"One word of truth shall outweigh the whole world."

MOSCOW (AP) -- When Alexander Solzhenitsyn's "One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich" appeared in the thick monthly literary magazine Novy Mir back in November of 1962, taboos were shattered. Buried secrets were unearthed. And the Soviet Union was shaken to its foundations.

Solzhenitsyn's short novel described a single day in the life of a carpenter caught up in the Soviet Union's secret network of slave labor camps, where starvation, bitter cold and punishing work regimes were the rule and, it has been said, the average life expectancy was one winter.

The author was working as a provincial math teacher, and his greatest work, "The Gulag Archipelago," was still to come. But "One Day" was to shock the U.S.S.R. and the world.

Some of the crimes of the dictator Josef Stalin were exposed and denounced following a secret speech by Communist Party leader Nikita Khrushchev in 1956, as part of his short-lived campaign to reform the brutal Soviet system.

But Solzhenitsyn's novel, based on the seven years he spent as a prisoner, was the first real expose of the gulag - a word derived from the Russian "Glavnoe Upravelenie Lagerei," or Main Camp Administration.

Solzhenitsyn, who went on to win the Nobel Prize for Literature but was exiled from his homeland because of his work, died of heart failure Sunday at age 89, his son, Stepan Solzhenitsyn, told The Associated Press on Monday.

The gulag was, Solzhenitsyn wrote, the "human meat grinder" for processing what Stalin sneered at as "wreckers," vermin and "enemies of the people" who allegedly sabotaged Soviet progress to the workers' paradise. The grim process started, typically, with a knock on the door late at night, an arrest on charges of trivial or imaginary crimes, condemnation by a secret tribunal, transportation by unheated rail car and finally incarceration in the camps.

The prisoners formed a secret army of slave laborers who built railroads, worked in mines and cleared forests in some of the world's most inhospitable terrain. In the end, by the most authoritative estimate, the gulag systematically ground down some 29 million souls.

Armed with his literary talent and prodigious memory, Solzhenitsyn (sohl-zheh-NEETS'-ihn) spent more than 40 years working in secrecy, in fear and finally in exile as he chiseled away at the lies that supported the Soviet system. And in the end he, as much perhaps as any individual, helped to bring it down.

To read the rest of this article: http://hosted.ap.org/dynamic/stories/S/SOLZHENITSYN_LIFE_OF_DISSENT?SITE=FLMYR&SECTION=HOME&TEMPLATE=DEFAULT

boyzone are poets

Here's the thing: life, work, and futbol practice can't be taken particularly seriously when accompanied by a "Foreigner" power ballad or a "Take That" uptempo number.

--> (chorus) Yes, yes baby! I'm working the cheesy pop.

Conclusion: I'm in little danger of being taken seriously.

--> (repeat chorus)

yet another instance where a professor did me the favor of crushing my hopes and dreams

Every word that cascades from Rudy's mind is genius, poignant, necessary, illuminated. His heavy Cuban accent makes 66.6667% of these gems unintelligible. This serves to add to the market value of the semitelligible third. Half of this passably understandable talk (or 16.6667% of the whole) occurs during smoking breaks.

Once, during an attempt to prove the seemingly hopeless point that a gal my size could gracefully exit through the same office window that her buck-ten midget-sized nemesis barely squeezed through, his accent was nearly entirely understandable for successive sentences, absent any nicotine inhalation. Standing in the bushes outside the then occupied-by-me window, unlit cigarette hanging loosely from his chops, Rudy decided to quiz us on the implications of paragraph 19 of random scholar's article in the 1969 Economic Geography, spring publication. Specifically in relation to Sam's brilliant analysis, on an entirely unrelated topic, made during class hours earlier. (Apparently, the relevance of an article he read 35 years previously occurred to him somewhere between pulling the cigarette out of his pocket protector and climbing through the bushes to better witness my failing evacuation.)

"Em, Rudy. Due to this particularly awkward position that I find myself currently occupying, (indeed the untrained eye might say that I am technically stuck in this window,) that particular paragraph of that otherwise memorable article has been driven from the functioning portion of my so-called brain. However, I think that... [begin to draw a preliminary outline of a particularly insightful, albeit straightforward logical interpretation on some topic that probably related to incentives.]"

Interruption.

"No, quite sorry. I don't have a light."

So, you can see how I got it into my head that Rudy looked to me as a bright light in the future of economic analysis and theory.

Imagine my horror, shock, and disappointment that after his two crushing exams nary a comment was made regarding the brilliance of my economic analysis and insight. Adding insult, my chicken-scrawled essays were red-penned with statements like: LOL; amusing; maybe you could write for comedy central; you seem bitter- are you married?; somewhat to very creative, though clearly better suited to an anthropology course.

