Well, my life has been a full mix of research and fun (and now class), with a few misadventurous bumps along the way.
Raccoon Barricade
I was walking back to my apartment around midnight after watching a movie with some friends (who live in the same apartment complex--I'm not that foolhardy), when I noticed a raccoon on the steps leading up to my apartment. Being the wise (aka cautious, fearful, timid, etc) person that I am, I backed off, having no desire to enter into a game of chicken with a raccoon, whose only option would be taking a flying leap at my face. So I stood by my car and did what any girl in my situation would have done--call a friend to talk about it.
So I got on the phone with Liz, who had just left, and explained my predicament. At which point, I realized that there were TWO raccoons peering through the slats at the top of the steps. Wow--no way I was getting past their stairblock! I tried things like jingling my keys, etc, but I didn't want to make too much noise and wake up the whole building. So I get the idea of turning on my car and hoping that the high beams would encourage the raccoons to abandon their fortifications. I do--and there is some movement, but they don't look ready to leave. What else could I possible do? Thankfully this remained a purely superfluous question, for a raccoon loped down the steps and around the corner of the building (into the woods that conveniently wrap right up to the apartment)--quickly followed by another--followed by three more. It was a strategic retreat, but with something of a parade about it. I stared in shock as this was happening, thinking, “Wow, I’m glad I didn’t try to charge in!” and wishing I could have gotten a picture. Who says suburbia is tame? Maybe we should be worried about the advance forces of the newly-formed RRA (Raccoon Republican Army).
Respawning Spider
We’ve all heard the phrase “art mimics life” but who knew videogames and reality were so closely connected?
The first time I found this spider in my bathtub, I bravely but squeamishly smashed it with toilet paper, and was subsequently very grossed out by the leg left flopping around (a la Pirates of the Caribbean’s dead hand). A few days later I find an identical spider right outside the tub, which I dispose of. This happens again after another few days. Now, I may not be a scientific genius, but I do know that lots of spiders hatch in the same place, etc. But that’s not the point. The point is, like World of Warcraft, you have a respawning monster that is killed and then appears in the same spot after a certain amount of time. It’s the same thing with this insidious arachnid.
Freaky, huh? Now if only I got bonus points for killing spiders.
A Conspiracy of Chairs
My summer class started this week, in what used to be GCB (General Classroom Building) but which now has a long, confusing name after a professor, which I refuse to use on principle. (I’ve called it GCB for three years now—they can’t go changing the foundation of my education this late in the game.) Anyhow, there are four floors, and each flight of stairs is broken up into two, with a landing between (as you change direction). In each landing (on both ends of the building) is a single plastic/metal chair—usually orange, green or brown—with a taped (and typed) sign that says “do not remove from stairwell.” Why? What could possibly be the use for such chairs? They are in between floors, so they can’t possibly be used to prop the doors open. Are they for people to rest on who get winded climbing flights of stairs, in a gesture towards complete non-discrimination? Do they have secret building-safety powers? Can they put out fires? What is the answer to this mystery?
One chair ended up right outside our classroom, probably by a student who took the signs lightly. The chair still sits there in ominous silence—but who knows if we’ll ever see that student again?
Maybe the chairs are in league with the raccoons.
Friday, July 11, 2008
Monday, May 19, 2008
3rd Annual End of the (School)Year Awards
(Aka "A Quick Catchup of the Last Few Months")
Most Misadventurous Hour: Believe it or not, there were some close runners-up, but this story pretty much takes the cake (or cookies, as it were).
Back in February, I woke up at around five a.m., and, debating on whether or not to get out of bed to go to the bathroom, I saw that the hall light was on, and thought I heard something. So I got up, and opened the door to find my roommate quietly but miserably crying. She was curled up on the bed in lots and lots of (physical) pain, so I sat with her, trying to be comforting. It was snowing outside, and Lukas was away for the weekend with the car. She's in pain relatively regularly, and it wasn't something that usually needs the doctor, but it was especially bad that night, so we were debating whether or not to take her to the emergency room. Well, I was sitting there on the edge of her bed, trying so earnestly to think her into feeling better, or sort of psychicly funnel some of her pain away, when I started feeling bad. Okay, I told myself, you're just being over-dramatic because you can't stand having the attention focused on someone else. But I kept felling a little weird. "Hang on" I told her. "I'm just going to go to the bathroom for a second. . ."
Well, the next thing she hears is a huge crash, and she drags herself into the bathroom (literally; she can’t even stand up straight) to find me unconscious on the bathroom floor, between the toilet and the tub. On my way down I must have grabbed the shower curtain, because it came down on top of me, and on its way down sheared the knob off the tub’s water supply completely off, and water is pouring out. (I should also mention that our shower doesn’t drain very well, and the shower curtain was blocking the drain, so that it was filing up). Poor, poor Sarah!
I came to after maybe 20-30 seconds, feeling really groggy, with Sarah hovering frantically over me. “I’m alright,” I kept repeating, which is always what I seem to say after passing out, and which is never really true. She helped me stumble back to my bed, and told me to lie down, as she rushed back to try to get the water to stop gushing out. She couldn’t even find the knob in the folds of shower curtain, and (understandably) started freaking out. “I’ll get it,” I mumble, starting up again. By God’s grace I didn’t pass out again, and I was able to somehow grab the knob and shove it back on. The water stopped, and we both collapsed in our tiny hallway, sobbing and laughing hysterically and desperately. We joked about calling the maintenance guy (with whom we already have a history of crazy repairs) and him finding us on the floor, in too much pain to get up, and him quipping something about needing an ambulance. So we prayed, and I grabbed a pack of frozen thin mints out of the fridge, which we went a long way towards finishing, and went back to bed.
The next afternoon Sarah was feeling marginally better, and Libby kindly took me to a weekend health clinic (student health care is closed on the weekend, which is always when I get sick), which had moved since the last time I went there, which turned into its own misadventure. As it turns out, I had a sinus infection (I seem to get that or bronchitis every semester). Later that week, our friendly neighborhood maintenance man came over to fix the shower, and he was shocked by what had happened to the knob, and even more so by the fact that we were able to get the water stopped again. Sarah told him the story, and he was really kind and concerned, but laughingly told her to tell me “to stay away from the bathroom” (see January’s entry).
So, people, if you have any stories to top that (I have no doubt that Kaelen can) send them my way! But that is certainly one of my most crazy moments, even with my general klutziness taken into account. (And why is it I always pass out in the most unglamorous situations? Why can’t a fold into a faint delicately like some Regency woman?)
Favorite New Book Series: The Honor Harrington Novels by David Weber
Best Parts of Having an Apartment: my own bedroom, space to have friends over, decorating, and getting to hang out with Sarah!
Worst Parts of Having an Apartment: construction, construction, construction, practical jokes about ball python in water supply, very short shower head, wildlife [ants, possums, raccoons, lizards, feral cats, etc.].
Favorite Class: Ancient World in Film with Barnes and Rautman: amazing, amazing amazing! (Plus fun getting to hang out with Marcus and Sam)
Most Stretching Experiences: Drawing class (really, it was one of the hardest things I have ever had to get through, but rewarding too), visit to the City Museum--I'm afraid of heights and apparently claustrophobic. Nuff said.
Most Misadventurous Hour: Believe it or not, there were some close runners-up, but this story pretty much takes the cake (or cookies, as it were).
Back in February, I woke up at around five a.m., and, debating on whether or not to get out of bed to go to the bathroom, I saw that the hall light was on, and thought I heard something. So I got up, and opened the door to find my roommate quietly but miserably crying. She was curled up on the bed in lots and lots of (physical) pain, so I sat with her, trying to be comforting. It was snowing outside, and Lukas was away for the weekend with the car. She's in pain relatively regularly, and it wasn't something that usually needs the doctor, but it was especially bad that night, so we were debating whether or not to take her to the emergency room. Well, I was sitting there on the edge of her bed, trying so earnestly to think her into feeling better, or sort of psychicly funnel some of her pain away, when I started feeling bad. Okay, I told myself, you're just being over-dramatic because you can't stand having the attention focused on someone else. But I kept felling a little weird. "Hang on" I told her. "I'm just going to go to the bathroom for a second. . ."
Well, the next thing she hears is a huge crash, and she drags herself into the bathroom (literally; she can’t even stand up straight) to find me unconscious on the bathroom floor, between the toilet and the tub. On my way down I must have grabbed the shower curtain, because it came down on top of me, and on its way down sheared the knob off the tub’s water supply completely off, and water is pouring out. (I should also mention that our shower doesn’t drain very well, and the shower curtain was blocking the drain, so that it was filing up). Poor, poor Sarah!
I came to after maybe 20-30 seconds, feeling really groggy, with Sarah hovering frantically over me. “I’m alright,” I kept repeating, which is always what I seem to say after passing out, and which is never really true. She helped me stumble back to my bed, and told me to lie down, as she rushed back to try to get the water to stop gushing out. She couldn’t even find the knob in the folds of shower curtain, and (understandably) started freaking out. “I’ll get it,” I mumble, starting up again. By God’s grace I didn’t pass out again, and I was able to somehow grab the knob and shove it back on. The water stopped, and we both collapsed in our tiny hallway, sobbing and laughing hysterically and desperately. We joked about calling the maintenance guy (with whom we already have a history of crazy repairs) and him finding us on the floor, in too much pain to get up, and him quipping something about needing an ambulance. So we prayed, and I grabbed a pack of frozen thin mints out of the fridge, which we went a long way towards finishing, and went back to bed.
The next afternoon Sarah was feeling marginally better, and Libby kindly took me to a weekend health clinic (student health care is closed on the weekend, which is always when I get sick), which had moved since the last time I went there, which turned into its own misadventure. As it turns out, I had a sinus infection (I seem to get that or bronchitis every semester). Later that week, our friendly neighborhood maintenance man came over to fix the shower, and he was shocked by what had happened to the knob, and even more so by the fact that we were able to get the water stopped again. Sarah told him the story, and he was really kind and concerned, but laughingly told her to tell me “to stay away from the bathroom” (see January’s entry).
So, people, if you have any stories to top that (I have no doubt that Kaelen can) send them my way! But that is certainly one of my most crazy moments, even with my general klutziness taken into account. (And why is it I always pass out in the most unglamorous situations? Why can’t a fold into a faint delicately like some Regency woman?)
Favorite New Book Series: The Honor Harrington Novels by David Weber
Best Parts of Having an Apartment: my own bedroom, space to have friends over, decorating, and getting to hang out with Sarah!
Worst Parts of Having an Apartment: construction, construction, construction, practical jokes about ball python in water supply, very short shower head, wildlife [ants, possums, raccoons, lizards, feral cats, etc.].
Favorite Class: Ancient World in Film with Barnes and Rautman: amazing, amazing amazing! (Plus fun getting to hang out with Marcus and Sam)
Most Stretching Experiences: Drawing class (really, it was one of the hardest things I have ever had to get through, but rewarding too), visit to the City Museum--I'm afraid of heights and apparently claustrophobic. Nuff said.
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Under Construction
Right now I’m on spring break, so the only sounds in the background are the growls and thumps of video games, but for the last month or two most of my life has revolved around the sound of construction. Last year the apartment building next to mine burned down, and so I’ve been woken up every morning at 7:15 with the sound of nail guns outside my window. Now, for those of you responsible adults who are thinking “big deal,” let me remind you that I am a crazy college student, who, for various reasons (none involving partying) stays up rather late—“rather” being in comparison to those I know who stay up until 4 or 5 am. In any case, for the first two weeks of this torture, I walked around like a zombie, muttering dark curses on construction workers. Then, it started following me around. There is tons of construction on campus, and some of it is happening right outside one of my classes. It gets so loud that we can’t even hear whoever is speaking. In the meantime, the apartment complex apparently was forced by the state to put in more fire hydrants, a process that involved sectioning off most of out already limited parking, and digging a ridiculously deep trench right the in middle of our roadway. Most of it is now filled in with gravel, but on each end it is merely covered over with huge metal squares, with sound like thunder every time a car runs over them. We’re gotten used to it, but it always freaks visitors out (what was that?!!!).
