decisions wanted

Gone are the days of the baby blue jersey and shorts. Genuinely happy about that. But now I have to pick my goalie jersey and this is difficult. My team wears green otherwise I would have chosen this (it brings out my eyes). Yellow is fantabulous except for my whole terrified-of-bees reality. Blues, reds, pinks, oranges, browns, greys don't do much for me. Perhaps I'll need to just stick with black ala zorro!!! At least it wouldn't conflict with my green/white gloves and blue nike boots.

Why does looking pretty in goal have to be so hard?

keeping it together

Some weeks it seems that I just can't keep up with my split ends. Millions of strands of curly, kinky, and often-as-not frizzy hair isn't always easy to manage. And when certain individuals are not in close enough proximity to ensure that the hair is sufficiently tidy before I leave my flat... well, you can imagine!!! Still, when all hair issues have been overcome, a good hair day can pay for itself, regardless if the cost is measured in time, money, or homework-not-completed.

It is surprising how much split ends and split infinitives have in common. Its particularly easy to convince oneself that the split sounds "better" or less "arrogant," just like it can be relatively simple to self-soothe with false assurances that messy, frizzy, unbrushed hair is nearly the new "it" look.

Condition, keep the infinitive together, condition... repeat... Voila! Amazing hair and strong sentences. Its enough to make a girl grrrrr like a raptor!

and this was a good idea... how?

Because sometimes you throw yourself under the bus...

"In Sindle v New York City Transit Authority, the defendant operated a school bus carrying between 65 and 70 junior high school students, including the plaintiff. Some of the other students became rowdy, committed acts of vandalism, and remained abusive even when warned by the driver. The driver abandoned his ordinary route, passed several stops, and drove to the police station. On the way, the plaintiff, who had not behaved improperly, jumped out of the side window, only to be run over by bus's back wheels." (taken from my Torts textbook)

Needless to say, the plaintiff sued... for false imprisonment. And won! This was reversed on appeal.

Moral of the story: if you must throw yourself under the bus, try to avoid the wheels!

chew toys

Alright! Admittedly it is a wee bit sad that ciabatta bread is the highlight of my day. In my defense, redhead replacement is a slow, arduous, arguably impossible project. As is finding fabulous people who enjoy bossing me around. Though I do appreciate the remote effort a certain dan-the-man made during the wee hours. (In rachel-land 8:30am is painfully bright and shiny.)

Today during class, it is possible that my mind began to wander. And if this indeed happened as perhaps the text messages to any phone number in my address book within the United States (consciously excluding Canadia seeing as that great nation is a distinct country and not within any nation-wide mobile plan) might indicate, one might argue that I wasn't paying quite as much attention as was warranted. This I cannot deny. I will not even use the fabled "but its a friday afternoon" defense in light of my glaswegian spring semester where I had approximately 6hrs of friday class. (Some observers might note my irregular attendance on these days... this is obviously and utterly immaterial.)

Seeing as this post has begun to wander most alarmingly, I'll return to my point.

Which is... I must start bringing my favorite chew toy, ie. wooden pencil, with me to classes. Without this incredible representation of markets, I have no decent way to keep from fidgeting. As the chairs are slightly swivelly and squeaky, my inability to sit still is annoying to my neighbors-in-law. For those of you who have never witnessed me in a classroom ( or a golf course for that matter... though in that instance I generally substituted a wooden tee) the pencil is literally a chew toy. Note to reader: don't ever ask me for a pencil... or at the very least have a can of lysol on hand.

Without this toy I struggle to concentrate on my creative non-curricular-activities-during-classtime. As a result, no imaginary makeovers have been attempted, no poetry composed, no random lists of inappropriate-things-to-say-that-might-make-people-think-you-are-totally-bonkers written, no mobile dart games played, no discussions as to the imaginary details of imaginary boyfriends commenced (perhaps more alarmingly, no imaginary boyfriends have yet been fabricated), and no clean pieces of paper have been desecrated with any unnecessary stray ink markings. Yes, you read that correctly... if one were to flip through any of my notebooks, not one malnourished stick-person drawing would be found!

Clearly, the stars are out of alignment and things are not as they ought to be. And if that ain't something to chew about, I don't know what is.

free to chew

It occurred to me this afternoon that "gum-only" food is no longer required. As exciting and obvious as this all was, I couldn't entirely remember the food groups that involved biting (or why I would in any way want to imbibe from such categories). But as lovely as yoghurt truly is (and it be lovaly), its constant consumption is just not as appetizing as one might imagine. By contrast a thick sandwich filled with slices of juicy tomato, baby spinach, and turkey bacon was an undeniable, blissful, chewy wrinkle-in-time.

nuts, belts, elbows, forks, and yoghurt

Sometimes things don't go quite as planned.

Understatement? Most certainly.

Disaster? If one is fortunate... not at all.

Inconvenient? Embarrassing? Slightly amusing? Well, if we are speaking of yours truly no doubt you already know the answer! And as you might have divined there is (as always) a protracted story here.

It is often difficult to know exactly where to commence one's tale... after all, it may have been that Colonel Mustard was in the conservatory with a spanner because Mrs. White was staking out the library with the rope. Events are rarely isolated happenstance. Which makes me wonder: ought I to begin my wee fiction of unfortunate events with the first power outage or the second? With the busy sunday morning or the lazy wee hours of Monday? Perhaps I should merely focus on proximate cause...

Monday morning found me riding big red up the not as gentle-as-I-would-like slope near the intersection of US 50 and George Mason Dr. With a half-hearted lift I stood up in the saddle and expended just a bit more effort to keep from coming to a grinding halt. All of a sudden the handle bar came loose. Not entirely sure why and not having any tools in my pack, I carried on to the campus where I parked, locked, and left red. My schedule was too full to immediately fix the problem (a missing nut)... but one thing was certain: riding red the four predominantly downhill miles home wasn't a safe plan.

Which brings us to today.

I took the bus to campus laden with my cycle-jeans, wrenches, and my packed lunch. In addition I wore slightly more sheveled clothes than normal figuring that I could leave them in the locker as my future emergency supply. At the end of the first class of the day, I dug into my grilled cheese sandwich, tomatoes, and jo-jo's; saving the best, ie. vanilla yoghurt for last. Just after I peeled back the foil lid I discovered, much to my immediate distress, that the plastic cutlery I'd quickly thrown into the bag this morning didn't include a spoon. "Ah! I've got a fork... that'll be fine" I assured myself.

And, undoubtedly it would have been if I hadn't been distracted. (I believe at around this point I began to lecture my classmates on the proper pronunciation of Glasgow and perhaps the finer points of Brad Pitt's pikey accent.) Eventually, I stopped blathern' long enough to discover that I had spilled yoghurt onto both the blue and black shirts I had on... quite the feat even for one eating such a slippery substance with a porous instrument. "Ah! Dang!" I thought, "emergency clothes aren't supposed to have giant yoghurt stains!" (I'll skip the longer-than-strictly-necessary speculation that my classmates began on how a girl who eats yoghurt with a fork got into law school.) And not that it is particularly relevant, but I did happen to have an extra t-shirt in the locker which allowed me to be stain free the rest of the day, albeit shivering from the excessive air-conditioning.

When the studying and the classes were over, I prepared to leave. This meant, among other things, changing into my cycle-jeans. Said jeans have been mentioned in a previous post and as mentioned they really fit most appallingly. However, the increasingly inconvenient roomy nature makes them ideal for riding red, which almost compensates for the ice-cream cone illusion they produce. So you can imagine my dilemma when I realized that I hadn't brought a belt. "Hmmm," I thought, "this will be challenging to walk with but I'll manage. How ever could I forget a belt?" With trepidation, shorter stride, and a wee dose of courage I walked toward the bathroom exit. With thumbs tucked into my backpack straps and elbows jauntily angled outward I turned the corner... to catch the wall plumb on my elbow!

I'm not entirely sure why they call it a "funny-bone"... what exactly is so funny about feeling electric-type shocks up one's arm for ten minutes? But I can tell you this; when supposedly stationary walls play their pranks on you... you won't be laughing!

twisty turns of fates

Sometimes the most logical and reasonable of events are a direct result of thoroughly absurd circumstances. The almost ridiculous nature of causality should harbour little surprise among the mortals. After all, if a kangaroo sneezing in Australia alters the weather in Detroit can anything be genuinely wacky? By extension, is it actually peculiar that the very existence of my legal career is the result of the synergistic interplay of 1 cubano, 1 russian-jew, 1 failed standardized test, a pair of comedically nosy americanos, and 3 weeks of unending passionate chess? Predictably, the answer is "it depends!"