If I ever get around to writing that suicide note, I'll be sure to thank you Rudy.

ice-9 is...

... proof that life is never too late for discovery of the worthwhile books.

my lil' sister kicks ass

Admittedly, she hasn't quite finished her first round in this years nat'l champs of 156 awesome junior chica golferettes. And, admittedly she is facing the hardest (by ranking) hole on the course.

Whatever!

She's tied for 17th... and at one point about an hour ago she was tied for 8th. Which further supports my assertion that she kicks ass.

Like, mine!

3 very good reasons to be thankful

1. Randomly ran into a friend on a train platform during his walk of shame.
2. Softball team winning without my having to get out of bed.
3. Other folks undefeated records.

how things coming before are discussed after

"So you see I already had my breakdown.” I sip my black decaffeinated Fair Trade tea, weakened with milk. When in Scotland it is only seemly to do as the Scots even if it means partially ruining a perfectly good cup of tea. “It bloody well wouldn’t do to have another one. Greedy wouldn’t you say?”

“I’m not sure bloody well is the expression you were searching for.” Reaching across the small coffeehouse table he grasped my hand to his. “At any rate, it’s over. You got out.”

I smile. That hand grab was awfully well played. Rather impossible to count the number of times I’d been told “you got out!” As unoriginal as the sentiment was, hearing it roll off a Scottish tongue was a delightful addition.

“Geez gal! Your hands are freezing.” With the slight raise of the eyebrow he asks a silent permission. I smile and shyly look down as he “warms” my cold paws.

“As to that breakdown of yours,” with a squeeze a bit strong for warming purposes “it sounds like a sanity break. And you have my permission to be as greedy as you like… provided it involves me!” He throws me a smile initially teasing. It softens as he casually asks, “When?”

“A bit over a year ago.”

His gaze rests gently on my face as he begins to trace slow circles over my right palm with his index finger. This holding hands business across the table is a bit conspicuous for me. I don’t stop him; supporting the direction things are presently headed. Hopefully we can move away from the clown car of my past life. I had been different. Broken. That weakness is an embarrassment.

“Don’t be embarrassed.” He says in his low, rich, accented tone. “It’s a bit… heroic.”

“It wasn’t my doing. My friends rescued me.”

“Look at me.” He gently commands. “You are stronger than you let yourself believe.”

His hands tighten over mine as I shake my head in silent disagreement. My mind wanders back. Back to those sleepless nights in the rickety apartment on 3rd St, tears stubbornly absent. I would hold the pillow close and will the tears to flow. My involuntary stoicism left me feeling like a failure. That feeling of being empty. As if I had run out of all goodness, kindness, and love.

His continued chatter interjects itself into my consciousness. Shame on me, I hadn’t heard a word of that last bit. Scotsmen talk whether or not their audience pays mind so I hadn’t exactly been rude.

He looks at me waiting for a response. “I’m sorry. I was a wee bit distracted. Could you say that again? As in the last ten minutes.” My tone is serious, my eyes playful. He thinks I’m kidding. (Success!!!)

“Em’, I was saying that this place is shutting up. Would you like to go to the PGC?”

“The what?”

“PostGrad Club. You know I’m on the board.”

“I’m not a member.”

“Despite what you may have told me!?!”

I giggle slightly. “You won’t be forgetting that?”

“It’s rather etched into my mind. Associated as it is with how you looked in that lovely undergarment.” His deliberate gaze shifts down from my eyes for a long second.

“And you claimed to remember something other than my cleavage!” mock indignation fools no one.

He wraps his arm around my waist and pulls me close as we wait for the light to turn. “Oh, I remember everything,” he says. “Your voice, your face, your smile. Your smile when you said you were a member of the club.” He pauses, smelling my hair. “How you left without saying goodbye. And how your elfish friend flashed me your boobs. Repeatedly.”

“Do you remember the part nine days ago when she didn’t give me time to get my goodnight kiss?”

“You want to lay all of that at her door?” referring ever so gingerly to my propensity for mixed signals.

“No.” I admit with a smile. “I just want you to rectify the situation.”

We silently cross the intersection. As we step onto the far curb I snicker slightly.

“See, ‘rectify the situation’ is subtle for…”

He doesn’t let me finish. I should be expressing mock indignation at this flamboyant interruption with bonus back-dip. Instead I open my mouth, slightly. With a smile.

“What ye be grinning at?”

