy.' People need to stop thinking that being assholes is beneficial in some way to the objects of this idiotic behavior.
Keep it up boys, I want the groveling apologies coming in all semester; we've all got time to make amends =). I can think of a few who might owe me one, but I'm not bitter about it at all. Wink, wink.
Tuesday, February 03, 2004
What Was It That They Say About Hindsight?
It was 37 degrees outside yesterday, and I went to class without a jacket. That's the first time it's been above freezing since January 17th. Good lord. I thought it was positively tropical; what's coming to this state?
When I left my apartment yesterday morning, I was dressed in 'casual interview' mode, with jeans and my blazer, and of course the red shoes. The non-interview to which I arrived punctually, nervous as all hell, was with one Matt Tossman, HC '02 and Teach for Ameria corps member. Now Tossman and I had an *interesting* [hi, euphemism of the century] relationship my freshman year, which degenerated over the summer and ended up hurting/irritating/embarassing all involved parties in the 2001-02 school year. I distinctly remember the last words I'd spoken to him, nearly two and a half years ago at Haverfest.
keep in mind, I wasn't, shall we say, *sober* at this point...
Thea: I'm not supposed to talk to you tonight.
MT: really?
Thea: Yes. My roommate told me not to talk to you. By the way, congrats with organizing Haverfest and all. I'm really impressed.
MT:uuuh, thanks?
Thea: no problem. You know, if you'd just have told me you didn't like me a year ago, things would have been so much easier for everyone.
MT:[pause, awkwardness] I'm sorry.
Thea: Don't apologize, that's all you ever do.
MT: I'm sorry.
Thea: Yeah, so I just wanted to say that. And have a nice life, because I'm never going to see you again. Bye! [with a smile and a turn on her heel, she walks away into the crowd...]
And I quote: "I'm never going to see you again." At the time, it was beautiful: liberating, empowering, relatively harmless and free of bitterness. Exactly the kind of closure that I thought I needed on the whole affair, and I thought no more of him except in particularly low moments when I'd go back and read my journal from Freshman year, or something like that.
Then, last Tuesday I got an email in my inbox saying "(Please Reply) Invite to Coffee With Matt Tossman." I nearly dropped my jaw. Apparently, Teach for America was stalking/recruiting me (thanks to another Haver-boy), and seems to think that I'd make a good candidate for the corps. It actually looks really interesting, with a new bilingual program in Miami that has dual-language classrooms. I'd be pysched about that. So the irony of the situation is that I really did have a ton of questions for Tossman, and I did want to talk to him about TFA, if nothing else. I set up my meeting with a good deal of trepidation, and made sure I looked presentable when I walked into the INSC lounge at 10:45.
The meeting went well, and a lot of my queries were answered. TFA looks really appealing, if I can get in, and we had a nice conversation about life, the past two years, and Haverford. He's still got those bright blue eyes, and I've still got that long blonde hair, but I didn't want to hit him or yell at him, so that's good. He's grown up, I've mellowed, and I think that now we could actually be friends. In a move of dubious prudence, I invited him out for a drink via email, but never heard back [see: every other attempt at social interaction with MT]. I think it's better this way, ending on a good note.
Next time, I will remember Rachael's sage advice, and restrain myself from potentially harmful inflammatory comments towards people who may or may not deserve them, no matter how much I feel like I need "resolution" to the conflict. You know what they say about hindsight.
When I left my apartment yesterday morning, I was dressed in 'casual interview' mode, with jeans and my blazer, and of course the red shoes. The non-interview to which I arrived punctually, nervous as all hell, was with one Matt Tossman, HC '02 and Teach for Ameria corps member. Now Tossman and I had an *interesting* [hi, euphemism of the century] relationship my freshman year, which degenerated over the summer and ended up hurting/irritating/embarassing all involved parties in the 2001-02 school year. I distinctly remember the last words I'd spoken to him, nearly two and a half years ago at Haverfest.
keep in mind, I wasn't, shall we say, *sober* at this point...
Thea: I'm not supposed to talk to you tonight.
MT: really?
Thea: Yes. My roommate told me not to talk to you. By the way, congrats with organizing Haverfest and all. I'm really impressed.
MT:uuuh, thanks?
Thea: no problem. You know, if you'd just have told me you didn't like me a year ago, things would have been so much easier for everyone.
MT:[pause, awkwardness] I'm sorry.
Thea: Don't apologize, that's all you ever do.
MT: I'm sorry.
Thea: Yeah, so I just wanted to say that. And have a nice life, because I'm never going to see you again. Bye! [with a smile and a turn on her heel, she walks away into the crowd...]
And I quote: "I'm never going to see you again." At the time, it was beautiful: liberating, empowering, relatively harmless and free of bitterness. Exactly the kind of closure that I thought I needed on the whole affair, and I thought no more of him except in particularly low moments when I'd go back and read my journal from Freshman year, or something like that.
Then, last Tuesday I got an email in my inbox saying "(Please Reply) Invite to Coffee With Matt Tossman." I nearly dropped my jaw. Apparently, Teach for America was stalking/recruiting me (thanks to another Haver-boy), and seems to think that I'd make a good candidate for the corps. It actually looks really interesting, with a new bilingual program in Miami that has dual-language classrooms. I'd be pysched about that. So the irony of the situation is that I really did have a ton of questions for Tossman, and I did want to talk to him about TFA, if nothing else. I set up my meeting with a good deal of trepidation, and made sure I looked presentable when I walked into the INSC lounge at 10:45.
The meeting went well, and a lot of my queries were answered. TFA looks really appealing, if I can get in, and we had a nice conversation about life, the past two years, and Haverford. He's still got those bright blue eyes, and I've still got that long blonde hair, but I didn't want to hit him or yell at him, so that's good. He's grown up, I've mellowed, and I think that now we could actually be friends. In a move of dubious prudence, I invited him out for a drink via email, but never heard back [see: every other attempt at social interaction with MT]. I think it's better this way, ending on a good note.
Next time, I will remember Rachael's sage advice, and restrain myself from potentially harmful inflammatory comments towards people who may or may not deserve them, no matter how much I feel like I need "resolution" to the conflict. You know what they say about hindsight.
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