Some learning mechanisms are more effective for certain individuals than other equally valid techniques. For better and for worse, being the center of attention works well for me. Often embarrassing, occasionally humiliating, it is still far better than the alternative... namely, not comprehending spherically the material. True, many students are able to achieve this without the full energy of their classmates and professor behind them but, in the end, what counts is the ability to concurrently apply a formation defense and performance excuse in one's own life. Which is not to malign the process, arguably the the most causal element of all!

A vital part of the "process" is professor feedback.. Take for example this relatively faithful partial transcript of an actual exam response regarding formation defense; examiner comments in red. (For the readers' well being, comments related to the examinee's better suitedness to comedic writing than economic analysis, sociopathic personality, and general inability to follow direction have been edited.)

Basic conditions that need to exist for a contract to be considered valid are: 1) the parties must be rational, 2) informed (both sides), 3) both sides acting on free-will, 4) and the service contracted for must cause no net harm on others. What about the consideration requirement? Since these conditions must be met for a contract to be bindable, basic formative defenses will argue that one or more of these conditions were violated. Because of 1) children and lunatics are not bound by contracts they enter into...the court has expanded this concept of "irrationality" to include individuals who enter into a contract that "no sane person" would accept. including temporary incapacity like being drunk.

I never meant to be a lawyer, law school was for "those people, and rules were as well. But there is no denying the fatalistic force of putting 1 cubano, 1 russian-jew, a pair of comedically nosy americanos, and one idiotic bet altogether in a small room. Out of this mayhem came something remarkable... where else can a torturedly-reasoned formation defense leave everyone on the floor, tears in their eyes, hysterically laughing?

bicycle chatter

Authors note: If you can't stand the thought of reading yet another post about my bicycle, I encourage you not to continue reading. Take the opportunity to go outside, get some fresh air, take your bicycle for a spin around the neighborhood... but remember to wear a helmet (unless you want to become an active organ donor).

Bicycles ought not to be ridden on sidewalks. Especially when said sidewalks are narrow. It is dangerous for pedestrians and cyclists alike to share such a narrow strip of concrete. Exacerbating an already tight fit are the street lamps, street signs, overgrown hedges, overgrown trees which further diminish the amount of usable pavement.

Cyclists belong on the road, not the sidewalk!

But here in lovely Arlington there aren't bike lanes and drivers make it abundantly clear that they are thoroughly uninterested in sharing their road. And before certain individuals start complaining about how annoying cyclists are on twisty, curvy mountain roads... Columbia Pike and George Mason Dr. are emphatically not twisty, curvy, mountainous, or even narrow. Especially when compared to the British roads (cart paths) where drivers have no difficulty not running over or flipping off cyclists.

So here is the rub -- cyclists endanger themselves and pedestrians when they ride on the sidewalk, but Arlington drivers are unwilling to make any room for them on the street. As dangerous a bicycle is for a pedestrian it pales in comparison to the dangers that Cadillacs, Hummers, and arrogant self-consumed drivers pose to those of us who are happy to get by on our own sweat.

on the reddish hues of magic

"The magic of first love is our ignorance that it can ever end."
benjamin disraeli

At times, the power of knowledge to break spells and shatter enchantments is unforgivable. To love, to leave, to suffer through right choices, and to shrug the wrong decisions... Yet, the extraordinary resiliency to reimagine and rethink is as easy as riding a bike.

Despite leaving my first love in an enchanted land where the sunshine is mainly liquid and despite suffering the inevitable pathos of separation, I have not lost my ability to open my heart to an inanimate object with two wheels, handlebars, and pedals. Nor have I merely replaced ol' squeaks with a trophy bike.

Though this new love/bicycle is younger than the venerable Dr. Seuss bike -- circa perhaps 1977 it is vintage without being a prototype of something Foyle rode- this was genuinely coincidental. And, yes... it is RED! Apples are on occasion red and noone thinks them less substantive for it.

Red doesn't squeak (as of this afternoon), but to suppose that everything is utterly perfect would be a mistaken thought. Especially in light of how my inability to get red's seat at the proper height nearly was very painful. Still, not hearing squeak-thump-squeak-thump-squeak-thump-squeak-thump-squeak- thump-squeak... is really something else. Really!!! (To grasp the sense of how "really" say the squeak-thumps really fast.)

As the proverb says, we always return to our first loves... but often only in essence. And for all the differences, squeaks and red aren't so very different. They roll, you place feet on pedals to propel them, they have one gear, they creep up hills, they are jauntily clownish, and most importantly both made me a bargain I couldn't refuse (ie. free).

Of course these are just details.

Which is exactly where the magic is to be found.

reinventions welcome

Near as I can recall, the activities of August 17 2006 involved shopping, more shopping, and sopping up ice cream with a pb&j sandwich. Much has changed though admittedly some tendencies persist. The gastric-harmony that is ice cream + peanut butter remains a truly blissful experience. But, well...its been awhile.

As to shopping I can't say much. I desperately need to take time for a solitary safari-like expedition... but it is so lonely without the girls on hand that undoubtedly it will be less pleasure and more ordeal. Besides, sinking my teeth into books has severely exacerbated my penury circumstances.

(I find myself rather ashamed of my girlish cravings for companionship but there really is nothing like knowing your girls have your back in a foxhole.... I mean, fitting room. After all, they are your girls and know the right answer to the old "does this make my *#^ look small?")

However! While I may not be buying the pair of jeans so desperately needed, I am most certainly compulsively acquiring my share of books... including some decidedly not needed. I suppose it has something to do with the whole moratorium on book purchases over the last couple years... or perhaps, more specifically (and we all know how much I like my technicalities), it has something to do with the lifting of that book-buying embargo. (I think I just said the same thing twice!) At any rate, now I need to buy a bookshelf.

Which brings me to my point. I may be wearing the same jeans that I had on last August 17 (and I must say they really do fit horribly-- which I suppose means that they don't fit), but I'm also carrying a pink-plaid purse. How alarming! Not only is there a purse... but it is pink! But really, not everything that differs between time-periods is cause for frenzic concern. Only 9 years ago I refused to bathe and well, look at me now! If showering at least twice a day could make one bright and shiny... alright, so it can't do that, but it will make you smell all nice and fresh.

And to utilize more than just my own experience: some people ate their boogers when they were 4 but by the time they were 6 no longer looked for nutrition to grow out of their face; some people dated wildly inappropriate individuals but now acknowledge the potential merit of changing their utility functions in the future; some people used to think that they were practically perfect in every way and now know that they are definitionally perfect from all angles.

See! Change is possible.

As I put off for just another minute my required participation in law school orientation activities, I appreciate that unlike the last orientation I suffered through, I'm not profusely sweating-out last night's curry. And ain't that somethn'?!?

enablers all

I've been very fortunate this summer to have had two wonderful friends intern in the northern Virginia/Washington DC. region. Over the past weeks, we watched movies, enjoyed jazz, shared good food, played softball, lost teeth, rooted ourselves to porches, and experienced zero-gravity tennis. We stayed up to all hours talking nonsense. We stayed up to all hours thinking we were talking sense. We stayed up to all hours doing nothing at all. And occasionally we just sat on a couch... and giggled.

Now these two are moving on to better things than managing and ensuring my constant entertainment. While I'll sorely miss them, it is but fact that summer-living cannot and should not continue perpetually. (The Irish have a cautionary tale as to the dire consequences of wishing for a month of Saturdays.) Before I relapse into my favorite abandonment complex, which while endearing is perhaps not exactly factually accurate -- though I would remind certain individuals (who shall remain nameless) in Los Gatos, Mountain View, and Glasgow that not following me around the country and/or world is a very serious form of abandonment -- I would like to thank both Felix and Rachel for their role in making this a lovely summer.

And to assure them both... I forgive you for leaving me in this cold and heartless manner...

things that need to be faced

One fateful summer afternoon, under the shadow of the Washington Monument, many adults (and soon to be adults) grasped at remnants of childhood pleasures and happily played softball before the fast approaching dusk. During this idyllic time of day, off a sublimely bad hop, a second base-person took a softball to the face and lost a tooth (and a wee bit of dignity).

Today is the day I challenge my fear of softballs and rejoin the pastime of recreational leagues. My teeth hurt just contemplating this event. With a heat index in triple digits I wonder if I can use the weather to excuse myself from the play of the day. Or perhaps I can cite academic commitments to explain my absence. Or perhaps I'll emphatically pull my chin up, stick my face out, and play ball.

myself the fool

According to the man who figured out electricity, "experience is a dear teacher." Of course, quite on the heels of this reassuring statement is the reminder that "fools learn at no other." It makes one think, if I apply the first part to my circumstance am I declaring myself a fool??? In general, that isn't the self-projection of first-choice.

So what? So what if we are fools?

To be a fool and to learn from a mistake is infinitely preferable to a state of unchangeable, folly-ridden, de facto perfection in all one's regaled wisdom. Have not the heralded wise been sufficiently consumed with their philosophy that experience is redefined to parallel their accepted wisdom?