One side effect of all of this is the dirt, which, you guessed it, turned to a greater amount of mud with every torrential rain we’ve had the last few weeks. At one point, I was running late to bring the car to Lukas, so I only slipped on my boots but didn’t bother to zip them up. Well, I make it down the steps, step into the muddy parking lot, and one of them flaps down into the mud. Just great, I think. As I bend down to zip it up, my new expensive purse slips into the mud. Fabulous. As I try to brush it off, Lukas calls, and I try to get my cell phone out of my pocket with my now-muddy hands.
Actually, I’ve been wondering how some people manage to make it to class still looking like something other than a drowned sewer rat. After twenty minutes in the pouring rain, my jeans were soaked up three-quarters of the way, rain had seeped into my boots (which were tucked into my jeans and came to my knees) and socks, and so much water collected on my backpack that it seeped all the way through to the bottom, ruining the bottom lines of my notes, and dripping down the back of my pants. And all this is with an umbrella, a raincoat, and a sweater! I’ve decided that I need to invest in one of those huge, ten-person umbrellas; forget the small individual sized ones, they just don’t cut it. I’ve felt superior in the past for using the small umbrellas that don’t take up the entire sidewalk, but forget that; desperate times call for desperate measures.
But back to my point. All this is, when put into perspective, merely irritating. But lately some tarps and window coverings on the new building haven’t been tied down well, and they make ghostly noises flapping, flapping (or perhaps “rapping, rapping”) at my windowpane. But these noises aren’t even regular, so I will be trying to fall asleep when a haunting whisper whips me back into awakeness. “’Tis the wind and nothing more,” or so I tell myself, but it is still dang distracting, especially when I’m reading a literary horror novel called House of Leaves.
As I left for break, my nostalgia made me feel like saying farewell even to those dastardly tarps, but I’m not sure how long that will last once I come back from break. Maybe the construction will be over. Or maybe I’ll find a raven at my window. Both probabilities are equally likely.
One side effect of all of this is the dirt, which, you guessed it, turned to a greater amount of mud with every torrential rain we’ve had the last few weeks. At one point, I was running late to bring the car to Lukas, so I only slipped on my boots but didn’t bother to zip them up. Well, I make it down the steps, step into the muddy parking lot, and one of them flaps down into the mud. Just great, I think. As I bend down to zip it up, my new expensive purse slips into the mud. Fabulous. As I try to brush it off, Lukas calls, and I try to get my cell phone out of my pocket with my now-muddy hands.
Actually, I’ve been wondering how some people manage to make it to class still looking like something other than a drowned sewer rat. After twenty minutes in the pouring rain, my jeans were soaked up three-quarters of the way, rain had seeped into my boots (which were tucked into my jeans and came to my knees) and socks, and so much water collected on my backpack that it seeped all the way through to the bottom, ruining the bottom lines of my notes, and dripping down the back of my pants. And all this is with an umbrella, a raincoat, and a sweater! I’ve decided that I need to invest in one of those huge, ten-person umbrellas; forget the small individual sized ones, they just don’t cut it. I’ve felt superior in the past for using the small umbrellas that don’t take up the entire sidewalk, but forget that; desperate times call for desperate measures.
But back to my point. All this is, when put into perspective, merely irritating. But lately some tarps and window coverings on the new building haven’t been tied down well, and they make ghostly noises flapping, flapping (or perhaps “rapping, rapping”) at my windowpane. But these noises aren’t even regular, so I will be trying to fall asleep when a haunting whisper whips me back into awakeness. “’Tis the wind and nothing more,” or so I tell myself, but it is still dang distracting, especially when I’m reading a literary horror novel called House of Leaves.
As I left for break, my nostalgia made me feel like saying farewell even to those dastardly tarps, but I’m not sure how long that will last once I come back from break. Maybe the construction will be over. Or maybe I’ll find a raven at my window. Both probabilities are equally likely.
Monday, January 21, 2008
Crazy Day
Well, school starts tomorrow but I'm not sure I'm going to have enough energy to deal with it! Today definitely earns a nomination in my misadventure hall of fame.
Our car's alignment was all out of whack following our trip to SC, so my dad and Lukas dropped it off last night, so that we could get it this morning and head back to Mizzou. Well, this morning the place called, and said that our tires were old, filled with dry rot, and some other techno-lingo I didn't catch. (I guess I should mention that we got the alignment fixed two weeks before. How did our tires suddenly *noticeably* age seven years? I have no idea.) I had to go between holding, calling my dad at work, calling the place again, calling, my dad at work, price checking another place, etc. I should also mention that at this place all 3 guys working were named Jim, Joe, and John, and at first I kept forgetting just whom I was supposed to be speaking with. It turns out (of course) that another place had a by far better price, which was also going to be more of an ordeal.
Lukas had to do most of the run-around, because he was more packed than I was, so that was worse for him. But then he calls me on the way to pick up Julia, and goes “Umm, I think the speedometer’s messed up. It says I’m going fifty and I’m definitely not going more than thirty-five.” He planned on going back to the place, but then figured out that it had gotten switched to kilometers per hour instead of miles.
Well, we drove down (it’s sort of sleeting in Columbia), got slightly unpacked, and then I ran to Wal-Mart. The first cart I picked, of course, had in alignment worse than my car’s, and I was almost unable to wrestle it into moving straight ahead. So I got another cart, and proceeded with my shopping. All went more or less well until I got to the Pringles. Lukas had asked me to buy some for him, and I had to sort through all the weird packaging and labels. Then, in my new semi-healthy phase, and debated buying some fat-free Pringles for myself, and realized with a sense of unfairness that the low-fat versions were double the price of the regular ones! Maybe that’s because of higher production costs, but I doubt it.
I got back from Wal-Mart, put up the groceries, and was ready to rest, completely unaware of the doom descending on me. Never, ever try to flush the toilet and switch the toilet paper role at the same time. Our toilet paper holder is a really cheap metal one that is always falling apart, and the spring sometimes catapults the two metal halves halfway across the room. In this case it hurled one half down the still-flushing toilet and out of sight. I’m sure you can image my horror. OCD people do NOT like to think of putting their hands into toilet water (even clean), not that there was anything to pull out anyway. Oh no, oh no, oh no, I thought, and then added wryly, so much for the money I saved at Wal-Mart. So after calling my dad (and my roommate) in panic, I reached the apartment maintenance guy who said that actually it would probably be fine, since it was just half of the holder. I eyed the other half and the spring as if it was going to leap down the pipe just to irritate me. He had me try flushing it, which worked (!), but then we had to wait for it to fill up to try and flush a wad of paper. Of course it took a century, so we made small talk about the weather, I gave a brief run through of my crazy day, and decided that the adage “a watched pot never boils” also applies to toilet bowls refilling. So, as of 8:50 tonight, I hope all my misadventures of the day are over. But you never know. Maybe the holder’s spring will come attack me in my sleep.
Our car's alignment was all out of whack following our trip to SC, so my dad and Lukas dropped it off last night, so that we could get it this morning and head back to Mizzou. Well, this morning the place called, and said that our tires were old, filled with dry rot, and some other techno-lingo I didn't catch. (I guess I should mention that we got the alignment fixed two weeks before. How did our tires suddenly *noticeably* age seven years? I have no idea.) I had to go between holding, calling my dad at work, calling the place again, calling, my dad at work, price checking another place, etc. I should also mention that at this place all 3 guys working were named Jim, Joe, and John, and at first I kept forgetting just whom I was supposed to be speaking with. It turns out (of course) that another place had a by far better price, which was also going to be more of an ordeal.
Lukas had to do most of the run-around, because he was more packed than I was, so that was worse for him. But then he calls me on the way to pick up Julia, and goes “Umm, I think the speedometer’s messed up. It says I’m going fifty and I’m definitely not going more than thirty-five.” He planned on going back to the place, but then figured out that it had gotten switched to kilometers per hour instead of miles.
Well, we drove down (it’s sort of sleeting in Columbia), got slightly unpacked, and then I ran to Wal-Mart. The first cart I picked, of course, had in alignment worse than my car’s, and I was almost unable to wrestle it into moving straight ahead. So I got another cart, and proceeded with my shopping. All went more or less well until I got to the Pringles. Lukas had asked me to buy some for him, and I had to sort through all the weird packaging and labels. Then, in my new semi-healthy phase, and debated buying some fat-free Pringles for myself, and realized with a sense of unfairness that the low-fat versions were double the price of the regular ones! Maybe that’s because of higher production costs, but I doubt it.
I got back from Wal-Mart, put up the groceries, and was ready to rest, completely unaware of the doom descending on me. Never, ever try to flush the toilet and switch the toilet paper role at the same time. Our toilet paper holder is a really cheap metal one that is always falling apart, and the spring sometimes catapults the two metal halves halfway across the room. In this case it hurled one half down the still-flushing toilet and out of sight. I’m sure you can image my horror. OCD people do NOT like to think of putting their hands into toilet water (even clean), not that there was anything to pull out anyway. Oh no, oh no, oh no, I thought, and then added wryly, so much for the money I saved at Wal-Mart. So after calling my dad (and my roommate) in panic, I reached the apartment maintenance guy who said that actually it would probably be fine, since it was just half of the holder. I eyed the other half and the spring as if it was going to leap down the pipe just to irritate me. He had me try flushing it, which worked (!), but then we had to wait for it to fill up to try and flush a wad of paper. Of course it took a century, so we made small talk about the weather, I gave a brief run through of my crazy day, and decided that the adage “a watched pot never boils” also applies to toilet bowls refilling. So, as of 8:50 tonight, I hope all my misadventures of the day are over. But you never know. Maybe the holder’s spring will come attack me in my sleep.
Thursday, November 01, 2007
Really Late
[Yikes, it's been a long time since I've written! But, in my defense, I'm not sure than anybody is still reading this. Well, it's very old news now, but I am officially no longer a journalism major! I was so miserable in the J-school, and I am much happy as an impractical English major (with a journalism minor; I'm not quite away from the J-school yet).
Schoolwork is keeping me quite busy, though I'm only taking twelve hours I have a ridiculous amount to do before thanksgiving break.]
Okay, so that was also written a while ago. I've given up trying to go back, so once again I'm forced to summarize. (And once again, if anyone is still reading and caring about this, LET ME KNOW. I am one of those crazy people who only keeps up with things when she has an audience.)
Goodbye, Journalism.
Hello, English.
Out: Stitches
In: Scars
I'm through with attending class with bronchitis, speaking to 3 classes of strangers about living with OCD, and that dratted journalism paper.
Currently obsessed with: Heroes
(All my other shows are gone, and not returning anytime soon. Shower the Writer's Union with everything they want! Give them raises, pineapple on a platter, palaces--or at least a decent deal!)
If you want to hear really humorous trivia about 19th century embroidery, let me know. (Gosh, I am so weird. But it was for a school project. Honest. Or does that make it worse?)
Yeah, that pretty much brings things up to the present. Last night Sarah and I decorated our apartment for Christmas, which was a lot of fun. Thankfully neither of us was hospitalized (Me + rocking chair +hanging tacks at the top of wall + really really hard wall = likely disaster) Hmmm, maybe that's because Sarah pushed in almost all the tacks, while I held the string of lights and handed her tacks (though I kept walking away, still pulling on the lights. . .). Anyhow, fun times.
Schoolwork is keeping me quite busy, though I'm only taking twelve hours I have a ridiculous amount to do before thanksgiving break.]
Okay, so that was also written a while ago. I've given up trying to go back, so once again I'm forced to summarize. (And once again, if anyone is still reading and caring about this, LET ME KNOW. I am one of those crazy people who only keeps up with things when she has an audience.)
Goodbye, Journalism.
