I just finished registering for classes. I got the three classes I figured I'd take, but not some of the more interesting ones that were tempting me (Sci-Fi as Lit would have been pretty darn cool). Not that you asked, but here's what I'm going to be taking next quarter:
The Evolving Presidency
Expressive Writing
Literature 3: Studies in Intertextuality
Is it bad that I'm unable to say the word "intertextuality" without it sounding like an innuendo?
I found a $5 bill on the ground on my way home after class. I'm taking it as a sign God wants me to buy some teriyaki.
Update, March 1, 1:23 AM: I'm probably dropping Intertextuality for Arthurian Legends, which is also a literature class. It makes my schedule more concise for purposes of getting a new job. Oh, and the gift-from-God teriyaki was pretty darn good.
Today has been a day of contradictions. It's the coldest outside it's been all week, but the crocuses are coming up as if it's really spring.
I'm a student at the most diverse campus in the state, yet today I was startled to realize that even here, bigotry is alive and well.
A student walked into my morning class ten minutes late. From his name and appearance, I'd guess that he's Indian. As usual, he set down his laptop bag at the front of the classroom, where there was room for it and where people wouldn't trip over it. He then quietly took his seat in the front row. Several students had already come in late, and I imagine my professor, a middle-aged white man, was a little annoyed by it. In what I can only hope was an attempt at a joke, the teacher remarked, "You know, it's always a little unsettling when a student comes in and sets down a large bag near the professor. There's nothing ticking in there, is there? And look how far he's placed it from himself."
I was in shock. I could not imagine someone would say something so completely insensitive--least of all a Bible professor. But the Indian student kept his cool. "Hey now. Let's not perpetuate stereotypes."
Backpedaling, the professor began to stutter. "Oh, no. It has nothing to do with--with that...I only meant--"
"I can't even walk into Office Depot and buy a box cutter without people giving me looks."
"Really? I mean, seriously, for real?"
"Yeah." Even the nervous professor was silent then.
I had to get up at 8 AM to go to work today. Fine. It meant that I had to curtail my carousing last night around 1 AM. Fine. Not a big deal. But what really pissed me off was the phone ringing at 2:30. And when we didn't pick up (because we were sleeping, because it was 2:30 in the fucking morning), the caller did not abandon his plan of attack, nor leave a message. No, no. He hung up and called again. TWICE. I very nearly got out of my warm, cozy bed where I had been sleeping to holler at the caller that he was out of his goddamn mind calling us at that hour. Almost.
The custard turned out delicious; next time I'm making a double batch.
And Sophia and I just geeked out hardcore over Captain Planet. We sang the entire theme song from memory, just because. We also decided that Mr. Rogers was hands down the best in children's television during our youth.
I spent the evening tonight at BSA climbing instructor training, which was a little boring on the whole, but on the plus side I got to have a bus adventure with a minimum of scariness and waiting in the cold. I came home a little tired from having hiked up the twelve blocks from downtown, and craving custard. Now I mean baked-in-the-oven, made with real eggs and plenty of vanilla, completely and utterly delicious custard. Despite the immense yummyness of said custard, it's an odd craving for me to have, since I haven't had this custard for probably four years, since my mom baked it for me when I got my wisdom teeth pulled.
Turns out it's surprisingly easy to make; or I should say it's easy to prepare. My little custard cups are in the oven right now and seem to have no intention of ever solidifying. If they don't, I may end up eating them liquidy, since they taste so damn good. I'll report back on how they turn out.
It's time you stopped being embarrassed you exist. You're clever and delightfully sarcastic. You're gorgeous, really radiantly beautiful. Your mind operates in ways my brain can't begin to understand. You feel things deeply and truly experience your emotions. You've been lost for some time in a world that seemed not to fit you, but you're starting to see landmarks and discover where you are. I hope you're finding out that where you are is a good place to be, and that you belong here. I hope you find that you not only have a right to exist, but that you deserve to celebrate yourself, to be brash and brazen whenever you choose. You can share your sorrows and fears but you shouldn't be afraid to share your moments of triumph, too. You deserve to be the center of attention at least as often as everybody else. There's something about you that holds me, and I wish everyone else could see the part of you that makes me glad you're my friend. Let them.
Lately it seems that all the cool bloggers, even the married ones, are writing about how much they hate Valentine's Day. And I've gotta say, I agree. I used to figure it was just that I'd never had a steady boyfriend at the time. Three times I've hooked up over Valentine's weekend, but most years I'm just single to hang out with my friends. Last year was an odd amalgamation of both...I went on a very awkward first date then watched My Big Fat Greek Wedding with a roomful of other single girls.
Valentine's Day is an awful time to be single--and I don't mean because it makes singles sad that they're alone, though there are certainly plenty of single girls moping around in February. No, it's because everyone gets all patronizing if you don't have a steady someone. For a good many of us, single is the equilibrium state of being. Being in a relationship, however great the guy is, doesn't automatically bring fulfillment as the media would have us believe.
But this year, as most of you know, I do have a boyfriend, who I've been dating for quite some time. Why, then, am I less than thrilled with the holiday this year? It's the pressure. I'm not big with gifts anyway, as I imagine lots of people aren't, and Valentine's adds double pressure to it: you're expected to give. You have to, or you're a bad boyfriend/girlfriend/husband/wife. And the guys have it the worst. But what makes the gift dilemma completly excruciating is that the kind and cost of your gift are going to be analyzed by every passing observer, who will then make broad judgements about the state of your relationship. Who needs that? The media eats this junk up, too. Valentine's Day is the most purely commercialized American holiday. Worse than Christmas. I'm serious about that, too--most people are still mindful that Jesus is the reason for Christmas. It's pretty clear the point of Valentine's day is to sell heart-shaped boxes of chocolate and red rose bouquets.