When we know better, we can choose to do better. But on occasion, to know better is preceded by an unpleasant self-confession: "I've been such a fool" or worse, "I am the fool." For there is not enough room in life's classroom for all of our prideful conceits and experience has something to teach.

christmas in august

It's that time of year when we lie awake into the wee hours of a new day wondering just what it is we want most to wish for. A new pony, a red bike, the Mac with sparklies on it, a Wii, an old pony, 900 count Egyptian cotton sheets, a rocking pony, one's second front tooth... Of course, if Santa were to be bringing that second front tooth he probably wouldn't start by shooting novocaine into my gums! In fact, if I'm not mistaken, the root canal is what he brings the bad children.

Sadly, Santa doesn't fly in August due to reindeer union regulations. Besides I'm not sure how I would feel if getting my new tooth meant that lots of elves had to sweat through a north pole summer. Could my conscience withstand that pain even if it meant alleviating the weight on my checkbook?

I ought not to complain. There is, after all, an upside to getting hit in the teeth with a softball off of a majorally shitey bad-hop. Really! For starters, my jaw swelled up just enough to give me the chin-profile of my dreams. And I found out that not all dentists base their practice on the tools of the 19th century. Not to mention that my inability to chew properly has unexpectedly made me a french-toast-making-machine/guru and with just enough Canadian maple syrup you would never have to guess that I was the cook.

But despite all these wonderful and new developments there are the occasional moments, where like Captain Barbossa all I want... is to eat an apple!

baroque heart and maple syrup

I don't remember the date other than it was some time in October. The weather was cold and dry. A classmate thought that the 44A would be a more direct route home. It wasn't. By the time we passed the Jordanhill campus everyone on the bus realized I was lost. Obnoxiously, aggressively, kindly they demanded to know where I lived. And then, in painstaking detail they explained which bus numbers I was to take.

I don't remember the date but that is when I decided to love Glasgow.

I stepped off the 118 knowing the general direction I ought to go but uncertain how I would find the house. Tired from my extended bus travels, hungry for dinner, I shivered, crossed over Drymen Rd. and headed east. Eight minutes later I halted in hopeless wonderment regarding my whereabouts. Absently my eyes wandered up to the street sign. Somehow I had stumbled onto my very street. 15 minutes later I melted into the hot shower.

I don't remember the date but that is when I saw that the house on Speirs Rd. was home.

I sat comfortably on the couch. And then I didn't. Cute and flirty quickly transformed into an anxious attempt to breath normally. "We need to go... now!" Keep calm, stay in control, breath in, breath out, repeat... Mentally, physically drained I drive past the illuminated monuments. How strikingly lonely this all is in the wee hours of the day. I pull into the parking lot, give a faint "morning" to the night receptionist, unlock the door.

I won't remember the date but that is when I accept that my bed is no longer a squeaky twin.

Despite having packed the box just over a month before I'm highly anticipative of what I'll find. I catalog in my head: a diffuser, a picture frame (or two), a snowglobe, my favorite sheets. What else? I wonder. Diffuser goes in the cabinet. The picture that epitomizes Glasgow goes next to the bed. The one that represents laughter on the wall. The old snapshop of my childhood inspiration kept where I can see it. Those sheets get a long hug before stowing away neatly in the closet. And then I pull out a slightly crushed, frameless, matted picture of a place that will always be familiar. A thousand times I overlooked that challenging valley.

I remember the place for that is where I found something special.

fine lines and wrinkles

Perhaps a wee bit late, I've determined that there might well be a certain amount of "crazy"in us all. The sort of insanity that wakes us in the muddle of the night (which is to be distinguished from the "middle"which is by a far a more rational state) and prompts actions that are slightly inappropriate.

It is of course common sense to stay away from the internet during this time of night since you'll be bound to self-diagnose yourself with some horribly incurable, painfully maiming disease. TV is another dangerous activity... infomercial executives could tell you (probably with a pie chart) just how critical the "muddle of the night" demographic is to their bottom-line. And speaking of pie, somehow, during muddle-times one feels compelled to consume all those healthy items in the fridge (i.e. the tub of butter, the raspberry cheesecake with white chocolate drizzle, the whipped cream, the $2.99 container of icing fudge). But even normal crazies know to stay away from hair dyes and mirrors...

bitii-byte-boo

Someone wise, somewhere, said something about the mind having the power to create reality. Along the lines of "mind over matter" albeit, significantly more intense. Though an appealing metaphysical, self-help concept, it is legitimately hard to understand how paper can beat scissors no matter how much positive energy is focused. Happily, like the best things in life, doubts can be easily ignored and neglected.

It is in this spirit that I have determined to join the ranks of the bright and shiny people. No more drama. Someone wise, somewhere, probably said something about "issues" being relatively self-generated. (Perhaps, I am the only one to make that claim... regardless, this is my newest pet theory. Be fair warned!)

But, I am rambling...

While it might be slightly difficult to conceptualize my sunny-personality with anything like a chocolate covered pretzel, my point is that dark and twisty Rachel is leaving for the bright and shiny upgrade.

seriously!

chips-a-callin'

When in the course of initiating exploration into the matter of actually working on a dissertation certain items are of utmost essence.

Namely:
a stable internet connection;
a blank copy book filled with hope-inducing pages;
a large quantity of peanut butter;
an even greater quantity of choc-o'-chip cookies;
soft pillows to encourage napping;
inordinate supplies of chips and salsa;
unquantifiable supplies of patience;
other matters more pressing and intimidating then the dissertation...

And of course, the ingredient I always carry tightly --- luck!

losing my connection

For IM addicts such as myself, little is more liberating while simultaneously frustrating, as losing one's constant internet connection. (Which, by the way, is what has happened to me!) Of course, for a student who still desperately needs to research her dissertation such a loss is... it is virtually undescribable!
All I can say is that forced, involuntary procrastination is not nearly as much fun as the consensual variety.

VA-KJG

A year ago I had no "scottish" roots. No east-coast status. No electric kettle (the 1st step to brewing a mean pot-o'-tea). No idea as to how single-malt whiskey was made. And of course, no dragonfly necklace.

Amazing how much can change in less than 365 consecutive days. But that hardly prepared me for how pleased I would be to "officially" have a Virginia address and license plates. Not to mention getting to pay all those great taxes. (Ok, I could do without that last item!)

I reconsider my wording above; the first "firsts" were preparation. Without them I might have been to timid to take on the latter set.

No butterflies this time around... I've got dragonflies!

2 4 $5

I forgot what real heat feels like. Tossing, turning, fans blowing, windows wide, I desperately wish that some things hadn't been relearned. Especially when you throw in the correlation between sleepless, sweaty nights and craving/eating soft-bake choc-o'-chip cookies. Then there is the correlation between GA catch-up and craving/eating soft-bake choc-o'-chip cookies.

Yes, there can be too much of a bad thing!

Twenty's Plenty

The circular green and white signs represent more than simple traffic guidance. They alternately whisper and shout to the subconscious to "slow down", enjoy youth, watch out for children who might accidentally be run over... In the end, we heed their emotional guidance as little as we follow their legal direction.

But on occasion we'll spot the circle and can't help but giggle.

a cool 96

My grandpa turned 96 yesterday. He has more hair on his head than my 28 year old brother and a bigger appetite than my teenage sister. He can't really see and he can't altogether hear but he is alive. While that may seem like a rather morbid comment, for weeks last summer we weren't sure he would make it through the night. In fact, last September when I left for the bonnie banks of Scotland's lochs I never expected to see him again. Today as I watched him eat mouthful upon mouthful of his daughter's "macaroni" I couldn't wipe the huge smile off my face.

My favorite moment is when I reached under the blanket to squeeze his hand (which had been our only means of communication last summer when he was so ill). As he firmly grasped my left hand his eyes opened wide and he said, "You have COLD hands!" He spent the rest of the visit warming them up and finally with a smile whispered "now you have warm hands."

who knew

"Someone said count your blessings now 'fore they're long gone..." That's a taller order than I can manage (even in heels). Yet, not being one to stand down from a challenge... As a side note, my new years resolutions next january includes conquering this darephilia!

So here is a shout out to the true friends who gave precious feathers so that I could have wings.

Heal Over

They tell me that my memories will travel everywhere with me. They tell me that you can have many homes. They tell me that pain and joy are constant companions of the other.

Drifting in on the breeze is a whisper to "don't hold on but don't let go."

How? I somberly ask. For the fifth time in two years I've packed myself into suitcases and boxes. And I want to know when it'll end...but that knowledge is the forbidden fruit and I'm reluctant to imbibe.

But the breeze carelessly pretends to not hear and lazily plays in the leaves.