Hello, English.
Out: Stitches
In: Scars
I'm through with attending class with bronchitis, speaking to 3 classes of strangers about living with OCD, and that dratted journalism paper.
Currently obsessed with: Heroes
(All my other shows are gone, and not returning anytime soon. Shower the Writer's Union with everything they want! Give them raises, pineapple on a platter, palaces--or at least a decent deal!)
If you want to hear really humorous trivia about 19th century embroidery, let me know. (Gosh, I am so weird. But it was for a school project. Honest. Or does that make it worse?)
Yeah, that pretty much brings things up to the present. Last night Sarah and I decorated our apartment for Christmas, which was a lot of fun. Thankfully neither of us was hospitalized (Me + rocking chair +hanging tacks at the top of wall + really really hard wall = likely disaster) Hmmm, maybe that's because Sarah pushed in almost all the tacks, while I held the string of lights and handed her tacks (though I kept walking away, still pulling on the lights. . .). Anyhow, fun times.
Monday, September 03, 2007
The Lizard Hunt
Sarah and I have had some misadventurous moments since moving into our apartment, but the most interesting so far has been the epic Hunt of the Lizard (or: The Perilous Quest of the Lightning-Endowed Skink). Well, anyway I thought it was the best, until Emily told us about the bat in her apartment, but that’s another story.
A week ago, on Sunday, I was getting ready to leave for church (Sarah’s service was later) when Sarah, who was sitting on the couch, sat up abruptly, and said, “There’s a lizard under our coach.” I thought this was sort of cool, while Sarah started freaking out and calling Jason (our friend who’s a forestry major) asking him if any lizards in Missouri were poisonous. I told her to get a plastic cup (I was NOT having a Wild Animal in any dishware we were going to use again, washed or no), and then lift up the coach while I captured it in the cup.
Whether or not this plan would have worked or not is a moot point, for when she lifted the couch I was presented with the sight of a dark spot of lizard at the back, a sight more disconcerting than I expected, and a dead cricket closer at hand, which completely put me over the edge. Sarah, at this point, decided to be the brave one, so we switch places. But we she leaned over with the cup, the lizard just—disapperated*. I didn’t even see it move, that’s how fast it was. At that point Sarah and I both jumped and started screaming, which poor Jason had to listen to, as he was still on speakerphone.
At that point I wished Sarah good luck and left for church (I know, how sweet of me.) When I came back, the lizard was still not caught, though Jason and Scott had come over and chased it around the apartment, until it ran into a hole in the wall (that’s just great). They shoved paper down it, and Sarah planned to call maintenance to caulk it up later, though I was not thrilled with an idea of having a dead lizard in our walls. Have a mentioned that the other side of the hole, if it went anywhere, would be my bedroom? Sarah asked me to keep an eye on the hole when I could, just in case, and I waved her off with a non-committal hand wave.
For the next few hours I sat at my desk, typing out a transcript for the Missourian (ugh!). I was almost finished when I looked up, and saw, poised in the doorway as if to say hello, the lizard. It stayed there for half a second, then dashed into my closet. “Oh no you don’t,” I muttered. “No lizard in living in MY closet.” I set about methodically pulling everything off the floor of the closet. Every time I pulled one item out, the lizard would dart under the next. Finally I was down to one 3-drawer cart, which I pulled out into the middle of the room. At this point the lizard followed it to the middle of the room, and I realized that one plastic cup was not going to be sufficient to catch this foe, as I did not intend to touch it. I ran into the kitchen and got another cup, then ran back.
I suppose it is obvious that for all my bravado, this little creature terrified me more than I care to say. So it was with a pounding heart that I yanked up the cart and faced the lizard. It stayed still, but seemed ready at any moment to dark off, under some huge piece of furniture, no doubt. Slowly, slowly, I lowered the two cups until there was one in front of the lizard’s face and one right behind its tale. If the lizard ran forward or backward, it was mine. If it dashed to the side, all was lost. I paused for a moment, unwilling to make the next move. Then, I hardly remember what I did, but the lizard ran forward into the cup, and I scooped it upright.
All of a sudden it put on its burst of speed, skittling against the side of the cup frantically. But I had it! In triumph I took it outside, set it down while I grabbed my digital camera to take pictures, and then took it down to the pool to show Sarah, to reassure her that it was, indeed, out of our apartment. Then, after showing it off to everyone at the pool, I let it go in the vines, where I could hear lots of other lizards shuffling around. And that is the story of how I became a successful lizard hunter.
(I’ll try to add a picture later, only then you’ll all laugh at me, since it was so small.)
* If you don't know this term, you probably missed the Harry Potter craze.
Monday, July 02, 2007
A Florida Saga
I'm writing this from Captiva Island, Florida—not my usual stomping grounds. Thanks to some nice friends, we are staying at a lovely beach cottage right by the ocean. With our usual traveling expertise and direct route (yes, that is meant to be sarcastic) it only took us three days to get here. It didn't take even that long for the misadventures to start.
My dad drove almost the entire way, but I did spell him for 20 minutes just outside of Orlando. Of course, within that short time, more crazy stuff happened on the road, including a truck blowing out a tire right in front of me, than the rest of the trip combined (almost).
When we arrived late Saturday evening (after over 26 hours in the car), we walked into the TV blaring. There were crayons and groceries on the counter, and the beds had the sheets on but used. "Hello?" we called out, to no answer. Freaky. It felt a little like a twilight-zone setup, except that humid Florida evenings do not good atmosphere make. A couple of phone calls later, we found out that the people staying before us had left last Wednesday, but that the cleaning people thought they weren't leaving until this coming Wednesday. Within an hour or two it was all worked out, and we had a fun dinner on the back porch in the dark of frozen pizza and root beer while they cleaned up the place.
* * *
Right now I'm sitting with my leg propped up on pillows, with ice and a towel wrapped around a large lump. It all started with Delusions of Grandeur (what a great phrase).
My mom, being the cool mom she usually is, found a nifty book on sandcastle building. We've always made, in our opinion, very nice (aka totally cool) sandcastles with those little plastic molds and our hands. But this made our old sandcastles look like a kindergartener's finger painting compared to a Pre-Raphaelite masterpiece—nice, but oh wow is there a bigger world out there! The sandcastles in this book were amazing, and it started by teaching you different techniques for building up with the sand. So we read the book, oohed over the pictures, and congratulated my mom on her foresight in bringing all the necessary supplies, from putty knives to a huge shovel. Then yesterday afternoon we went out onto the beach to start practicing.
As so often happens, our efforts were anything but successful. Lukas and Julia made some cool stuff, but we could not get the hand-packing technique to work (we decided the sand was too shelly). I was still dedicatedly struggling along, though harboring the gravest doubts as to my chance of success, when I went down to fill up the bucket with water again. We had already dug several different holes, trying to find the right sort of sand, but attempted to fill them back up afterwards like the considerate people we are. I should mention that the beach is not a flat stretch but rather hilly, with several fairly sizable mounds and dips between the dunes and the ocean. I was walking with my usual non-existent grace when I reached the top of one such hill, put my food down in one of our small left-over holes, and in one not-so-fluid motion twisted my ankle and went sprawling across the sand.
I just sort of sat there is shock, then started moaning (I think) and clutching the sand with my fists. Okay, so my tolerance for pain is like zero, but that was not a fun experience. Julia and my dad were out in the water, and they saw me and hurried back to help. I'm sure I looked like a very pale and sick beached whale, and Julia told me afterward that everything I said was in a "little girl voice" and sounded really stupid. I thought I was doing rather well. Everything started going blurry, and I could feel the sand I was still digging my hands into and bright light and then dark, and that was about it. My dad kept trying to get me to sit or sand up, and I kept trying to tell him that I couldn't see and was going to pass out. There was that weird muffled feeling, when you hear and yet don't hear, and you know that you are and aren't there—I can't describe it very well. I don't like that lost feeling, and I just wanted to black out or come back. I've only passed out once before, and that was when I was getting blood drawn (it didn't help that I was just reading a book about a girl who had just passed out from bubonic plague right before I got called back). Anyhow, I felt dizzy and disoriented, but I didn't actually pas out for more than a few seconds, and eventually the world cam back into focus.
Getting back to the house was Not fun; I was begging my dad to just let me crawl back, but eventually with Lukas' help too we made it back. So, like 24 hours later I'm sitting inside with a sprained/twisted ankle and writing this blog. I can get around the house, and made it out to lunch with everyone, but it's still a bit unhappy and I decided going out on the beach today was a bad idea. Thankfully I'm more of an indoor person, so the forced inactivity isn't so bad.
My dad drove almost the entire way, but I did spell him for 20 minutes just outside of Orlando. Of course, within that short time, more crazy stuff happened on the road, including a truck blowing out a tire right in front of me, than the rest of the trip combined (almost).
When we arrived late Saturday evening (after over 26 hours in the car), we walked into the TV blaring. There were crayons and groceries on the counter, and the beds had the sheets on but used. "Hello?" we called out, to no answer. Freaky. It felt a little like a twilight-zone setup, except that humid Florida evenings do not good atmosphere make. A couple of phone calls later, we found out that the people staying before us had left last Wednesday, but that the cleaning people thought they weren't leaving until this coming Wednesday. Within an hour or two it was all worked out, and we had a fun dinner on the back porch in the dark of frozen pizza and root beer while they cleaned up the place.
* * *
Right now I'm sitting with my leg propped up on pillows, with ice and a towel wrapped around a large lump. It all started with Delusions of Grandeur (what a great phrase).
My mom, being the cool mom she usually is, found a nifty book on sandcastle building. We've always made, in our opinion, very nice (aka totally cool) sandcastles with those little plastic molds and our hands. But this made our old sandcastles look like a kindergartener's finger painting compared to a Pre-Raphaelite masterpiece—nice, but oh wow is there a bigger world out there! The sandcastles in this book were amazing, and it started by teaching you different techniques for building up with the sand. So we read the book, oohed over the pictures, and congratulated my mom on her foresight in bringing all the necessary supplies, from putty knives to a huge shovel. Then yesterday afternoon we went out onto the beach to start practicing.
As so often happens, our efforts were anything but successful. Lukas and Julia made some cool stuff, but we could not get the hand-packing technique to work (we decided the sand was too shelly). I was still dedicatedly struggling along, though harboring the gravest doubts as to my chance of success, when I went down to fill up the bucket with water again. We had already dug several different holes, trying to find the right sort of sand, but attempted to fill them back up afterwards like the considerate people we are. I should mention that the beach is not a flat stretch but rather hilly, with several fairly sizable mounds and dips between the dunes and the ocean. I was walking with my usual non-existent grace when I reached the top of one such hill, put my food down in one of our small left-over holes, and in one not-so-fluid motion twisted my ankle and went sprawling across the sand.
I just sort of sat there is shock, then started moaning (I think) and clutching the sand with my fists. Okay, so my tolerance for pain is like zero, but that was not a fun experience. Julia and my dad were out in the water, and they saw me and hurried back to help. I'm sure I looked like a very pale and sick beached whale, and Julia told me afterward that everything I said was in a "little girl voice" and sounded really stupid. I thought I was doing rather well. Everything started going blurry, and I could feel the sand I was still digging my hands into and bright light and then dark, and that was about it. My dad kept trying to get me to sit or sand up, and I kept trying to tell him that I couldn't see and was going to pass out. There was that weird muffled feeling, when you hear and yet don't hear, and you know that you are and aren't there—I can't describe it very well. I don't like that lost feeling, and I just wanted to black out or come back. I've only passed out once before, and that was when I was getting blood drawn (it didn't help that I was just reading a book about a girl who had just passed out from bubonic plague right before I got called back). Anyhow, I felt dizzy and disoriented, but I didn't actually pas out for more than a few seconds, and eventually the world cam back into focus.