And additionally, there's only so much pink a girl can take.
I'm running off to the ocean, in hopes of evading the ridiculousness that is tomorrow. It's the birthday of one of my dearest old friends, and I hope she'll forgive me for not having a gift for her. I'm broke and out of ideas.
I had my interview for camp yesterday, and guess what?!? They're giving me Scoutcraft at Pigott, and the staff I want to run it. Of course, it's not official until they get me my contract, but they told me today it's mine. Sounds like I'll be getting at least three of the four Scoutcraft boys from last year, including good ol' Benji Frank-Frank, who is a really neat guy who will this year be elevated from my bitch to my assistant. I have big plans, and I intend to be up at camp at least one weekend a month until June, when I'll probably move up there as soon as school is out. Last year they even paid people who were up for extra weeks.
I also have a great story from this weekend. The camp ranger has always been a pretty gruff, not-so-friendly kind of guy. Two years ago, one of his old girlfriends moved in with him at camp and brought her two sons with her. She died later that year in a car crash, and he took it really hard. The boys were shuffled around from one grandparent to another, but they still spent a lot of their weekends out at camp. For the past six months, the ranger has been taking classes and making improvements to the house so he can be a foster parent to the boys, with the hope of extending that eventually to official adoption. The boys move in next week. It's so cool to watch him with the boys, because he's a really good parent to them, and I never would have expected it. One of the boys is already calling him "Dad." Plus, with them being up at camp all the time, they'll have an unlimited number of uncles and big brothers, and a chance to get a really solid outdoor, hands-on education. After everything that's happened, this could not have worked out better.
Soo....I started Ender's Game on Wednesday. I finished it yesterday at midnight. Mind you, I had two papers to write, one of which was a midterm paper and thus of elevated importance. But I passed the point of no return, which in a book like Ender's Game is pretty damn early on. I cannot rave enough about this book. I think I'll be reading it again within the next week.
And, because I am just that cool, I still got my essays done and turned in on time. I'm pretty cocky about it, like always. I almost hope that one of these times it will come around to bite me in the ass, so then I'll have some encouragement not to do it. But I've been doing essays the day they're due all year, with no grade yet lower than a B+. And that, my friends, is why I am totally convinced of how cool I am.
Grrr. I haven't been sleeping well at all lately. Last night it took me almost two hours to fall asleep, and I hadn't gone to bed early and I sure as hell was tired. This morning I woke up three times--the first two were when my roommate's alarm went off and when she got up, much later. But while she was in the shower, I drifted back off to sleep and was in the beginnings of a very interesting dream. The characters were just being introduced and there was an air of suspense; I could tell it was going to be another murder-mystery dream. Suddenly, BANG! A shot rang out, breaking the tense stillness of my dream and jolting me awake. It was only Sarah, banging the bedroom door, but I suspect you knew that already.
So we cooked the infamous turkey yesterday. We started at 3:30 when I got back from class. After some minor groping of its breasts, Sarah and I proceeded to rub olive oil and spices (rosemary and thyme, for which I take all the credit) into the skin. We got the bird in the oven about 4:15.
We checked it after 2 hours...and after 2 and a half...and after 3 hours, each time finding that the silly little red button hadn't popped. At 3 and a half, thankfully, the turkey looked done. It was a little pinker than we might have hoped, but the button had popped, and the button is boss. Besides, by that point it was almost 8, and definately long past dinnertime.
Then the side-dish preparations began. I made some excellent gravy, along with mashed potatoes (of course) and green beans with grilled onions (mmmm). We finally served dinner about 8:30. Everything was delicious, and not just because we were all starving by that point. I was very pleased with myself.
After we were done eating, I boiled the bones down for broth (which will manifest itself as some totally delicious turkey noodle soup later in the week). About 11:30 I'd finally finished the stock and put it away, and was about sick to death of the turkey smell, since I'd been working on turkey in one form or another for a good 8 hours. I washed the dishes, took out the turkey-carcass-filled trash, and opened the back door to ventilate the kitchen. It still smelled like turkey. I lit scented candles around the house. No help. So today I'm eating lunch out and hoping that by the time I get back to the house this afternoon the residual turkey smell has dissipated. Hey, I can dream, right?
Oh, and check out Wil's site today. I've been spending a lot of time in coffeeshops the last couple weeks, and his entry rang true for me.
Today in my English lit class, my professor was reading some Chaucer out loud to us. She pronounced the Middle English word for "diary" (presumably correctly) like "diarrhea", and nobody laughed.
I didn't know whether to be ecstatic that I'm finally around grown-ups or to lament my lost youth.
11 nude middle-aged women on screen in the excellent British film Calendar Girls 2 literature books found in the trash at the bus stop
8 countries represented in the entertainment at the International Dinner
2 flavors of crepes
32 cans of soda acquired after the dinner
3 people who want to move into our apartment
1 person actually will be
9 overly skinny and startlingly agile young women on stage at Chicago
7 graceful and sexually ambiguous male dancers
1 cross-dressing faux-opera singer
0 days until we cook the turkey