Frustrated I turn back when a friend quietly holds my shoulder and stays my step. "Listen!" I grasp the second chance and the soft wynd smiles.

for 15

wait for the lyrics
that aren't your own
believe in the story
if it's sadder than true
search for a drumline
and though it won't come
don't cry 'it's over!'
when we've nearly begun

Its Raining, Its Pouring

The old man is probably snoring...

Snoring is the prerogative of the elderly, so we ought not to grudge the old man that. Instead, we can work together to find solutions (ie. sound proof rooms). While I'm on the subject of nasally grunting noises, let me once more assure the world that I am still NGN free (except when laughing... it appears that I snort now). Despite the testimony of a certain petite, albeit outspoken, redhead... I don't snore. Not only can I prove how invalid her scientific sample was, I can also provide ample evidence to the effect that all the tales she has brought forward regarding my sleeping habits are in fact "lies". Come to think of it, I have a reasonably strong counterclaim that she just doesn't share well. (See respective appendixes D & B for further details about cockroaches and teaching little children not to share.)

I'm not sure how I got on this rant... Oh yes, that silly rhyme!

So anyway, its quite a glasweegee day-- rain, wind, more rain, more wind.

Before I mercifully end these ramblings, in anticipation of the rebuttal I remind the rebuttee to remember that my leg was thoroughly busted, making it impossible for me to turn over any other way. Thus, I'm sure that even Rudy would agree to the existence of extenuating circumstances!

look ma! can I keep him?

I bonded with this kid right off. We seemed to have so much in common and totally didn't run out of things to talk about.

There is the matter of smell but I'm hoping the fruity soaps will take care of that... and as to the food on the mouth, well I too have been known to have hay stuck on my face. I ought not to judge. Besides, he cleans up well.

So, I was thinking... can I keep him?

just not here

Contemplating the extent of my homesickness while simultaneously developing my overhead serve, it occurred to me that when I grow up I should invent a process that allows me to be in two places at once. That way I wouldn't miss the school ceilidh, the frighteningly hot scottish summer, or the Dr. Seuss bike but, I could still enjoy the company of family, friends, pets, and my favorite set of sheets. (A little known factoid is that the aforementioned sheets were intentionally left in the states in order to ensure my eventual return -- aren't I clever?)

On second thoughts, I think there may be a slight snag in my highly creative solution; I have about as much engineering ability as I have volleyball skillz. And, despite having just spent the last couple hours batting a balloon around, the latter is still, well, rather non-existent. However, hope is not entirely lost seeing as there is a sufficient low-tech solution already in place. Some people call this "money," which is certainly descriptive. Perhaps when I'm old and bored I'll be able to afford this technology (reason no. 484 why I need a lawyer's salary).

In the meantime, I'll just keep listening to homesick-inducing music. And maybe go out and watch some grass grow...

enough is enough?

I used to wonder whether the kid who got everything he wanted for christmas was happy. [It was always a "he" because in my ideal christmas I would be transformed into a boy.] Would he fully recognize his good fortune? Or would the memories of past, imperfect christmases somehow sour the ideal one? Would the uncertainty of a less than perfect future embitter?

Never having experienced perfection, in any of its manifestations, I can't pretend to know what it feels like. However, I am convinced that it just doesn't matter. If divorced from our pet expectations, even if only for the briefest of moments, we would see that the logarithmic function of life brings us exponentially closer to fulfillment than we ever imagine.

Of course, this means that we can't ever actually touch it. But, if there is an upside to imperfection it is this: the certainty that the quest to approach zero will always remain.

And I realize, being a sink with an open drain isn't so bad...

dinner for lunch

Why is that we say it's all in your head when what we really mean is that your stomach is fast approaching your throat? Perhaps by focusing on psychological phobias one hopes vainly to be distracted from the resulting physical phenomena. Or maybe it is because from childhood we have been raised to distrust our gooey grey matter.

Whatever the reason, I'm thinking its high time to prettily curtsy and concede to my fear of heights, or more specifically, my fear of falling from heights. Which is to say, I'm hoping that sometime really soon I will no longer feel the need to "challenge my phobias" and instead, contentedly keep my feet firmly planted on the ground (or wheresoever they be planted).

What good will "running from the fight" accomplish? Not much! But, perhaps in time, I'll be able to close my eyes without visualizing the terrifying image of scooting down the steep slopes of Scotland's wee hills. Until then, I'll spend a fortune calling my tribe. (Reason no 342. why I need a lawyer's salary.)

coffee mugs, aviators, & tweed jackets

Dan-the-Man is back and all is right (again) in Glasgow. We have returned to our place at the center of the universe. Sadly, our gain is once more north america's loss. Just goes to show that dynamic efficiency ain't all its cracked up to be.

Of course, my pet theory is that all this traveling is the only way to ensure that a given region doesn't reach assimilative capacity of southern coolness. After all, dilution is de' solution...

So Dan, thanks for diluting, being cool, and returning to the crazy farm.

make me lose control

I've determined after long and careful deliberations that I really ought not to relocate to Poland. In time I'm convinced that I could learn the language, adapt to the culture, adjust to the winters, and eventually rule the country. But, embarrassingly, I lack the necessary self-control to stop eating their chocolate. As to the hot chocolate here...

The upside to my overly indulgent behaviour of the past few days is that I'll probably never want to eat the sickeningly disgusting British and American wannabe chocolates again (which could generate significant international multiplier effects).

At any rate, I now have even more motivation to use my new, sparkling running shoes.

mainly silliness

A friend of mine doesn't watch TV. Well done her, pompom wave, honk the horn, etc... Really,I think it is fantastic! Those who are privileged to know her can without hesitation testify that she has employed her time to much greater advantage.

My point here is that her underdeveloped attitude toward the talking-box is understandable, forgivable, and (if she would just make an effort) thoroughly reversible. But she stubbornly resists reform and even has gone so far as to say that the plot to Prison Break is unrealistic. Unrealistic?!? Hardly... an innocent man set-up by a rogue secret service, convicted of crime that didn't happen, sentenced to death row in a prison that his brother just happened to design is the sort of thing that happens all the time. Granted most brothers wouldn't then commit a major felony in order to bust their big brother out from the inside, but that is more a sad attribute to the times we live in than a serious flaw in the show.

For the sake of our friendship, I will conclude that since good taste is not universally endowed, it's absence may at times be utterly unavoidable. As Lincoln Burrows once said, "the quality of mercy is not strained but dropping from heaven to the place beneath is twice blessed."

Am I an Addict?

I'm afraid that I have once more regressed. Of course, it was all genuinely accidental. I just happened to end up at a golf course with my golf clubs. I didn't even remember how I got there!

As I stood on the first tee I felt myself falling again through the rabbit-hole. I'd been clean for 5 months and as I set up to hit my drive my self-control crumbled into the grass at my feet. Then and there, I resolved that first thing this evening I would swallow a bitter dose of self-help... beginning with an analysis of how severe my problem actually is. (I should warn you --- it isn't pretty!)

1. Do you ever play alone? YES
2. Have you ever substituted one course for another, thinking that one particular course was the problem? YES
3. Have you ever played one course to overcome the effects of another? YES
4. Do you avoid people or places that do not approve of you playing golf? YES
5. Have you ever played a course without knowing what it was or what it would do to you? YES
6. Have you ever been arrested as a result of playing golf? NO
7. Have you ever lied about where and how often you play? YES
8. Have you ever tried to stop or control your using? YES
9. Have you ever been in a jail, hospital, or golf rehabilitation center because of your playing? perhaps
10. Does playing golf interfere with your sleeping or eating? YES
11. Do you feel it is impossible for you to live without golf? NO (yes)
12. Do you ever question your own sanity? YES
13. Have you ever thought you couldn’t fit in or have a good time without golf? YES
14. Have you ever felt defensive, guilty, or ashamed about your playing? YES
15. Do you think a lot about golf? YES
16. Have you ever played a round because of emotional pain or stress? YES
17. Do you continue to play despite negative results? YES
18. Do you think you might have a problem? YES

Oh my!

De`ja Vu

There is a picture of me as a young golfer in one of the more original outfits known to man. At the time, I thought I looked pretty nifty. When I revisited the photo as a slightly older individual, I hurriedly condemned my mother for allowing me to inflict that many colors on society. An over-sized multi-coloured Buick hat, overly baggy shorts, and wrinkled over-sized polo, with white tube socks pulled unbearably high... well it's the sorta nightmare that stubbornly haunts my otherwise peaceful slumbers.

Sadly, more sleep-disturbances look to be my lot at night. And this time there is no one but myself to blame. Tentish green shirt with non-matching blue trucker hat ... definitely not a look that I'll be able to outrun during resting hours.

It gets worse. I still have the hat. And even more alarming, I love wearing it. Some days I insist on wearing it! I feel so cool, redneck, and utterly rugged. It's no end of sad.