Getting back to the house was Not fun; I was begging my dad to just let me crawl back, but eventually with Lukas' help too we made it back. So, like 24 hours later I'm sitting inside with a sprained/twisted ankle and writing this blog. I can get around the house, and made it out to lunch with everyone, but it's still a bit unhappy and I decided going out on the beach today was a bad idea. Thankfully I'm more of an indoor person, so the forced inactivity isn't so bad.
Sunday, May 27, 2007
Second Annual End of the (School)Year Awards
TV Shows "adopted": LOST, House, Battlestar Galactica, Drive, Supernatural
New Favorite: Battlestar Galactica
Top Book Series: The Amelia Peabody Books, Vicky Bliss Mysteries, Maximum Ride Books, Percy Jackson and the Olympians, Ursula Blanchard Mysteries, Bloody Jack Adventures, Montmorency Books
Favitorite Series: The Amelia Peabody Books by Elizabeth Peters
Top Books: Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell, The Thirteenth Tale, The Goblin Wood, The China Garden, The Hollow Kingdom (re-read), The Wrong Reflection
Favorite:The Thirteenth Tale by Diane Setterfield
Least Favortie Thing: [adult swim] (TV cartoon programs), constant anime shows
Best Moments:
~going to AIDA with my mom and Julia
~shocking Marcus with my ALIAS halloween costume
~every Tuesday night
Best Thing About Sophomore Year: Having Lukas/a car at college
Favorite Classes:
(1st semester) 19th Century British Women Writers taught by Julie Melnyk
(2nd semester) Write About Literature taught by Karen Laird
Favorite New CDS/Groups: Celtic Woman: A New Journey, The Everglow by Mae, various songs by Hayley Westenra, Adie's cd Adie, Snow Patrol, The Fray
Favorite: no comment
Favorite words: lilting, fey, xeric
New Favorite: Battlestar Galactica
Top Book Series: The Amelia Peabody Books, Vicky Bliss Mysteries, Maximum Ride Books, Percy Jackson and the Olympians, Ursula Blanchard Mysteries, Bloody Jack Adventures, Montmorency Books
Favitorite Series: The Amelia Peabody Books by Elizabeth Peters
Top Books: Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell, The Thirteenth Tale, The Goblin Wood, The China Garden, The Hollow Kingdom (re-read), The Wrong Reflection
Favorite:The Thirteenth Tale by Diane Setterfield
Least Favortie Thing: [adult swim] (TV cartoon programs), constant anime shows
Best Moments:
~going to AIDA with my mom and Julia
~shocking Marcus with my ALIAS halloween costume
~every Tuesday night
Best Thing About Sophomore Year: Having Lukas/a car at college
Favorite Classes:
(1st semester) 19th Century British Women Writers taught by Julie Melnyk
(2nd semester) Write About Literature taught by Karen Laird
Favorite New CDS/Groups: Celtic Woman: A New Journey, The Everglow by Mae, various songs by Hayley Westenra, Adie's cd Adie, Snow Patrol, The Fray
Favorite: no comment
Favorite words: lilting, fey, xeric
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
Dichotomy
Yet again I apologize for the long absence. Maybe I should just write a disclaimer at the top of my blog. But now classes are over and I'm at home, back to the more recent pressure of "why-can't-you-find-a-job?"
Anyhow, I haven't been able to think of too much exciting that has happened lately; my life has pretty much been schoolwork and hanging out with Lukas and my friends. But one wacky thing did happen to me two weeks ago . . . (swirling camera, flashback, --oh never mind)
I was home for the weekend, even though I had less than one week of school left, because I realized there was no way Lukas and I would be able to fit all the crap from our dorm rooms into one car trip. It was a typical weekend, except when I went to Clara's Poms performance. Poms is. . .I don't really know how to describe it. Dancing mixed with cheerleading? It's mostly just dance, except that they are supposed to have pom poms, which they didn't. Go figure that one out.
The majority of girls in Clara's Poms class (this is made up of girls from her school) are Jewish, so it makes sense that a lot of their performances would be at Jewish Community Centers. In any case, this performance was at a JCC for a Russian festival, or some such thing. Well, we get there, and when we head into the auditorium the only people there are elderly people dressed nicely, and (elderly) men in military uniforms with tons of medals on their chests. As the auditorium fills up, the first two thirds of people follow the same pattern, with the last bit made up of informally dressed west county parents and young kids, aka the families of the Poms girls. Just wait. The weirdness hasn't even started yet.
Well, the program starts, and all the speaking is in--Russian. As in, all of it. Not a smidgen of English translation hovering on the air anywhere. The lady introducing someone (in Russian, remember), and thus starts a sequence of clapping, person shuffling to the microphone (50/50 chance they won't actually speak into it), person reading serious speech or letter, more solemn clapping, repeat. Occasionally this was interspersed with a song performed (in Russian, remember), etc. Eventually we came to the conclusion that the military men had fought in Russia in WWII against the Nazis, and one man was even turning 100 that day!
So every few speeches, the announcer would come up, make another introduction in Russian, but one in which we were at least able to catch the English word "Poms." Then all these cute little very Americanized girls would prance onstage in their leotards and costumes, and dance to songs like "I'm a Material Girl" and "Diamonds Are a Girl's Best Friend." I cannot communicate how utterly ridiculous this was. It was like any dance recital, but interspersed with this serious occasion made the contrast beyond crazy. I reflected that if someone were trying to make a point about the frivolousness of Americans they couldn't have hit on a better example.
So back and forth it went: first person accounts about war and living in a time of atrocities, then paeans to American consumerism. Maybe we can hope that, just like we missed the Russian words, maybe they didn't catch the lyrics of the songs. Still, I'm afraid, the message was all too clear.
Anyhow, I haven't been able to think of too much exciting that has happened lately; my life has pretty much been schoolwork and hanging out with Lukas and my friends. But one wacky thing did happen to me two weeks ago . . . (swirling camera, flashback, --oh never mind)
I was home for the weekend, even though I had less than one week of school left, because I realized there was no way Lukas and I would be able to fit all the crap from our dorm rooms into one car trip. It was a typical weekend, except when I went to Clara's Poms performance. Poms is. . .I don't really know how to describe it. Dancing mixed with cheerleading? It's mostly just dance, except that they are supposed to have pom poms, which they didn't. Go figure that one out.
The majority of girls in Clara's Poms class (this is made up of girls from her school) are Jewish, so it makes sense that a lot of their performances would be at Jewish Community Centers. In any case, this performance was at a JCC for a Russian festival, or some such thing. Well, we get there, and when we head into the auditorium the only people there are elderly people dressed nicely, and (elderly) men in military uniforms with tons of medals on their chests. As the auditorium fills up, the first two thirds of people follow the same pattern, with the last bit made up of informally dressed west county parents and young kids, aka the families of the Poms girls. Just wait. The weirdness hasn't even started yet.
Well, the program starts, and all the speaking is in--Russian. As in, all of it. Not a smidgen of English translation hovering on the air anywhere. The lady introducing someone (in Russian, remember), and thus starts a sequence of clapping, person shuffling to the microphone (50/50 chance they won't actually speak into it), person reading serious speech or letter, more solemn clapping, repeat. Occasionally this was interspersed with a song performed (in Russian, remember), etc. Eventually we came to the conclusion that the military men had fought in Russia in WWII against the Nazis, and one man was even turning 100 that day!
So every few speeches, the announcer would come up, make another introduction in Russian, but one in which we were at least able to catch the English word "Poms." Then all these cute little very Americanized girls would prance onstage in their leotards and costumes, and dance to songs like "I'm a Material Girl" and "Diamonds Are a Girl's Best Friend." I cannot communicate how utterly ridiculous this was. It was like any dance recital, but interspersed with this serious occasion made the contrast beyond crazy. I reflected that if someone were trying to make a point about the frivolousness of Americans they couldn't have hit on a better example.
So back and forth it went: first person accounts about war and living in a time of atrocities, then paeans to American consumerism. Maybe we can hope that, just like we missed the Russian words, maybe they didn't catch the lyrics of the songs. Still, I'm afraid, the message was all too clear.
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
Awake--Barely
So Tired. Very, very tired (floating--light--sleepy smile). I've just survived two of the longest days of the year. . .semester. . .life.
Yesterday I was busy doing all the crazy assignments that I had to turn into day. Then I had Bible study, where it was just Sarah and Maggie (the two leaders) and me, so we got distracted from the book of Hosea and instead tried to work through the passage that says it's wrong for women to have short hair. If anybody has any answers on that one, feel free to enlighten me. Then I went to see "300." Basically it's blood, violence, violence, violence, sex, and storytelling--in other words your typical greek epic.
So last night I got around five hours sleep.
My first class this morning was my Spanish class, where we had a huge test.
Then came fiction, where I had to stay awake and participate.
Then Journey of the Hero, where I had to stay awake, and turn in my 14 page paper on Gilgamesh.
Then Write About Literature, where I had to stay awake and turn in a 20 page reading journal
Then Cross Cultural Journalism, where I had another midterm.
And now I'm back in my room, trying to stay awake long enough to have dinner.
Then I will hopefully go sleep, study psych (for another test tomorrow), watch LOST, etc.
Tomorrow's going to be crazy too.
Yesterday I was busy doing all the crazy assignments that I had to turn into day. Then I had Bible study, where it was just Sarah and Maggie (the two leaders) and me, so we got distracted from the book of Hosea and instead tried to work through the passage that says it's wrong for women to have short hair. If anybody has any answers on that one, feel free to enlighten me. Then I went to see "300." Basically it's blood, violence, violence, violence, sex, and storytelling--in other words your typical greek epic.
So last night I got around five hours sleep.
My first class this morning was my Spanish class, where we had a huge test.
Then came fiction, where I had to stay awake and participate.
Then Journey of the Hero, where I had to stay awake, and turn in my 14 page paper on Gilgamesh.
Then Write About Literature, where I had to stay awake and turn in a 20 page reading journal
Then Cross Cultural Journalism, where I had another midterm.
And now I'm back in my room, trying to stay awake long enough to have dinner.
Then I will hopefully go sleep, study psych (for another test tomorrow), watch LOST, etc.
Tomorrow's going to be crazy too.
Thursday, March 15, 2007
The Dangers of Editing
Peer Editing is bad for me. So is writing in books.
Point Number One.
This semester I'm in an introduction to creative writing class. So for every class we're supposed to read one of our classmate's stories and write a 200 word or more critique by the next class (and trust me, that gets old after a while). But the reason I bring this up is that now my automatic mode is to grab a pencil and start marking up someone's work.
Point Number Two.
Some teachers have finally forced me to admit the necessity of writing in books. I've spent the first nineteen years of my life avidly resisting this intrusion. When asked why, the best I can do is fumble for an answer that consists of "Well, I've always shared books with my siblings, or checked them out from the library, so writing in them wasn't really in option." While this is mostly true, I've been reflecting on it and realized that there was a bigger reason. I think of books primarily for enjoyment. And if a whole bunch of notes are scattered all over the page, you can't let yourself fall into the secondary world; you are always being pulled back and forced to analyze the passage before you can even really read it. If a book is worth reading, I liked to pass it on to someone else and let them enjoy it as well. They can't do that if notes are written all over the page and passages are underlined for no apparent reason. Why did they underline that passage about the circus? Or so-and-so's hair? Maybe this is only a problem for OCD people like myself, who must read every word of every sign, cereal box, and posted flyer. But one of my good friends brought this up too, so I don't really think so.
Result.
There are reasons why crazed OCD editors are not let loose on the unsuspecting world. Now that I have overcome my law about not writing in schoolbooks, at least (in pencil, mind you), and now that I have been consistently reviewing and critiquing people's work, I can't get myself to stop. I was reading a fiction book last night, and while I liked the plot idea, silly though it was, my overwhelming desire was to take a pencil and write notes of correction all over the pages. Change this sentence, please please please show don't tell, is this your character's view, or your own, check historical accuracy, lame sentence, etc.