I arch my eyebrow in that irresistible way. “You really should rectify the situation again.”

anonymous shame is a highly effective instructional resource

Half six in the morning

"It makes quite a statement. This could... this has..." I leave the thought hanging and contemplate uses of the $2500 first prize. With the haze of the unslept fogging my brain, I mercilessly read over the essay again. My inner voice finds the proper tonal pitch to convey the urgency embedded in sentences laboriously composed throughout the last 16hrs. "If I'm being completely honest about this," I say to the cat curled up on the arm of the loveseat, "perfectly honest; well, I've done quite a good job. Not a masterpiece, of course. Not bloody Keats." With a contented chuckle I realize that never having read Keats, presumably it might be on par... or better. With that pleasant thought and a look at the clock I find my way upstairs to bed after an approximately 37 hour absence.

"Not bad -- no masterpiece -- impressive really." I mumble this repeatedly until passing out.

Waiting patiently in my inbox following afternoon

"Bad," she writes. "Not good. Takes the reader three pages to figure out your point. By then not enough time to develop point. Structure all wrong. Advise to start again."

I'm shocked. She's wrong. As a compromise, a few aesthetic changes are made. Recommended alterations ignored. Moment of hesitancy before pressing SUBMIT NOW button.

Conversation months later where, mistakenly, I believe that I'll be haven' the last laugh

"Admittedly, you did have a point. Still, it wasn't that bad. It got an honorable mention and a few hundred bucks."

She smiles. "No, I was wrong." A sideways glance and a very pregnant pause. "My comments were much too kind. Much less deserving than I noticed on first read."

Confusion passes over my face. First read? She read that slapt-together paper more than once?

Her smile widens to its distinctive fearsome width. "Oh, yes. I removed your name, of course. By mid-term we had all edited it numerous times. It was less coherent under the hood than it first appeared. Excellent sample of what an academic paper should not look like. "

"And by we all...?"

By "we all" she means the required upper-division GE econ writing class of 40+ students.

a kiss through the bars of Orion

A friend sent me an email today that left my heart glad. In it she included a few candid photos taken over past months. They served to remind me of her beauty, passion, and soul. Perhaps I lovingly misplace these truths in her smile. She walked me through what was to be seen and I believe now to know her. Knowing her, how can I see anything less than this quiet wisdom; the capacity to listen, love, lose, and find the worthwhile in life?

My dear, I miss you too.

the ride

I keep a spoon in the freezer, eat lemon curd to get high, forget names that might be better unforgotten, cry till laughter chokes up the tears, and pound keys on a piano poorly. And sometimes, I recall what sensai O'Shea taught me ages ago... ^#*@, it doesn't matter.

He was so right.

admission...

... I traveled to work via Metro this AM in my jammies.

That, or I slept last night in my clothes.

looking left and leaving

Heartbreak, feel free to mock me. And in turn, let's pretend that you were a two season blessing and not a regular curse. Everything else can remain as it is, as it was. I won't ask for any other lie. I'll own to what I did, what I didn't do.

Waking up next to you in the morning, I did not know how hard that would be. Held tightly by your numerous, merciless tentacles, you stole the day's breath from me. By choice, I believed in the logic of you. The unconquered fear. The words, dearer a girl cannot say, that pounded against your soundless ears he should have heard. With the scent of his leather jacket tantalizing my brain, I left blank-faced and cold. You provided the pain, friends the tequila and the cold chased itself away.

Had I shed my armour and shown my heart he would have melted. For me. But never had I surrendered anything like my heart. Never made myself so vulnerable or so strong. Never asked myself to change.

Heartbreak, feel free to mock me. You know better than any the extent of my folly, my foolishness, my excuses, my doldrums, my depressions, my frightened unbelief. Mock me as you will and know that I hate you.

the limits of bitter & sweet

You are submerged in the mass of freedom, and you push and shove with the others in the station waiting room. You absent-mindedly examine announcements posted there, even though they can hardly have any relevance for you. You sit on the ancient passenger benches, and you hear strange and insignificant conversations: about some husband who beats up his wife or has left her; and some mother-in-law who, for some reason, does not get along with her daughter-in-law; how neighbors in communal apartments make personal use of the electric outlets in the corridor and don't wipe their feet; and how someone is in someone else's way at the office; and how someone has been offered a good job but can't make up his mind to move -- how can he move bag and baggage, is that so easy? You listen to all this, and the goose pimples of rejection run up and down your spine: to you the true measure of things in the Universe is so clear! The measure of all weaknesses and all passions! And these sinners aren't fated to perceive it. The only one there who is alive, truly alive, is incorporeal you, and all these others are simply mistaken in thinking themselves alive.

And an unbridgeable chasm divides you! You cannot cry out to them, nor weep over them, nor shake them by the shoulder: after all, you are a disembodied spirit, you are a ghost, and they are material bodies.