Please someone... be kind and somehow destroy it before I once again humiliate myself.

blood hurts

At half five I woke to discover that I had one arm. Well, only one that I could feel. With my one good arm, I rotated my numb shoulder until my numb hand was free ... and then bit the pillow to keep from screaming!

Seeing as it wasn't light yet, no report on whether the arm was actually blue...

thoughts of a non-obsessive nature

I am a relatively uncompetitive individual. Relatively, as in, when compared with the rest of my immediate family. This is perhaps best demonstrated during the occasional board game that we sit down and play. Be it Monopoly, Trivial Pursuit, or Risk, it is patently obvious that I lack the necessary focus and desire to see my opponents paying me to retain their organs by the end of the game. Call me a "poor loser" if I insist that Monopoly fails to reflect economic reality, Trivial Pursuit is a trivial waste of neurons, or that Risk would be greatly improved if trade were permitted between countries. (It's a pet theory of mine that tit-for-tat would dominate here as well.)


I freely admit that in the world of grades I can be a bit more anal. Nothing motivates me to study like a brilliant friend (pictured) getting a higher mark unless it is brilliant friends getting higher marks (not pictured). Coupled with my desire to do no more than is economically-efficient, it becomes necessary to calculate just how much more time needs to be spent in the books in order to raise my grade by the appropriate increment. (Given an uncomfortably wide margin of error, I additionally assume that my colleague's grades will rise slightly.)


Apparently, Glasgow University has a reputation for not inflating grades which is great and probably would make my mom happy. It's nice to know that the mark I receive is the mark I deserve... but it would also be nice to know what exactly that mark means. In the alternative universe that is this university, a B doesn't correspond to a B, and percentages don't correspond to percentages. Confused? Join the club! It's like playing rock-paper-scissors where you know that paper beats rock and scissors beats paper and rock beats scissors, without any clue as to why!


Then there is the reality that full marks aren't given because, apparently, that would mean that the student should be teaching the course and not the professor. In other words, "Because I said so" beats rock, paper, and scissors!


Despite the fact that even the professors are at a loss to explain the grading system to befuddled North American students, marking seems to be fair. But it throws a monkey- wrench into my marginal analysis of just how much additional studying is needed in order to outperform my good friends.


It's a good thing that I'm relatively non-competitive or I might start to obsess over this.

Inner Hebrides (In Blues and Greens)

The Inner Hebrides are islands off the west coast of Scotland. Their beauty is truly unique.

I waited and waited but Aslan didn't stop by.

Taken from the ferry to Mull with my aunt in mind.

That water sure was on the cold side.

Dear Diary Cont.

Sequel to "Since You've Been Gone"

March 14. OMG. I am officially the rider of the squeaky bike. Every single pedal push is a squeakier squeak. My 30 minute ride to uni is driving me nuts. During my 15 minute ride back from work at night, I'm sure the neighbors curse the day I came to Scotland as I wake them with my squeaks. I swear they can hear me in Edinburgh. I cannot ride Squeaks through Maryhill one more time... they'll kill me.

March 17. I am the official winner of St. Patricks Day. And the New World Symphony was amazing. Rugby is stupendously boring... and did I mention that I won at St. Patricks Day?

March 28. Iona and Mull were lovely. A bit desolate, lonely, secluded, etc... but wow. I've been to the islands, finally seen a bit of the highlands, am extraordinarily tired, but thoroughly happy. I've seen the Dawn Treader (it was docked at the Tobermory wharf), had fresh Mull bread, and swum in the North Atlantic.

Okay, it wasn't exactly swimming. And it was really cold... my feet were very angry with me!!!! Did I mention how tired and happy I am? My brain is a bit of mush at the moment. So sad!

And Oban (background of picture) was surprising pretty. I think Richard Hannay got chased by the efficient Scottish "polis" through Oban. He evaded their efforts and made it up to Skye (next months trip).

March 31. Dearest Diary. I quit my stupid job!!!!!

April 9. I've been a very good girl and studied all day (with the exception of my 2 hour afternoon nap). I did my laundry, cleaned and vacuumed my room, changed my sheets...Now I must go watch Prison Break.

Since You've Been Gone

Contrary to popular opinion, blogging is not what I gave up for Lent. Neither was the silence a New Years resolution to eradicate my strong narcissistic tendencies beginning with my overly self-aware musings. In truth, such a resolution is entirely too difficult for one such as I to accomplish. Hushed tone: But I have accomplished all of my 2007 new years resolutions!!! The important aspect to all of this, is that I've returned from the quiet and will once more stoke my narcissism as it requires.

If I had kept a diary over the past months, it might have looked a little like this.

Jan 2. I have met the love of my life. I'm sure I will get no sleep for my heart thumps in the most unusual of ways... though that may be due to actually exercising. This might not be love, it could be cardiac arrhythmia's. And the butterflies in my stomach might not be good flutterings but signs of acute hunger and malnutrition. Unlikely given the quantity of food imbibed over the past week. But this bike make me so happy (I did write bike--- what were you expecting? Boy!?!).

When I look at the little wheels, and white seat/handlebars, rusted bell, one gear, and rusty orange frame I see a future that bears all the signs of long-term commitment and joy. I think I shall call this little-bike-that-could, this relic of the battle of britain, this rather Miss. Marply contraption, I shall name it the "Dr. Seuss bike."

dearest diary... I am so happy.

Jan 12. Dear Diary... I am not so happy.

I rode Dr. Seuss to school for my first day of classes and I didn't bring a change of clothes. Considering that I left in the middle of a downpour, this wasn't as unavoidable as most kind people would assume. I spent 9hrs in wet jeans and was most miserable. I think I may have cried. Of course, falling off of Dr. Seuss has given me new confidence... I am now a most confident cyclist knowing (as I do) that I will always land on my feet.

btw... my new job isn't so bad though it does mean riding Dr. Seuss back at 2am on occasion.

Feb. 10 Dear Diary

I am a tad bored. Malta is gorgeous and the bumpy buses are so much fun, but I didn't bring anything to read. Besides, I am homesick... that palm tree at the airport did that. I won't be hiring a bike like I had intended seeing as the Maltese can't drive (my bus hit a car a couple hours ago). But, I've taken loads of pretty pictures, walked around Valletta, and discovered for myself a quiet little creek off Grand Harbour that will no doubt be my mental "happy place" for years to come. And now, nestled up with my recently purchased copy of the Economist I shall be very content.

Feb 12. My camera was stolen. All my pictures are lost. My mom is going to kill me.

Feb 23. Fine, I lied... Feb 25.

Well the joint birthday party was loads of fun... despite the constant visits to the ladies room to blow my nose. I'm surprised I didn't look just like Rudolph... but cuter of course.

I had class all day Friday and I was just miserable. Sniffle, sniffle, BIG sniffle! I was supposed to stay over with the other birthday girl after the party, but she may not want me within a hundred feet of her dorm room. (These and other dark thoughts sniffled through my conjestedness.) Fortunately, she was even sicker than yours truly and didn't mind at all. So after all the classy sniffles, and the sniffly reminders to come by McPhabbs (home of Scotland's best attempt at a real hamburger), and the hurried attempt not to be late for my own party (our own party), and the accidental doubling of the recommended dose of super-drowsy decongestant, the party went swimmingly (other than the slight shoe and hat problems).

March 2. Whispered:
Dear Diary
I've had laryngitis for the last week.... it hurts. How could this have happened?

March 9. I am assuredly the world's worst cyclist. What part of "turning in front of moving automobiles/buses could lead to physical harm" do I not understand. I am such a conservative driver but put me on a two-wheeler and I turn it to the demon of the roads. I almost ran over a crossing guard last week, I almost maimed an old man yesterday, and today I gave the driver of that black Audi the fright of his week.

If I don't kill myself soon, my Dad will fly all the way here to do it for me.

I should mend my ways.

[Editors note: Ways have subsequently been mended.]

Hogmanay Forecast

Edinburgh -- city of arrogance, pseudo-culture, and the worlds largest collection of drunken Australians (outside of Australia)-- all on display the last day of every year. Sadly, while the first two are regular exhibits, the "slurring down under while up north" presentation can only be seen at and around the Edinburgh Hogmanay street party. Which just happens to be the largest street party in Europe.

Without parents near enough to make the threat of dismemberment credible, I've been debating whether to hop on the wee train and see the mayhem first hand. It would be like christmas candy, just with blood and puke and public urination... which is so much better!?! Right?

The Glasgwegian syndicate of Mr. Miyagi in the highly acclaimed "Hypothermia, Puke, and Burgers for £6" gives rookie party goers 7 basic guidelines. 5 of the 7 involve handcuffing yourself to friends so as not to get separated and/or singly mugged (apparently group muggings are considerably more enjoyable). The remaining two rules involve copious amounts of warm clothing and a transporter beam (to make a fast exit if and when necessary).