This new editorial furor is not limited to books. I find errors on websites, handouts, everywhere. Unfortunately, there are a few problems and limitations. It has not helped me look at my own work objectively. I see what I think I wrote, and often not what is actually there. Second, it is not a consistent gift. I suppose that’s what happens when you have a dyslexic, spelling-disabled fantasy reader turned journalist to deal with. So in the end I’m left in my lovely castle of words until a jarring error sends me spiraling down to earth. Just make sure yours isn’t the one in a hundred error I’ll catch. :)
P.S. I have no clue why they make “dyslexic” such an impossible word for dyslexics to spell. It’s cruel.
Point Number One.
This semester I'm in an introduction to creative writing class. So for every class we're supposed to read one of our classmate's stories and write a 200 word or more critique by the next class (and trust me, that gets old after a while). But the reason I bring this up is that now my automatic mode is to grab a pencil and start marking up someone's work.
Point Number Two.
Some teachers have finally forced me to admit the necessity of writing in books. I've spent the first nineteen years of my life avidly resisting this intrusion. When asked why, the best I can do is fumble for an answer that consists of "Well, I've always shared books with my siblings, or checked them out from the library, so writing in them wasn't really in option." While this is mostly true, I've been reflecting on it and realized that there was a bigger reason. I think of books primarily for enjoyment. And if a whole bunch of notes are scattered all over the page, you can't let yourself fall into the secondary world; you are always being pulled back and forced to analyze the passage before you can even really read it. If a book is worth reading, I liked to pass it on to someone else and let them enjoy it as well. They can't do that if notes are written all over the page and passages are underlined for no apparent reason. Why did they underline that passage about the circus? Or so-and-so's hair? Maybe this is only a problem for OCD people like myself, who must read every word of every sign, cereal box, and posted flyer. But one of my good friends brought this up too, so I don't really think so.
Result.
There are reasons why crazed OCD editors are not let loose on the unsuspecting world. Now that I have overcome my law about not writing in schoolbooks, at least (in pencil, mind you), and now that I have been consistently reviewing and critiquing people's work, I can't get myself to stop. I was reading a fiction book last night, and while I liked the plot idea, silly though it was, my overwhelming desire was to take a pencil and write notes of correction all over the pages. Change this sentence, please please please show don't tell, is this your character's view, or your own, check historical accuracy, lame sentence, etc.
This new editorial furor is not limited to books. I find errors on websites, handouts, everywhere. Unfortunately, there are a few problems and limitations. It has not helped me look at my own work objectively. I see what I think I wrote, and often not what is actually there. Second, it is not a consistent gift. I suppose that’s what happens when you have a dyslexic, spelling-disabled fantasy reader turned journalist to deal with. So in the end I’m left in my lovely castle of words until a jarring error sends me spiraling down to earth. Just make sure yours isn’t the one in a hundred error I’ll catch. :)
P.S. I have no clue why they make “dyslexic” such an impossible word for dyslexics to spell. It’s cruel.
Friday, March 09, 2007
The Short Version
Life is crazy, hectic, awesome, depressing, and busy busy busy. I'm overwhelmed enough already without the black cloud of you-haven't-updated-your-blog worries. So instead of giving a play by play of the last few weeks, I'm merely going to give you the short version.
My Life Recently Consists of:
the woman in white, ruf retreat, parking tickets, reading journals, gilgamesh, long papers, fiction writing [for class], carrying an insanely heavy backpack through the rain, anne of green gables, the theban plays, corpus callosum, psychology notes, cross cultural journalism, freaking out about next semester, getting new tennis shoes muddy, babysitting, spanish subjective tense, peer-edits, being accepted into the magazine sequence, mr. knightley, supernatural, lost, battlestar galactica, s'mores, planning for summer, advil, lots of driving, decisions, dragons, naps, noise, tests, weird short stories, good friends, freecell, and schoolwork, schoolwork, schoolwork.
My Life Recently Consists of:
the woman in white, ruf retreat, parking tickets, reading journals, gilgamesh, long papers, fiction writing [for class], carrying an insanely heavy backpack through the rain, anne of green gables, the theban plays, corpus callosum, psychology notes, cross cultural journalism, freaking out about next semester, getting new tennis shoes muddy, babysitting, spanish subjective tense, peer-edits, being accepted into the magazine sequence, mr. knightley, supernatural, lost, battlestar galactica, s'mores, planning for summer, advil, lots of driving, decisions, dragons, naps, noise, tests, weird short stories, good friends, freecell, and schoolwork, schoolwork, schoolwork.
Saturday, February 17, 2007
Pizza, Fondue, Shrews, Movies, Teas, & Craziness
Yikes! I'm sorry I've been so sporadic about keeping up with this blog-- my life (both academically and socially) has been very busy and crazy. While I'm not sure how entertaining hearing about my life right now will be, I'll let you read about it and judge for yourselves.
Last weekend, in addition to the mound of schoolwork on my desk, I managed to have a very crazy and jam-packed weekend. On Friday night, I went to our second Guild meeting. The Guild is our version of the Inklings, a small group of writers dedicated to reading, writing, loving God, and enjoying each other's company. Not that that's our motto or anything. My good friend Sarah started it, and it is comprised mostly of students from RUF. We've been meeting at Memorial Union, which is the closest thing we have to the Bird and the Baby. Unfortunately, the little coffee (and hot chocolate!) place was closed, so we had to do without. On the bright side, Mizzou After Dark (fun events on friday nights) was setting up for a Valentine-making party, and after our meeting we got free pizza, soda, and chocolate fondue (and yes, for college students those go together very well).
On Saturday, I met Jason, Marcus, and Mike for dinner at Plaza (the "nice" dining hall), and we debated on what to do that night. Mike wanted to go to Stephen College's production of The Taming of the Shrew, and Jason and Marcus were all for renting a movie. After some vacillating, I threw in my lot with Mike, and we all ended up going to the play, and then afterwards going to rent movies. The play was awesome; very top notch and enjoyable. The actors (all students!) were amazing, and they made every part seem clear and accessible. They started out in modern times wearing modern clothes, and Kate gets knocked out by bullies and wakes up in the production. As the play progresses, the outfits slowly morph into medieval garments. There were some very clever scenes too, like when Petruccio is "courting" Kate for the first time, they are in a boxing ring, literally swinging and jumping at each other as they deliver their verbal punches. After the play, we watched "Entrapment (Sean Connery, Katherine Zeta-Jones). I got back to my dorm after midnight, and couldn't fall asleep because people were bouncing a basketball in the hall and being obscenely loud (and I'm on a quiet floor!) So at two, when I still couldn't sleep, this short and silly poem came to me called "Kate's Revenge" and I got up (for once) and wrote it down.
Sunday I dragged myself to church, and since Lukas was at home with the car, I went to church on campus. Unfortunately, I didn’t plan ahead, and realized that I had no stockings or knee-highs to wear (and it was freezing out!). When I got to church, I realized that the dressy shoes were rubbing my ankles raw, and one was bleeding. Just great! Of course I had no band-aids. So after church I got a ride with Jason back to Mike’s, were eventually we ended up making omelets (the boys did, that is) and watching 10 Things I Hate About You. Mike was nice enough to give me a ride to the Jane Austen Tea I was going to at 2:00. My Write about Lit teacher (who’s awesome, by the way) heard that the Columbia Jane Austen Society was having this event, and invited anyone in the class who was interested. It was at the Kayotea tearoom downtown, and everybody got their own little pot of tea (over forty choices)! I picked Wild Strawberry. There were also chocolate chip scones (yum!). It was funny, because my teacher (who’s a PhD student) and I were the closest in age, and we were sitting next to each other, so when we were introduced to people it was like, “yes, we’re both students at Mizzou.” And then I would laugh and say “But she’s actually my teacher, too.” Anyhow, a lot of fun. That night, I had to watch Battlestar Galactica (Lukas and I are finally caught up!).
So you can see why my life is crazy. Add 18 credit hours of class to that, and you have a good idea of why I'm sleep deprived.
Last weekend, in addition to the mound of schoolwork on my desk, I managed to have a very crazy and jam-packed weekend. On Friday night, I went to our second Guild meeting. The Guild is our version of the Inklings, a small group of writers dedicated to reading, writing, loving God, and enjoying each other's company. Not that that's our motto or anything. My good friend Sarah started it, and it is comprised mostly of students from RUF. We've been meeting at Memorial Union, which is the closest thing we have to the Bird and the Baby. Unfortunately, the little coffee (and hot chocolate!) place was closed, so we had to do without. On the bright side, Mizzou After Dark (fun events on friday nights) was setting up for a Valentine-making party, and after our meeting we got free pizza, soda, and chocolate fondue (and yes, for college students those go together very well).
On Saturday, I met Jason, Marcus, and Mike for dinner at Plaza (the "nice" dining hall), and we debated on what to do that night. Mike wanted to go to Stephen College's production of The Taming of the Shrew, and Jason and Marcus were all for renting a movie. After some vacillating, I threw in my lot with Mike, and we all ended up going to the play, and then afterwards going to rent movies. The play was awesome; very top notch and enjoyable. The actors (all students!) were amazing, and they made every part seem clear and accessible. They started out in modern times wearing modern clothes, and Kate gets knocked out by bullies and wakes up in the production. As the play progresses, the outfits slowly morph into medieval garments. There were some very clever scenes too, like when Petruccio is "courting" Kate for the first time, they are in a boxing ring, literally swinging and jumping at each other as they deliver their verbal punches. After the play, we watched "Entrapment (Sean Connery, Katherine Zeta-Jones). I got back to my dorm after midnight, and couldn't fall asleep because people were bouncing a basketball in the hall and being obscenely loud (and I'm on a quiet floor!) So at two, when I still couldn't sleep, this short and silly poem came to me called "Kate's Revenge" and I got up (for once) and wrote it down.
Sunday I dragged myself to church, and since Lukas was at home with the car, I went to church on campus. Unfortunately, I didn’t plan ahead, and realized that I had no stockings or knee-highs to wear (and it was freezing out!). When I got to church, I realized that the dressy shoes were rubbing my ankles raw, and one was bleeding. Just great! Of course I had no band-aids. So after church I got a ride with Jason back to Mike’s, were eventually we ended up making omelets (the boys did, that is) and watching 10 Things I Hate About You. Mike was nice enough to give me a ride to the Jane Austen Tea I was going to at 2:00. My Write about Lit teacher (who’s awesome, by the way) heard that the Columbia Jane Austen Society was having this event, and invited anyone in the class who was interested. It was at the Kayotea tearoom downtown, and everybody got their own little pot of tea (over forty choices)! I picked Wild Strawberry. There were also chocolate chip scones (yum!). It was funny, because my teacher (who’s a PhD student) and I were the closest in age, and we were sitting next to each other, so when we were introduced to people it was like, “yes, we’re both students at Mizzou.” And then I would laugh and say “But she’s actually my teacher, too.” Anyhow, a lot of fun. That night, I had to watch Battlestar Galactica (Lukas and I are finally caught up!).
So you can see why my life is crazy. Add 18 credit hours of class to that, and you have a good idea of why I'm sleep deprived.
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
A New Conspiracy
I will excuse my long absence only by saying that nothing particularly exciting or misadventurous (in even a small way) has happened to me lately. Well, except for my post-modern Buddhist monk teacher, and the start of The Guild. . .but those are stories for another time.
Every time I walk out of the main library entry here on campus, there is this sign that really bothers me. It says
WHEN THE ALARM SOUNDS, PLEASE STEP BACK
It's right past those scanner-things, I suppose to stop people who already had no qualms about stealing books from running and escaping with them. But something was nagging at my mind and bothering me, and it finally came to me: the problem with the sign is that it said when the alarm sounds, not if the alarm sounds. Really, I thought, affronted. I have no intention of setting off the alarm, so please keep you accusations to yourself (when I say that, I feel like a little old lady poking some silly youngster with her parasol).