Alas, I won't be making it to this annual mother-of-all-destruction since I'm base-jumping in Glasgow that night. And ya'll thought I hadn't any common sense.

Attack of the Brussel Sprouts

Christmas dinner in Scotland includes wonderful tasties. The turkey (basted in a 1/2lb of butter), the gravy, potatoes, and carrots only begin the list. Most delicious of all, is the mound of perfectly prepared brussel sprouts. One, two, ten... is not enough. The mind demands more more more!

Every year, in the wee hours of Boxing Day, scientists see a dramatic increase in GHG levels. That's right -- every year! (Not to mention a funny odor.) Olfactory infiltration aside, this is a serious problem in need a credible response. We need to end our unsustainable dependence on the almighty brussel sprout.

The development and use of alternative vegetables for turkey dinners needs to be promoted; both in the scientific community and in primary education. To do so will not be painless, costless, though it will make our noses happier. But your culinery sacrifice may well be the greatest gift you ccould ever give a child.

So decide today to make a difference.

Because, together we can make Boxing Day less flatulent for future generations.

a tale of two shows

ER nurse 1 :"Doctor... Doctor... the patient is crashing. Tell us what you want us to do."

(camera pans, slows, speeds up, gets a bit blurry... indicating uncertainty, time-space suspension, time-space acceleration...basically confusion....)

ER nurse 2: "Doctor! You have to tell us what you want us to do. Now."

intern 1: "Alright, push one of epi and ventilate. Charge paddles to 250. Clear...

(monitor shows normal heartbeat)

nurse 1: "Now what doctor?"

intern 1:"Page neuro... And get fashion up here. Stat!"

(Intern leaves room and is stopped by angry resident in hallway)

Resident:"Dyou want to tell me whaut just happened? Because, I, think, I saw you, sittin on your behind, waitn to be told what tadooh. Yuh are a docta, act like it!"

(Resident waddles off muttering something disparaging about interns)

later...

Attending neuro: "Who is presenting?"

intern 1: "Mhairi Anderson. Age 19, student at Glasgow University. Admitted early this morning with multiple seizures."

Attending neuro: "Cause?"

intern 1: "Nothing in the patient history. But her skin... its orange."

Attending neuro: "Humph. Are you suggesting that the fake tan is somehow seeping into her brain? Interesting. Get her up to CT and get a full lab work up."

Attending fashion: "We don't need a CT. What this girl needs is a catwalk. I mean look at her... look at what she's wearing: pink striped bubble skirt with boots pulled up over the green polka-dot leggings. Unless she bought this all in the last 24hrs, that application of fake tan isn't explanation for what is going on here."

intern 1: "Do you want a psych consult?" (raises eyebrow)

Attending fashion: "No, between my stints with Mayo and Project Runway I spent a few months in glasgow. This is a classic case of fashion-myopia-glasgwegium... Glasgow Syndrome. Do your homework, I'd expect you to know that!"

Attending neuro: "I still want that CT. Sure, you have a hunch but.."

Attending fashion: "Look, run your tests, but I've seen this hundreds of times... with and without the fake tan. The fashion patterns around the campus at Glasgow uni cause seizures. Its like overexposure to strobe lights... but in this case its toxic levels of really bad clothing choices. Mismatched fashion is dangerous-- but, not operable. (Pause) Unless of course you are one of a handful of fashion surgeons who know how to separate fetal blood vessels... I mean... separate a girl from pink fishnet stockings and furry sweaters. Lucky for her, I am."

intern 1: "But she's wearing polka-dot tights."

Attending fashion: "Exactly. We only have a small window of opportunity before she's auf'd."

Drops of Jupiter

I suppose its cliche to note that day-to-day life is an often surprising conglomeration of non-consequential incidental amusing events. Not to be confused with trivial. A life is defined by this odd-assortment and only the silly (or wicked) would be foolish enough to pretend that the proverbial "box o' chocalate" isn't important in a unique little big way. Its enough to unsettle even the hardiest cliche-slayer into a doubting depression, Is my life really little more than an over-used cliche? who will then curse the ridiculous redundancy of their thought.

Of course, embracing the fact that life maybe just won't be as serious as your alphaness demands might be a tad more... shall I say... livable. But before you dance al0ng the light of day, and though you act like summer, walk like rain, listen like spring, and talk like june, remember, that the big it isn't away out there.

For what its worth, my theory on the location of it... and one should note that while T, K, P, L, and J were all instrumental in this formulation, none should be held responsible for the end result... is that those drops of jupiter are adjacent to the fish bones.

Ok, not actual fish bones... metaphorical ones!!!

At the End of the Term

Tomorrow I attend the final lecture of the fall term. Monday the major assignment is due. By Wednesday, the small econometrics report will be finished. Christmas break starts Thursday.

I'd love to describe what the last 3 months have been like. And words don't fail me to describe the various new experiences, insights, friends, reflections, and desires that have grown in this time. It would be easy to write a "snapshot." Place a short caption on the back-- Growing Up 9/06-12/06 -- move on.

But I'm not going to do that.

The chalk cliffs of Dover are no secret. In the harbour below is one end of the world's busiest ferry service. Immortalized in song and film, by the rendering of artists and digital cameras alike, one way or another, the world has seen their striking beauty. Snap the picture, move on. Beyond the pure white limestone flecked with flint is an austere subtlety. For within the pretty face, these cliffs are endowed with character and silent strength. You just know. A caption is insult to the manifested grace.

PB without J

Mr. Miyagi (the irish-american one) recently brought to my attention the need for more golf musings (since I am in the ancestral seat of the game and all that). The Sensai also indicated that he would be extremely disappointed if highly flattering remarks to himself were absent from any such anecdotes. As I must attempt to accommodate my readership... Besides, while I know most of you don't care a fig about overly-involved golf yarns, do you really want to read yet another post about the rain in Spain or Scotland/Glasgow/whereever? [For those of you who like the reflections on nearly-arctic climate, I've got a charming piece planned on abandoned umbrellas.]

Now, you may not have had the first-hand opportunity to observe the oddity of the Scottish, but trust me when I say they are very special. For one thing, they are proud of securing a world championship; that it is in Elephant Polo doesn't seem to detract from the splendour of the accomplishment though they do call it Elephant Pole in hopes that the naive will think that it is a track and field event. I've only been here a few months, but I've yet to see any Elephants in Scotland. (For those of you unfamiliar with EP...it's literal.)

And then there is "football" which they claim to have created. For the rest of the world, this is historically significant though most Americans probably scratch their heads and wonder why anyone would voluntarily confess to such an act. Whether they actually invented the sport is rather immaterial. That they are completely daft about it, is not. For whatever reason, watching a live tie (match) is provocation enough for very round men with pasty white legs to don kilts. (And I was foolish enough to think that this was merely an urban legend and move here anyway.)

Then there is that activity they thought up which has placed them continuously atop the most-hated-nation list of golf-widows the world over. By this point, I should hardly be surprised that sanity and Scottish golf don't exactly walk hand-in-hand. Then again, they caught me off guard. Minutes prior to the start of today's match I was asked if I preferred to play off mats or out of the first cut. I couldn't possibly have heard that correctly... so I took out my headphones and asked them to repeat. Yes, I was being asked if I would rather carry a mat around with me all day to hit shots off of or merely move all balls into the first cut. The fairways, they explained, were so wet that playing off them would ruin them for the winter. (Maybe the fairways are trying to tell us something... ever think of that?)

I might be in Scotland but I've still retained my reasoning ability. A quick back of the scorecard probability distribution indicated strongly that I was likely to be in the first cut anyway --on the margin, a mat would be superfluous. As it happened I hit an unusually high percentage of fairways on the day, though I quickly started aiming for the side of the fairway so as to enable the shortest walk between where the ball was hit and where it would be hit from. It was sort of like cart-path golf, just with sink-holes, boggy fairways, and bunkers-turned water hazards (and I'm not even going to start on the "winter greens").

At the end of the day, a pair of triple salchows followed by a double axel/eagle lutz had landed me atop the leaderboard. I blame my sensaishea... after all, he was the one who showed me that golf without comedy was like peanut butter without jelly. In other words, it would be a sane Scot!

Saturday Reading

I picked up the novel "To Kill a Mockingbird" from the library yesterday. As a result, today my host family (and their two cats) discovered what happens when I get lost in a book. I think they found it mildly amusing to be utterly unintentionally ignored. Mr. Tom, the ornery cat who often as not will dig his claws through my shirt, finally decided to curl up between my sweater and t-shirt. It took me a few minutes to notice his cheeky locale. When he proceeded to lick my face I merely altered the angle at which I held the book. He seemed satisfied with the compromise.