Still, it raises important life-questions. Does the library really expect 9 out of 10 students to set off the alarm? Is it to discourage professors from stealing books? Are their really no English majors working at the library? Or is it some darker plot, to frame innocent library-goers and hit them with a crime they never committed?
Hmmm. Or maybe they just believe in original sin.
Every time I walk out of the main library entry here on campus, there is this sign that really bothers me. It says
WHEN THE ALARM SOUNDS, PLEASE STEP BACK
It's right past those scanner-things, I suppose to stop people who already had no qualms about stealing books from running and escaping with them. But something was nagging at my mind and bothering me, and it finally came to me: the problem with the sign is that it said when the alarm sounds, not if the alarm sounds. Really, I thought, affronted. I have no intention of setting off the alarm, so please keep you accusations to yourself (when I say that, I feel like a little old lady poking some silly youngster with her parasol).
Still, it raises important life-questions. Does the library really expect 9 out of 10 students to set off the alarm? Is it to discourage professors from stealing books? Are their really no English majors working at the library? Or is it some darker plot, to frame innocent library-goers and hit them with a crime they never committed?
Hmmm. Or maybe they just believe in original sin.
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
High Speeds
About a week and a half ago, I was at the mall with my little sister and some of her friends. We had been looking for dresses for them to wear to the Wildwood evening party thing, and had been taking lots of pictures and having a hilarious, albeit exhausting, time. We finally collapsed and ate a late lunch at the food court, sitting down right across from the new Borders store. There was a small crowd hanging around: getting pictures with the Stormtroopers or Rams cheerleaders, etc., etc, for the purpose of raising money for FirstRead. And they also had. . .a speed reading contest. As we sat there eating, I listened to people try to read one of three books out loud as fast as they could. Turning to Julia, I remarked, "I could so beat them."
Julia quirked her eyebrows at me, and with that mischievous gleam that's always in her eyes remarked, "So try. I dare you." I made the usual protestations, but I already knew what my answer was going to be.
As I finished eating, I continued reconnaissance, noting that people did best with "One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish." They had a white board with the current high score, 87. I assumed that was words per minute. I suffered a slight shock when I discovered that it was actually "words per 15 seconds." All of a sudden 87 began to look hard to beat. Still, I was confident in my abilities, and I knew I would never forgive myself if I lost this opportunity. After all, isn't how fast I talk one of the first things people mention about me? Don't little kids, slightly more blunt than their elders, announce "You talk too fast"? Surely this is my niche, my talent, my area of expertise! So I went up to the table area, and ever desperate for someone new to read, I was quickly encouraged to try.
Now, I love talking. I guess what I really ought to say is, I love attention. Nevertheless, I am always slightly nervous when I get up in front of people. So it was with some trepidation as well as exhilaration that I began to read. The words spilled out, and I blessed Dr. Seuss for giving nice flowing sentences that rhyme. I allowed the words to carry me along, and it was hard to screech to a stop at the end of 15 seconds (though probably a good thing, as I needed to breathe). There was silence, and as they only announce a new record I was terrified that I had done, well, terribly. Come on, come on I thought. Then one of the ladies reached out to erase the score on the board, and another said "Well! It seems we have a new record." The numbers took shape: 107.
YEEESSSS! I felt like yelling inside, though outwardly I was shaking. I think I was probably grinning like an idiot. The contest was set to go on for another twenty minutes, so the lady suggested that I come back then, as, she said, they would probably have a trophy for me. So Julia, Julia, Lauren and I killed some time, and then came back. I looked worriedly at the board, but my score still held. As they browsed through books in the store, I went out five minutes before the contest ended to wait around. The really friendly lady smiled to see me again, said something to the coordinator, and beckoned me over. "If you don't mind, I'd like for you to read again," she said. "To see if you can beat your high score." Flattered, I agreed. Still, what if my score went down? That would be embarrassing. But I swung into it, glad to have another chance. This time, I reached 120 words! When the girls came out I felt deviously happy, as I was sure they would think it was someone else's score and come comfort me, so that I could tell them that it was actually mine. I'm telling you, I really am a selfish person. After yet another attempt, I topped off at 123 words in fifteen seconds.
Well, all I won was a little plastic trophy with a matchbox car on top and a computer printed sticker saying "Borders 1st Place" (or something like that), but that's okay. I left feeling very proud of myself, and wondering how I could turn this into a career (lol). Maybe I can't sing, maybe I have no sense of rhythm, maybe I'm terrible at sports, but hey, at least I can read really really fast. So there. ;)
Julia quirked her eyebrows at me, and with that mischievous gleam that's always in her eyes remarked, "So try. I dare you." I made the usual protestations, but I already knew what my answer was going to be.
As I finished eating, I continued reconnaissance, noting that people did best with "One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish." They had a white board with the current high score, 87. I assumed that was words per minute. I suffered a slight shock when I discovered that it was actually "words per 15 seconds." All of a sudden 87 began to look hard to beat. Still, I was confident in my abilities, and I knew I would never forgive myself if I lost this opportunity. After all, isn't how fast I talk one of the first things people mention about me? Don't little kids, slightly more blunt than their elders, announce "You talk too fast"? Surely this is my niche, my talent, my area of expertise! So I went up to the table area, and ever desperate for someone new to read, I was quickly encouraged to try.
Now, I love talking. I guess what I really ought to say is, I love attention. Nevertheless, I am always slightly nervous when I get up in front of people. So it was with some trepidation as well as exhilaration that I began to read. The words spilled out, and I blessed Dr. Seuss for giving nice flowing sentences that rhyme. I allowed the words to carry me along, and it was hard to screech to a stop at the end of 15 seconds (though probably a good thing, as I needed to breathe). There was silence, and as they only announce a new record I was terrified that I had done, well, terribly. Come on, come on I thought. Then one of the ladies reached out to erase the score on the board, and another said "Well! It seems we have a new record." The numbers took shape: 107.
YEEESSSS! I felt like yelling inside, though outwardly I was shaking. I think I was probably grinning like an idiot. The contest was set to go on for another twenty minutes, so the lady suggested that I come back then, as, she said, they would probably have a trophy for me. So Julia, Julia, Lauren and I killed some time, and then came back. I looked worriedly at the board, but my score still held. As they browsed through books in the store, I went out five minutes before the contest ended to wait around. The really friendly lady smiled to see me again, said something to the coordinator, and beckoned me over. "If you don't mind, I'd like for you to read again," she said. "To see if you can beat your high score." Flattered, I agreed. Still, what if my score went down? That would be embarrassing. But I swung into it, glad to have another chance. This time, I reached 120 words! When the girls came out I felt deviously happy, as I was sure they would think it was someone else's score and come comfort me, so that I could tell them that it was actually mine. I'm telling you, I really am a selfish person. After yet another attempt, I topped off at 123 words in fifteen seconds.
Well, all I won was a little plastic trophy with a matchbox car on top and a computer printed sticker saying "Borders 1st Place" (or something like that), but that's okay. I left feeling very proud of myself, and wondering how I could turn this into a career (lol). Maybe I can't sing, maybe I have no sense of rhythm, maybe I'm terrible at sports, but hey, at least I can read really really fast. So there. ;)
Monday, December 04, 2006
16 Inches
Last Friday Mizzou announced its first snow day in eleven years. My roommate woke me up at eight that morning with the words "I think school might be cancelled." Somehow those words brought me awake faster than my alarm ever does. I checked my email, and yes indeed, school was cancelled. "Awesome." I thought. So I called Lukas to share the good news and then went back to bed.
I got up for the second time and meandered down to eat a sort of brunch. Unfortunately, the snow had interrupted the delivery of Krispy Kreme donuts, and just about every other food source. So I had cold cereal.
Now, the problem with snow days is that when school is cancelled there is usually a reason. I found this out as I tried to make my way to the parking garage. Somehow I was under the misconception that snow did not enter parking garages, a notion that was quickly dispelled when I saw the large drift behind my car. Still, I managed to get the car out, and by 11:30 Lukas and I had all our stuff loaded. At this point Mike calls, asking if we want to hang out and watch a movie. Sorry, I tell him; we're headed home. "How are you going to get to St. Louis with the highways closed?" he asked. Uummmmm, I respond.
Since sources varied as to what state exactly the highways were in, we decided we might as well kill a few hours hanging out at Mike's apartment. But I was loath to park the car in the garage again, and wade off campus in sixteen-inch snow. So I came up with the "brilliant" idea to try and park in Trowbridge, the huge field-like parking lot right of campus.
The road into Trowbridge was clear enough, but going through the lanes began to get a bit sticky. I felt very sorry for people whose cars were parked here all night; getting those out would be impossible. But I see a lovely spot that some Jeep or something managed to pull out of, leaving it perfect for me to pull into. Or so I thought.
I head for the spot (only three down in the row) and all of a sudden I'm not going anywhere. I push harder on the gas, and hear the smell of burning rubber. I look at Lukas and Marcus. "Um, I think we're stuck." I had grounded the car on a huge patch of ice and snow.
The boys tried to push the car, with zero success. Lukas suggested just leaving it, and going to Mike's. I flatly refused to leave my lovely car somewhere where it could be hit or towed. So they hiked off to Mike's to see about getting a shovel, while I stayed with Lirael (that's our car's name).
They came back a bit later, plastic bags flapping around their ankles as makeshift boots. Mike and Mark came along to help, and Mike (bless him!) had two ramps to help get the car out. With the five of us (plus two ramps!) we got the car out after about forty minutes.
But the adventure doesn't end there, oh no, not at all. While this saga was unfolding, there were other people attempting similar feats. Some kids in a jeep came and went, but the two guys in this one car were trying with no success during the time we were getting our car out (maybe that's cuz they only had one guy to push, while the other had to steer). The poor guy pushing looked enviously at our ramps, and asked if he could borrow them. So, after we had Lirael safe and sound, we started working on digging their car out. Even with seven of us now (plus the ramps!) it was another hour before we had anything resembling success. Another girl in an SUV offered to tow the car; that only resulting in her getting stuck as well (though she was able to get out after detaching the other car). Then a group of eight more guys showed up, and we practically lifted the car out.
So Lukas and I finally left Columbia at about 2:30, both very tired, cold, and hungry (plus I had the additional burden of feeling stupid). The highways were terrible--covered in snow and ice. We were going about 25 when the speed limit is normally 70. We go about ten miles, and all of a sudden I here this ding! and a message comes up that says "Check tire pressure." With my typical OCD finesse, I completely panicked. I envisioned that we had somehow managed to puncture all four tires; that we would be stuck in the middle of nowhere, etc, etc. The ride to Kingdom City (the next main town, about twenty minutes from Columbia) was grim. When we got there, we stopped a gas station and filled up the car. Of course my credit card's magnetic strip wouldn't work, which is a whole different story. Meanwhile Lukas had called my dad to ask how to check the air pressure in the tire. To make a long story slightly less torturous than what we endured, I had to go back and buy a tire gauge, which proved that, yes, indeed, our tire were low. We eyed the air pump with uncertainty; it was hardly plowed and we had just come from hours stuck in the snow. "Not again," I groaned. We make it to the pump, and it’s frozen solid, of course. The instructions told us to stick it into the tail pipe to warm it up. "That can't be right," I tell Lukas. Of course, my knowledge of exhaust pipes is limited to vague horror stories of carbon monoxide poisoning. We finally get it warmed up, but after "filling" them up, Lukas realizes he didn't do it correctly. So we have to go back into the gas station to clarify. When we come back out: the pump is frozen again. Arrrgg! So we repeat the entire process.
Finally we're back on the road, and starving at this point. We tried stopping at the McDonalds next to the gas station--which was completely closed. Finally, about half an hour down the highway we find an exit with a McDonalds. We exit, and find that all the stoplights are down and police are directing traffic. Could we hit any more bad luck?!?!?