As the cat can attest, I was thoroughly involved in the novel. It is a well-written, powerful tale of fear, integrity, and fighting battles that can't be won-- at least not yet. I know most folks read this book (or the synopsis-- definitely not the same thing) in high school and considering that many individuals stop reading when assignments are no longer being doled out, maybe that is the only way thebook would be read. Depressing thought albeit unlikely. This however is not children's literature or even adolescent. Not due to the subject matter, but entirely because of how well it captures childlike curiosity and understanding. It is unquestionably written for adults, framed by a child to challenge the attitudes of an older generation.

I ought not to generalize. All I mean to say, is that there is a certain level of emotional understanding, maturity even, that this novel inescapably requires. To be honest, I might yet have been too young... it felt that way. Stories of innocence lost and of innocence regained are heady plains. The world will shift ever so slightly, ever so subtly. Rather unsettling.

As I finished the last line, I gently moved the cat off my lap and realized that I needed to reread Last of the Mohicans.

Hardly Worth Reading (Really)

Vindication has this tendency of being sweet. Knowing that you can tell the world or even just one person "I told you so!" is an amazing emotional high even when basic manners restrain you from actually verbalizing those four words. Who needs Prozac, alcohol, or even chocolate when vindication has come aknockin on the door? Talk about endorphins?!!!

But lets be honest, when we have the chance to herald our "rightness," how often do we actually pass up the opportunity? Even when we attempt the near impossible exercise of restraint, our body language will inevitably give us away. Of course, that's no excuse for not at least trying to demonstrate a modicum of self-control. After all, pride is considered the deadliest of the seven deadly sins. Pause and contemplate-- is all that endorphinal-causing-rightness really worth possible eternal hellfire?

Warnings aside, vindication, like a good wine, gets so much tangier with age. A good "I told you so" will mature into a swagger exponentially more powerful if given a bit of time... say, 21+ odd years. Throw in multiple doses of ridicule over such a time period and... (need I really say any more?)

Imagine, if you will, a man, a self-professed sale-rat, insist that his very pregnant wife drop everything and proceed without delay to a closeout sale to purchase a heavy, thick, bulky coat in the midst of a warm California winter. True, the coat may never be worn, may be absolutely useless, but it's on sale. OCD kicks in. The man insists!

Following decades will see many wars waged against the Gestapo-Coat (as it is snidely called) in futile attempts to win back prime-closet space. OCD persists. The GC remains.

Many moons observe the tentative cease-fires and uneasy occupant/occupier relations, all too indicative of irreconciable attitudes and beliefs. The GC is no longer just a coat--it is undeniably a representation, a talisman, of a man's right to his own closet space.

Dad, smile! The GC has finally been worn and lovingly christened in a proper Glaswegian downpour. It is a great coat, warm and dry-- it was just in the wrong city! And all I can say is, thanks... thanks for keeping it... cuz I absolutely LOVE it.

Oh and yes, we know... you told us so!

Would you say I'm cold?

As I bounced out of bed early this morning... Oh, wait... my nose just got longer. Hmmm, wonder why? But, as I was saying, early this morning as I awoke from my peaceful slumbers I energetically began my... Oh dear, my nose is looking abnormally long. :-(

Fine, Jimmy Cricket, I'll try to keep this slightly more factual.

I rolled out of bed this morning (late morning) doing my utmost to not fall on my laptop. I think I was successful. After stumbling into the kitchen for some porridge (with lots of added brown sugar and milk) I managed to open my eyes enough to take in the brilliant blue skies and occasional lazy cloud that awaited me in the great outside. I wasn't fooled. Sure it looks lovely and all, but its ffrr-ffrrigid.

A few weeks back I made the mistake of wearing only a t-shirt on a day like today and was outside only a nanosecond or so before I darted back inside to begin the normal layering process. The point is, here in Scotland, the sun won't actually generate heat during the fall, despite what the bright blue skies would indicate.

Compared to the past few days, I ought not to complain about 6degrees. That is until I look up the high temperatures in New York (11) or in San Jose (21). In fact, the projected low in SJ is 10. Yes, that's 4 degrees warmer than our high.

Now I recognize that ya'll warned me that Glasgow was a bit cooler than even Salinas. In fact, my Dad was very helpful before I moved here and showed me on a globe just exactly how close Scotland is to the Arctic Circle. (For the record, I thought the globe was exaggerating... its not!)

Maybe its time to stop wearing shorts...

McYucky

So I have the flu. That's the uncomfortable, germladen, can't-be-too-far-from-a-bathroom, reality. Its ok. I didn't have class or a soccer match or anything terribly important to do today other then writing a few odd essays due (soon), cleaning a room that has taken on FEMA like qualities of disorganization, and preparing for my upcoming LSAT that will only determine my career. Like I said, not a problem...

Being sick in a foreign country has its advantages though. Not once today was I sprayed down with Lysol, advised to lie in the "teenager on the phone" position, or reminded of just how much nicer I become when I'm sick. Like I said, there are advantages...

As a proactive sick person, I've utilized all the family's favorite remedies:I've been drinking lots of liquids (mom), taking my vit.C (dad), watching TV (DeedleD), sleeping (oh wait, that's mine), and I even did the whole "exercise till you're better or collapse" routine which my big brother swears by.

The final diagnosis? There is such a thing as too much tea and it might have been better if the apple juice wasn't expired. Seriously!

Married in Mexico

An Open Letter to my Mum and Dad

I can't recall the first time you two told me the story of your "meeting," falling in love, and getting married. I'm pretty confident that I failed to grasp the depth of your lunacy. Had I understood, no doubt I would have run away from home desperately hoping that this sort of thing wasn't genetic. (Ok, so I didn't actually know about genes and stuff like that at 4 years old...).

By the time I was a teenager, I began to wonder whether this was just a really long-running joke. After all, you tried to convince us that there were people living alternate lives in the mirror, so maybe, ages before, the two of you concocted this story about getting married in the back of Tijuanan barber shop after meeting only once. I could imagine Britney Spears doing that sort of thing (wait, that actually sounds like something she did do), but not my upstanding parents.

The point is, every anniversery I expected, I hoped, you would come clean... "No, we were married in Conneticut in a church with a white picket fence... the whole Tijuana thing was something that got laughs on a nationwide stand-up tour we did in 1983. We never told you that we were a famous comedy duo? I'm sure we mentioned it... honey, are you sure you never told them? Well, alright... we have told you where babies come from...yes?" (You did always know how to get out of a conversation.)

In recent years, I've grown quite attached to this tale and I sincerely request that should it be in fact, well... a hoax, that you will never ever admit it. Let your soon to arrive first grandchild believe that back in the day, "gramps and nana were pretty cool." Sure, its not what most people would term dignified or even "romantic"... but nobody ever said that about Rocky & Bullwinkle, Abbot & Costello, or Bert & Ernie and thought less of them. All I'm saying, is that from where I stand, you guys are in pretty good company.

So allow me on the eve of your 31st wedding anniversery to lift my can of Lysol and offer up this traditional Scottish toast to the two of you and to the entire family (especially including my brother and his absolutely gorgeous wife).

May the best you've ever seen
Be the worst you'll ever see;
May a moose ne'er leave yer girnal
Wi' a teardrop in his e'e.
May ye aye keep hale and hearty
Till ye're auld enough tae dee,
May ye aye be just as happy
As I wish ye aye tae be.


Sincerely,

the kid not in the picture

Signs

Someone is trying to tell us something.
It may be inconvenient.
Will we heed the signs...


Global Warming: the Cause, Duration, and Cure (look closely-- it's all there)

Strangely reminiscent of how Congress allocates money for environmental purposes

Thou shalt not engross on thy neighbor (#s 6-10)

Harmonizing the marginal cost curve you face with the marginal social cost curve you create



The holidays have been dangerous for a long time...



Don't expect to blame belated Christmas gifts on a shipwreck. That excuse was old in 1887! Shop early, ship early, and even if you go postal from all the insipid holiday cheer...I'll have gotten my presents. Better yet, be environmentally sensitive and just e-transfer the cash.

The above is intended strictly for educational purposes... the writer accepts no liability for practical applications and/or uses. Should the reader find an aspect not funny, they are advised to proceed to a part they do find amusing. In the event of a hot-flash, the reader is highly encouraged to sit in a tub of ice… under no circumstance should the reader relocate to a polar region as this could result in further shrinkage of the polar ice cap. Donations should not be considered tax-deductible, which the writer sincerely regrets. Water should only be drunk out of clean-clean glasses—it is advisable to regard all others as contaminated. Merril is encouraged to swing away.

High on a Hill (with a lonely goatherd)

11:30
Where: Loch Lomond area
Who: Catherine (member of tripartite girl pact); Paul (center) videographer;Alan our fearless leader and soon to top my "most-hated" list. Not pictured... 20 or so others from church.
What: Euphemistically called a "hill walk," Alan is taking us up to the top of Ben Ime, highest peak in the area at 3,317ft... and more importantly (if you happen to be Scottish) it is classified as a Munro. [To fully understand this significance, google Sir. Hugh Munro.]
Why: Completely beats me! Just hoping that I've got the "moderate-level of fitness" Alan tells us is required.


12:15

After about 85minutes of hiking uphill, Alan stops us for lunch. With the cloud-covered Cobbler looming in the background, Catherine, Andrew (the crazy Scot wearing shorts), and myself are discussing the possibility that Alan may not actually be human but instead a mountain goat. I ponder whether "moderate-level of fitness" was in reference to mountain goats. When everyone has caught up, Alan starts describing the next part of the day (to give the faint of heart a chance to turn back). It sounds absolutely miserable... but sitting on a really cold boulder hasn't been so much fun either. Besides, it is made perfectly clear that I don't have the option of turning back... everyone else can do as they choose, but apparently no one will let me quit. I'm starting to dislike Alan, Catherine, Karin, Mark, Andrew and a bunch of other people whose names I don't know.

With the exception of Andrew, who insists that he isn't cold... "ya dien't sieme ta liese ta mouch height thro yar leages" (he hadn't brought any additional clothing), we start layering. I don a sweatshirt, my rainpants (excuse me... raintrousers), 2 mismatched gloves, and my bright blue beanie. Within seconds I've transformed into the Michelin man which is sad, because up till this point I had looked quite cute.

13:40

We haven't been on a proper trail for nearly 30minutes but we have reached the base of Ben Ime whose summit is hidden by clouds. Beginning to think that this is Alan's idea of a cruel joke. Tripartite girl pact (no girl left behind) is beginning to demonstrate its strength. Walking through bogs (extreme casual water) has me privately reminiscing on the landscapes portrayed by favorite author, John Buchan, in his thrilling novels.

14:45

Alan said the climb up Ben Ime was a gentle slope. Seriously?!! Maybe for a mountain goat.

Stiff wind in our face isn't helping matters much. Girl-pact is doing well, though one of us (I'll just say it was the Scottish one) keeps sitting down. Her husband is pulling her up the hill currently... saves Catherine or I having to do it.

How did Paul get ahead of me... again? He keeps stopping to video us scrambling up this boggy, mud-laden slope... I get past him and then 3 minutes later he is once again above us catching for posterity this very forlorn looking cast of characters (needless to say, Alan is in no way included in this description).

Begin to remember my fear of heights... or more specifically fear of falling down. Not really problematic on the way up. But those who go up are supposed to come down and its going to be a balancing act with the wind at our backs. Alan informs me that I "can't have a helicopter pick me up" so I decide to figure out how I'm going to get back down once I've reached the top.

15:20

While trying to keep my mind off of what its going to be like coming off this mountain or just how much my calves are burning, I start to realize that the first love of my life, Richard Hannay, was not only terribly and understatedly intelligent, courageous, and charming but was also in amazing shape. Buchan had this guy running around these hills -- suffering from bouts of malaria, shot-up appendages, folks trying to kill him, all while trying to save the world-- without missing even a single clue. Hotdiggitydamn...Hannay was one hunk of a ficticious character!

How did Paul get in front of me... again?

15:45

I have climbed to the top of a Munro. Course, I didn't realize that it was the summit until Alan assured me that this was in fact the end of the line (so to speak). Given the cloud cover, we can't see much... but we are above most of the clouds... wow, that wind is blowing them at a amazing pace and I can just catch a peek at the valley and loch below.
This has been really cool. Speaking of cool... its positively freezing up here. Andrew (Mr. I'm Wearing Shorts) is still claiming that he isn't cold. His legs have turned a simultaneous shade of blue and red. I'm starting to think that Alan may not be the "ruler of all that is evil." But maybe I'm just thinking that because I have proven that I have a "moderate-level-of-fitness" (for a mountain goat).

15:50

Catherine and Karin have made it. I point out that while we are standing at 3,317ft, I'm actually higher up than they are... at almost 3,323ft. Before we head down a bit to find a spot slightly more sheltered from the wind, we pose for a shot. What we are thinking... "Is there snot blowing out of our noses?"

From Right Where I Am

It rains in Glasgow. Frequently. Usually it's not really a wet rain... more of a descending dampness. Sometimes though, the grayness opens into a soaking downpour. Then umbrellas open and folks attempt to avoid contact between the respective 'instruments of relative dryness'. In the wind, the concern is centered on keeping the umbrella right side in; a losing battle. As the unreliability of inanimate objects is again demonstrated, sorrowful and annoyed glances appear. Like most days, the rain has emerged victorious.

Maybe this cycle is why I refuse to use an umbrella. I accept the reality of a good soaking in exchange for the chance to be on the winning side of inevitability. I hold my head high as I march past those cowering next to buildings trying to get their inside-out umbrella ready for a second go. I smile at the unfortunate few who left the umbrella at home and now are hunched over, eyes squinting, trying desperately to stay dry.

Or maybe, I can't be bothered to carry an umbrella around when its not raining. Or possibly, I'm cheap and won't spend that 4quid. A few knowledgeable voices would argue that my chronic forgetfulness has impeded the purchase of an essential item. I won't lie, the above all ring true... to a point.

In the end, getting wet isn't that much of an inconvenience, provided of course, that one isn't desperately trying to stay dry. It's relaxing, it's beautiful, and in Glasgow it's inevitable.

Descriptive Statistics

44 days, 28 cups of tea, 14 classes, 13 shortbread cookies, 12 new (crazy) friends, 11 soccer practices, 10 pages of assigned reading, 9 sweaters, 8 loads of laundry, 7 rounds of golf, 6 shots (not inclusive of penalty of two-strokes for ball hitting my person, per rule 19.2b) to exit a St. Andrews fairway bunker, 5 kilograms, 4 attempts to like curry, 3 wrong buses, 2 cartons of goat milk, and 1 really lousy hamburger from Burgher King (moment of infinite weakness) later... I have decided upon my dissertation topic. Isn't that great?

Eden

St. Andrews: cow pastures gone wild...with an amazing view

(and this sorta tingly goosebumpy feeling behind the knees)

If You "Wish They All Could Be..."

Upon arriving at church last evening, one of the greeters informed me that three girls from California had stopped in for the service. Like many of his fellow countrypersons, he labors under the impression that I am acquainted with most of the roughly 36 million people in the state... or at the very least, any Californian lost in Glasgow! After being provided a minute description I scurried upstairs to grab a spot in the non-arthritic- hip pew area... but only after promising to say hello if I saw my fellow Calinationals.

As I assume is traditional Scottish presbytery style, the balcony area forms a thick U which is supported by three walls and numerous dual-purpose support beams (the other being to obscure any view of the speaker for those unfortunate to be seated on the ground floor.) I'm describing this so as to not be accused of twisting around in church... for just across the U, were three girls roughly matching the police-sketch I'd received. In the end, I could have ID them anywhere. Only California girls would ever-so-coolly sip Caramel Macchiatos during a sermon.

Baby Blue

For the two weeks preceding the commencement of school terms, I inevitably recall how much I hate lectures, homework, and the overall structure that academia enjoys. Generally, this feeling absents itself until the time in the semester when all the major essays are due; at which point, I have been known to whip up favorite childhood ailments such as chicken pox or appendicitis to give myself genuine reasons for procrastination. Say what you like about procrastination... it gives the procrastinator a tremendous feeling of accomplishment. After all, it takes persistent dedication to accomplish so little over such a great amount of time.

I digress.

Classes began on Tuesday and I rediscovered that in actuality I am not entirely antagonistic to school. To be sure, it was slightly disturbing when the professor started lecturing on thermal dynamics but in the main, I have managed to find my way to the economics lectures.

In other news:

Golf in Scotland is fantastic though I did have quite the shock last week when two Scotsmen and one Irishman decided that it was "too wet and muddy" to play an afternoon 18. The disillusionment was comparable to discovering that Santa still brings gifts for the "naughty" children as opposed to the promised switch. (It is only when you are older that you discover that Santa is a code word for the World Bank.) As we left the parking lot, a threesome of middle-aged women wearing waterproofs last seen sported by fishermen on some decrepit haddock boat, informed us that "te cauz jist naight pliyaible." Who were we to disagree with such stalwarts of all-weather play?

On Wednesday I sported the 1 in my first proper 11-a-side soccer game. For those of you ignorant of soccer tradition, this is the jersey worn by the starting goalie. Looking back on the match it is difficult to determine which was harder on my ego: giving up a goal in the first 20 seconds of the game,wearing an all baby-blue uniform ( another "privilege" of playing in net is your own unique and ugly outfit), or having to change my shorts on field after my team realized that I had them on backwards!