Since I can't torture you all with any more detail (I've had to write this in three sittings), I'll just sum it up by saying that we finally got home, safe and (mostly) sound at 5:30. That's later than it would have been had we had classes. I'm not sure what the moral of this story is; maybe "Lee Anne is a misadventure magnet," "Determination alone will not get your car over sixteen inches of snow, or even " always bring food in the car." Or I could jut leave it open to interpretation.
I got up for the second time and meandered down to eat a sort of brunch. Unfortunately, the snow had interrupted the delivery of Krispy Kreme donuts, and just about every other food source. So I had cold cereal.
Now, the problem with snow days is that when school is cancelled there is usually a reason. I found this out as I tried to make my way to the parking garage. Somehow I was under the misconception that snow did not enter parking garages, a notion that was quickly dispelled when I saw the large drift behind my car. Still, I managed to get the car out, and by 11:30 Lukas and I had all our stuff loaded. At this point Mike calls, asking if we want to hang out and watch a movie. Sorry, I tell him; we're headed home. "How are you going to get to St. Louis with the highways closed?" he asked. Uummmmm, I respond.
Since sources varied as to what state exactly the highways were in, we decided we might as well kill a few hours hanging out at Mike's apartment. But I was loath to park the car in the garage again, and wade off campus in sixteen-inch snow. So I came up with the "brilliant" idea to try and park in Trowbridge, the huge field-like parking lot right of campus.
The road into Trowbridge was clear enough, but going through the lanes began to get a bit sticky. I felt very sorry for people whose cars were parked here all night; getting those out would be impossible. But I see a lovely spot that some Jeep or something managed to pull out of, leaving it perfect for me to pull into. Or so I thought.
I head for the spot (only three down in the row) and all of a sudden I'm not going anywhere. I push harder on the gas, and hear the smell of burning rubber. I look at Lukas and Marcus. "Um, I think we're stuck." I had grounded the car on a huge patch of ice and snow.
The boys tried to push the car, with zero success. Lukas suggested just leaving it, and going to Mike's. I flatly refused to leave my lovely car somewhere where it could be hit or towed. So they hiked off to Mike's to see about getting a shovel, while I stayed with Lirael (that's our car's name).
They came back a bit later, plastic bags flapping around their ankles as makeshift boots. Mike and Mark came along to help, and Mike (bless him!) had two ramps to help get the car out. With the five of us (plus two ramps!) we got the car out after about forty minutes.
But the adventure doesn't end there, oh no, not at all. While this saga was unfolding, there were other people attempting similar feats. Some kids in a jeep came and went, but the two guys in this one car were trying with no success during the time we were getting our car out (maybe that's cuz they only had one guy to push, while the other had to steer). The poor guy pushing looked enviously at our ramps, and asked if he could borrow them. So, after we had Lirael safe and sound, we started working on digging their car out. Even with seven of us now (plus the ramps!) it was another hour before we had anything resembling success. Another girl in an SUV offered to tow the car; that only resulting in her getting stuck as well (though she was able to get out after detaching the other car). Then a group of eight more guys showed up, and we practically lifted the car out.
So Lukas and I finally left Columbia at about 2:30, both very tired, cold, and hungry (plus I had the additional burden of feeling stupid). The highways were terrible--covered in snow and ice. We were going about 25 when the speed limit is normally 70. We go about ten miles, and all of a sudden I here this ding! and a message comes up that says "Check tire pressure." With my typical OCD finesse, I completely panicked. I envisioned that we had somehow managed to puncture all four tires; that we would be stuck in the middle of nowhere, etc, etc. The ride to Kingdom City (the next main town, about twenty minutes from Columbia) was grim. When we got there, we stopped a gas station and filled up the car. Of course my credit card's magnetic strip wouldn't work, which is a whole different story. Meanwhile Lukas had called my dad to ask how to check the air pressure in the tire. To make a long story slightly less torturous than what we endured, I had to go back and buy a tire gauge, which proved that, yes, indeed, our tire were low. We eyed the air pump with uncertainty; it was hardly plowed and we had just come from hours stuck in the snow. "Not again," I groaned. We make it to the pump, and it’s frozen solid, of course. The instructions told us to stick it into the tail pipe to warm it up. "That can't be right," I tell Lukas. Of course, my knowledge of exhaust pipes is limited to vague horror stories of carbon monoxide poisoning. We finally get it warmed up, but after "filling" them up, Lukas realizes he didn't do it correctly. So we have to go back into the gas station to clarify. When we come back out: the pump is frozen again. Arrrgg! So we repeat the entire process.
Finally we're back on the road, and starving at this point. We tried stopping at the McDonalds next to the gas station--which was completely closed. Finally, about half an hour down the highway we find an exit with a McDonalds. We exit, and find that all the stoplights are down and police are directing traffic. Could we hit any more bad luck?!?!?
Since I can't torture you all with any more detail (I've had to write this in three sittings), I'll just sum it up by saying that we finally got home, safe and (mostly) sound at 5:30. That's later than it would have been had we had classes. I'm not sure what the moral of this story is; maybe "Lee Anne is a misadventure magnet," "Determination alone will not get your car over sixteen inches of snow, or even " always bring food in the car." Or I could jut leave it open to interpretation.
Wednesday, November 29, 2006
Joining the Dinosaurs
Well, I'm back from break, and let me just say that is so positively *wonderful* to be back slogging through classes. If you failed to catch the irony of the last sentence, let me make that even plainer: coming back from thanksgiving break STINKS. Oh well. Seven days of classes plus finals week left. Not that I'm counting or anything.
Thanksgiving break was pretty much the normal state of hecticness that is my life. For that weekend before Thanksgiving, my mom and I flew down to South Carolina to see my grandma. It was good to see her again, and sweet to spend time with her, but sad, too (she has Alzheimer’s). My mom spent the weekend cleaning out her room and closet, and I spent it lugging the tons and tons of trash and junk mail out to the dumpster. Not exactly exciting blog material. (Except for getting creative so that the doors wouldn't lock me out).
Still, one funny thing did happen. One of the evenings, when my mom and I were out getting some food (since her choices are limited because of that terrible no-wheat-celiac-disease-stuff) I begged her to let us stop by Blockbuster and rent a movie or two. "Like, let's get a grown up chick flick" I begged. "Maybe one rated R? Like we can't watch at home?" "Why?" she asked. "Becaaaause," I responded. "We can't watch it at home." Duh.
[Side note: I did NOT want a movie for what I term "icky romance." I wanted a good movie with a higher rating because we can't watch those with my younger sisters, as I'm sure you can guess how well THEY take being left out.]
Like the kind and loving mother she is, my mom agreed. I ran in to Blockbuster, my brain furiously working to figure out what I could find in two minutes (our food was already in the car).
I had one of those moments when it's like the ground positively shifted under my feet.
I mean, seriously, it was one of those times when your frame of reference completely collapses. Aliens walking through the door would have been less surprising.
Because as I looked around, I realized to my horror than every single video was on DVD.
Now, I suppose I should explain. My mom and I were staying in the "independent living" home's guest room. A room that was equipped with one set of silverware, two plates, no glasses, a kettle for decoration only, lots of random and weird trinkets, and a TV and VCR. So, for the first time I needed something on VHS and realized to my shock that they were. . .extinct.
I swear, it was like one of those moments from the movies, where the hero glances around as the camera spins, revealing bad guys emerging from every alleyway. Every single DVD seemed to leap out with unnatural clarity as I searched in vain for a nice, fat, comfortable VHS tape.
So, my mom and I went back and watched a Disney Channel movie. I'm not sure rather to laugh or tear my hair out. The one time away from my little sisters, and I watch their favorite station. Really, life is ironic.
Thanksgiving break was pretty much the normal state of hecticness that is my life. For that weekend before Thanksgiving, my mom and I flew down to South Carolina to see my grandma. It was good to see her again, and sweet to spend time with her, but sad, too (she has Alzheimer’s). My mom spent the weekend cleaning out her room and closet, and I spent it lugging the tons and tons of trash and junk mail out to the dumpster. Not exactly exciting blog material. (Except for getting creative so that the doors wouldn't lock me out).
Still, one funny thing did happen. One of the evenings, when my mom and I were out getting some food (since her choices are limited because of that terrible no-wheat-celiac-disease-stuff) I begged her to let us stop by Blockbuster and rent a movie or two. "Like, let's get a grown up chick flick" I begged. "Maybe one rated R? Like we can't watch at home?" "Why?" she asked. "Becaaaause," I responded. "We can't watch it at home." Duh.
[Side note: I did NOT want a movie for what I term "icky romance." I wanted a good movie with a higher rating because we can't watch those with my younger sisters, as I'm sure you can guess how well THEY take being left out.]
Like the kind and loving mother she is, my mom agreed. I ran in to Blockbuster, my brain furiously working to figure out what I could find in two minutes (our food was already in the car).
I had one of those moments when it's like the ground positively shifted under my feet.
I mean, seriously, it was one of those times when your frame of reference completely collapses. Aliens walking through the door would have been less surprising.
Because as I looked around, I realized to my horror than every single video was on DVD.
Now, I suppose I should explain. My mom and I were staying in the "independent living" home's guest room. A room that was equipped with one set of silverware, two plates, no glasses, a kettle for decoration only, lots of random and weird trinkets, and a TV and VCR. So, for the first time I needed something on VHS and realized to my shock that they were. . .extinct.
I swear, it was like one of those moments from the movies, where the hero glances around as the camera spins, revealing bad guys emerging from every alleyway. Every single DVD seemed to leap out with unnatural clarity as I searched in vain for a nice, fat, comfortable VHS tape.
So, my mom and I went back and watched a Disney Channel movie. I'm not sure rather to laugh or tear my hair out. The one time away from my little sisters, and I watch their favorite station. Really, life is ironic.
Saturday, November 11, 2006
Happy Meals and College
I have to say, I think I’ve now lost any remaining dignity that I had. Ordering a Happy Meal hamburger plain on a college campus with no kid in sight is embarrassing enough; having to ask for a different toy is utterly humiliating. Now, I will defend my right to order a Happy Meal no matter what my age is; I like the portion sizes (except for the drink) and somehow it doesn’t feel as wrong still eating plain hamburgers when it’s just a kid’s meal. Plus, they’re a whole lot cheaper.
But it is truly a lowering experience to request a different toy. Now, I may still be childish, child-like, and possibly immature, but it is NOT true that I order Happy Meals for the toys. Usually. As it so happens, if the toy seems decent then I drag it home and give it to Clara. Usually she’s indifferent, occasionally Julia will be impressed (case in point: Yoshi ball-popping figure), but it’s better than throwing it away. (Once, recently, the lady asked me if I wanted a toy. I said no, of course. What, am I supposed to admit to clinging with my every breath to a McDonald’s toy?) Anyhow, last week I found one of the Barbie Twelve Dancing Princesses in my kids meal. Dutifully, I brought it home to Clara.
Rarely has she more surprised me with an outpouring of complete and ecstatic happiness. She squealed in delight and jumped up and down hugging me. Now, even when I BUY her toys, I don’t get that response. Apparently she had so wanted one of those toys, but she hadn’t been taken to McDonalds, and by the time she had, they had moved on to “Flushed Away” toys. Of course I thoroughly enjoyed being the loved older sister, and I basked in her affection.
So, when it came time this week to go back to McDonalds, I ordered a happy meal and hoped fervently for a different princess (after all, there are twelve of them). Imagine my unpleasant shock when I opened the bag and found . . .a hot wheels toy. What to do? The lines were getting long (side note: this McDonalds really does provide “fast food” as they have lines to the door during the between-class rush) and I hated trying to get someone’s attention. Plus, there was that whole issue of a twenty-year-old asking for a Barbie happy meal toy. Embarrassment warred with the ego-boost I’d get from making Clara happy (I really am a very selfish person). I hesitated at the counter for a minute or two, then quickly asked for the toy when one of the workers had half a second. The exchange was made. I left with cheeks flaming, but a sense of accomplishment and triumphant.
Then I went to get a flu shot, and well, that’s a different story entirely.
But it is truly a lowering experience to request a different toy. Now, I may still be childish, child-like, and possibly immature, but it is NOT true that I order Happy Meals for the toys. Usually. As it so happens, if the toy seems decent then I drag it home and give it to Clara. Usually she’s indifferent, occasionally Julia will be impressed (case in point: Yoshi ball-popping figure), but it’s better than throwing it away. (Once, recently, the lady asked me if I wanted a toy. I said no, of course. What, am I supposed to admit to clinging with my every breath to a McDonald’s toy?) Anyhow, last week I found one of the Barbie Twelve Dancing Princesses in my kids meal. Dutifully, I brought it home to Clara.
Rarely has she more surprised me with an outpouring of complete and ecstatic happiness. She squealed in delight and jumped up and down hugging me. Now, even when I BUY her toys, I don’t get that response. Apparently she had so wanted one of those toys, but she hadn’t been taken to McDonalds, and by the time she had, they had moved on to “Flushed Away” toys. Of course I thoroughly enjoyed being the loved older sister, and I basked in her affection.
So, when it came time this week to go back to McDonalds, I ordered a happy meal and hoped fervently for a different princess (after all, there are twelve of them). Imagine my unpleasant shock when I opened the bag and found . . .a hot wheels toy. What to do? The lines were getting long (side note: this McDonalds really does provide “fast food” as they have lines to the door during the between-class rush) and I hated trying to get someone’s attention. Plus, there was that whole issue of a twenty-year-old asking for a Barbie happy meal toy. Embarrassment warred with the ego-boost I’d get from making Clara happy (I really am a very selfish person). I hesitated at the counter for a minute or two, then quickly asked for the toy when one of the workers had half a second. The exchange was made. I left with cheeks flaming, but a sense of accomplishment and triumphant.
Then I went to get a flu shot, and well, that’s a different story entirely.
Monday, October 23, 2006
Rain, Tea, Muffins, and Emma
On Saturday, Lukas, Marcus, Arianna (a freshman who lives a floor below us), and I all met for lunch and went to Wal-Mart (it's sad when that's the only thing exciting in your whole week). It was pretty much your average shopping trip, except that it was raining steadily. I was (of course) the only one with an umbrella. It's a very cute umbrella: it's medium pink, with flowers and cherries on it--but NOT garish--it was a Brighton gift with purchase (okay, so technically it's my mom's, but she's quite generous). It's also one of those one-person umbrellas: so of course Arianna and I shared it. The boys, Lukas especially, were most infuriating. He had the gall to insist that it wasn't even raining. I beg your pardon, but when one can see raindrops falling for the sky quite continuously in all directions, my understanding is that it is, indeed, raining. Granted, it was not pouring, but it was more substantial than a drizzle, which is the definition of raining, in my opinion.
After going to Wal-Mart, we had just gotten back when it was time to go over to Mike's to watch Emma. I have to say, it's quite funny watching a chick flick (or a chick classic?) with only guys. Lukas had seen most of the movie before, Marcus had read the book (but not seen the movie) and Mike didn't know any of it. Anyhow, a raining Saturday afternoon is the perfect time to watch a Jane Austen movie and knit, which I proceeded to do until Lukas made me turn out the light because of the glare. Mike, who's quite the cook, had made bran muffins from scratch, and they were very delicious. We he suggested tea a few minutes later, of course we took him up on the offer.
This is where the real fun begins. Mike didn't have any mugs, so my tea was in a glass cup, Lukas' was in some random drink container, and Marcus--get this--had to drink out of a crystal gravy boat. It was quite a humorous situation, considering that Marcus had never had tea before (I know you're all gasping in horror), we were all advising him about whether he should add sugar or honey, the importance of adding milk to english breakfast tea (but NOT to fruit teas), and asking him how it was. Of course, as he's never had tea before he couldn't quite answer our inquiries as to whether he needed more sugar, etc.
The best part was when we got back and unpaused the movie. I had remarked to Mike how perfect tea and muffins were for watching Emma, and he responded with his typical surprised response of "Really?/." sounding quite pleased. And no sooner did we unpause the movie, than the next line was "I think we should stop for some tea." LOL, you should have seen our faces. It was such an awesome moment. I love Jane Austen. And tea. And muffins. And friends. And even brothers.
After going to Wal-Mart, we had just gotten back when it was time to go over to Mike's to watch Emma. I have to say, it's quite funny watching a chick flick (or a chick classic?) with only guys. Lukas had seen most of the movie before, Marcus had read the book (but not seen the movie) and Mike didn't know any of it. Anyhow, a raining Saturday afternoon is the perfect time to watch a Jane Austen movie and knit, which I proceeded to do until Lukas made me turn out the light because of the glare. Mike, who's quite the cook, had made bran muffins from scratch, and they were very delicious. We he suggested tea a few minutes later, of course we took him up on the offer.
This is where the real fun begins. Mike didn't have any mugs, so my tea was in a glass cup, Lukas' was in some random drink container, and Marcus--get this--had to drink out of a crystal gravy boat. It was quite a humorous situation, considering that Marcus had never had tea before (I know you're all gasping in horror), we were all advising him about whether he should add sugar or honey, the importance of adding milk to english breakfast tea (but NOT to fruit teas), and asking him how it was. Of course, as he's never had tea before he couldn't quite answer our inquiries as to whether he needed more sugar, etc.
The best part was when we got back and unpaused the movie. I had remarked to Mike how perfect tea and muffins were for watching Emma, and he responded with his typical surprised response of "Really?/." sounding quite pleased. And no sooner did we unpause the movie, than the next line was "I think we should stop for some tea." LOL, you should have seen our faces. It was such an awesome moment. I love Jane Austen. And tea. And muffins. And friends. And even brothers.
Saturday, September 23, 2006
Oh, the lovely J-school (sarcasm dripping)
Hmmm. . . so much (and yet less than nothing) has happened. Right now I can't even remember half the things I meant to post on here, and so much of that is obsolete already anyway. Let's see. . .
This week has been the j-school-takeover-of-my-life-week. In addition to regularly scheduled classes, we were sent on TWO fieldtrips. Class meets MWF, but we were made to clear our schedules on Tuesday from 3-5 and Thursday from 5-7 (not including traveling time), drop everything else, and go running at the j-school's beck and call. Not to mention that a) they expected us to get to these places ourselves b) didn't deign to give us directions, and c) told us to find our own transportation. GRRRR! I know several classmates who had to get out of other classes twice in the same week (wince) just to make it to the stupid visits to the Missourian and KOMU. What's more, our teacher showed up, left a sheet for attendance, and then went to his own classes! (he's a grad student) It's so insane!
The Missourian visit was completely pointless anyway. Almost all of us (if not all) had already had the tour when we visit campus, and the people were too busy trying to actually put out the newspaper to really show us around. We sat in on their budget meeting (what stories are going where), which was way too small of a room to accommodate us anyway. Then we were shoved from one student guide to another, most of which were only two happy to find someone else to take care of us. All in all a pointless waste of time and general disaster.
The visit to KOMU (the campus owned NBC affiliate TV station) went a little better (but not much). Kate and I decided to carpool, and headed off (with her driving, thank goodness) in what we assumed was the right direction. Thankfully we found it, but as soon as we saw the station we turned too soon, and ended up on a one lane road with cows. We had to turn around, go across the highway again, and take the next turn. Once again our teacher announced that he had somewhere to be, and left. Only two of the class were broadcast students, so for most of us it was pointless anyway. Our student guide (poor guy) had never given a tour before, so overall he did a good job. Only none of us cared to be there, and he kept asking if we had any questions, as we looked at him bleary eyed and wished to go home. We got there at 5, and were going to sit in on the 6 o'clock news, so he had an hour to kill. Unfortunately there was not that much to say. So we someone new came in halfway through he decided to start all over again (groan).
Sitting in on the actual news was interesting--for the first five minutes. The newsroom is actually very small; the anchor's desk is really tiny, and the weather stuff is all in this side corner and parallel wall. It's like four mini corner rooms in one. The three cameras-robot things are fully automated; they move around by themselves for each shoot. So one just takes off and moves across the room when it's time for weather. We (the 20 of us) were all given those plastic lawn chairs and sat (mostly) out of the way. Some people had to move when the sports section was up, because that's on the back wall close to where we were sitting. They didn't even bother to tell us to be quiet, just assumed we knew it (foolish on their part, I say). The red light just goes on, and then all you can hear is the anchors' talking. We they cut to a video clip or commercial, that's heard and shown on a TV, but it's weird because you can see the anchors, in person and on the screen, but only hear the sound from their actual voices. I'm not making any sense, am I? Anyhow, the whole time I was terrified that I'd drop something or sneeze. Not to mention being hungry and tired. And now, I was going to go home this weekend, but nooooo. We have to do a video interview with a partner, and they gave us the cameras on Friday and want them back Monday. And all this is for one three hour class!!!!! It's insane, I tell you.
This week has been the j-school-takeover-of-my-life-week. In addition to regularly scheduled classes, we were sent on TWO fieldtrips. Class meets MWF, but we were made to clear our schedules on Tuesday from 3-5 and Thursday from 5-7 (not including traveling time), drop everything else, and go running at the j-school's beck and call. Not to mention that a) they expected us to get to these places ourselves b) didn't deign to give us directions, and c) told us to find our own transportation. GRRRR! I know several classmates who had to get out of other classes twice in the same week (wince) just to make it to the stupid visits to the Missourian and KOMU. What's more, our teacher showed up, left a sheet for attendance, and then went to his own classes! (he's a grad student) It's so insane!
The Missourian visit was completely pointless anyway. Almost all of us (if not all) had already had the tour when we visit campus, and the people were too busy trying to actually put out the newspaper to really show us around. We sat in on their budget meeting (what stories are going where), which was way too small of a room to accommodate us anyway. Then we were shoved from one student guide to another, most of which were only two happy to find someone else to take care of us. All in all a pointless waste of time and general disaster.
The visit to KOMU (the campus owned NBC affiliate TV station) went a little better (but not much). Kate and I decided to carpool, and headed off (with her driving, thank goodness) in what we assumed was the right direction. Thankfully we found it, but as soon as we saw the station we turned too soon, and ended up on a one lane road with cows. We had to turn around, go across the highway again, and take the next turn. Once again our teacher announced that he had somewhere to be, and left. Only two of the class were broadcast students, so for most of us it was pointless anyway. Our student guide (poor guy) had never given a tour before, so overall he did a good job. Only none of us cared to be there, and he kept asking if we had any questions, as we looked at him bleary eyed and wished to go home. We got there at 5, and were going to sit in on the 6 o'clock news, so he had an hour to kill. Unfortunately there was not that much to say. So we someone new came in halfway through he decided to start all over again (groan).
Sitting in on the actual news was interesting--for the first five minutes. The newsroom is actually very small; the anchor's desk is really tiny, and the weather stuff is all in this side corner and parallel wall. It's like four mini corner rooms in one. The three cameras-robot things are fully automated; they move around by themselves for each shoot. So one just takes off and moves across the room when it's time for weather. We (the 20 of us) were all given those plastic lawn chairs and sat (mostly) out of the way. Some people had to move when the sports section was up, because that's on the back wall close to where we were sitting. They didn't even bother to tell us to be quiet, just assumed we knew it (foolish on their part, I say). The red light just goes on, and then all you can hear is the anchors' talking. We they cut to a video clip or commercial, that's heard and shown on a TV, but it's weird because you can see the anchors, in person and on the screen, but only hear the sound from their actual voices. I'm not making any sense, am I? Anyhow, the whole time I was terrified that I'd drop something or sneeze. Not to mention being hungry and tired. And now, I was going to go home this weekend, but nooooo. We have to do a video interview with a partner, and they gave us the cameras on Friday and want them back Monday. And all this is for one three hour class!!!!! It's insane, I tell you.
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