And how can you bring it home to them? By an inspiration? By a vision? A dream? Brothers! People! Why has life been given you? In the deep, deaf stillness of midnight, the doors of the death cells are being swung open -- and great-souled people are being dragged out to be shot. On all the railroads of the country this very minute, right now, people who have just been fed salt herring are licking their dry lips with bitter tongues. They dream of the happiness of stretching one's legs and of the relief one feels after going to the toilet. In Orotukan the earth thaws only in summer and only to the depth of three feet -- and only then can they bury the bones of those who died during the winter. And you have the right to arrange your own life under the blue sky and the hot sun, to get a drink of water, to stretch, to travel wherever you like without a convoy. So what's this about unwiped feet? And what's this about a mother-in-law? What about the main thing in life, all its riddles? If you want, I'll spell it out for you right now. Do not pursue what is illusory -- property and position: all that is gained at the expense of your nerves decade after decade, and is confiscated in one fell night. Live with a steady superiority over life -- don't be afraid of misfortune, and do not yearn after happiness; it is, after all, all the same: the bitter doesn't last forever, and the sweet never fills the cup to overflowing. It is enough if you don't freeze in the cold and if thirst and hunger don't claw at your insides. If your back isn't broken, if your feet can walk, if both arms can bend, if both eyes see, and if both ears hear, then whom should you envy? And why? Our envy of others devours us most of all. Rub your eyes and purify your heart -- and prize above all else in the world those who love you and who wish you well. Do not hurt them or scold them, and never part from any of them in anger; after all, you simply do not know: it might be your last act before your arrest, and that will be how you are imprinted in their memory!

A. Solzhenitsyn

from a recent conversation

There exists a place of luscious, unimaginable abundance. A warm spring hidden in the cold of northern extremes. A canyon rift perilous to enter, treacherous to escape. An Eden shorn of life’s breath. A valley of death, disfigured in perfection.

In chorus, old wives and aged warriors insist that the Sick Heart is a curse, that it is death. They know of its beauty, its danger. “Stay clear,” they warn. "Join us, the masses, and choose the path far from it."

But the passionate feel what they know not, do what they ought not, become what they can not. They search with single purpose that must bare the lonely beauty of death's river to their hungry eye. They will find their heart's desire. And wish themselves away.

deep thinking hurts

One of the downsides to employment (other than being instantly un-dateable) is the probability that one's hardhearted employer doesn't shout "Hey everyone -- gather round. In recognition of some really really supposedly hard work, lets take the summer off. What do you say?!?"

Followed by energetic high-fives all around, of course.

a mime in gold paint makes this song work

People all get ready'
Cos we're tearing down the stand
Rebuild what's gone unsteady
And see it through with newer hands
And what has gone between us
Is a lot, is a lot
And who'll be there to clean us
When you're not, when you're not

People all get ready'
Cos we're breaking down again
Rebuild what's gone unsteady
And see it through with wiser hands
And what has gone before us
Is a lot, is a lot
And who'll be there to ignore us
When you're not, when you're not

We have all the time in the world
To get it right, to get it right
We have all the love in the world
To set alight, to set alight

People all get ready'
Cos we're breaking down the band
Rewrite what's gone already
And see it through with angry hands
And what has gone before us
Is a lot, is a lot
And who'll be there to ignore us
When you're not, when you're not

And we have all the time in the world
To get it right, to get it right
And we have all the love in the world
To set alight, to set alight
Just look up, just look up

a secret that I’m divulging to no one in particular

I want to play golf again.

I mean, I would like to hit golf balls and see what happens. Maybe.

It depends.

something wise someone wise once told me

Yes, I think that caring for loved ones trumps public service and 'changing the world' – and I believe that until recently only men made these kinds of foolish mistakes.

another post about food

I didn’t enjoy living in Washington DC – the area, but I like living in Washington DC – the city. It’s nice because one can get most places either by walking for a few minutes or taking the Metro or both. My apartment is 2 ½ blocks from the local library and the local library is directly across the street from Vace, the Italian deli with the best pizza in DC.* Can you guess how many visits to the library conveniently turn into “well since I’m practically there, might as well get a slice”?!?**

It's a good thing I have to walk at least as far as the Metro everyday, otherwise I’d be horribly fat from all that delicious deliciousness! Sometimes, I even make up things to do just so that I have to walk to do them. For example, this coming Saturday I'm going to walk the 5 blocks to the zoo, and not because I enjoy gawking at overfed animals. Indeed, the thought of all this strenuous exercise is almost as fat-burning as actually doing it. Almost! At any rate, my plan is to go early in the day and then, on the walk back, stop at Vace for a slice.

* Stated more accurately: "the Italian deli with the best pizza I've had in DC."

**In case you were wondering, the answer is YES; I moved to my current neighborhood and sold my car because I wanted to live near the pizza place. In my defense, they also sell freshly made pasta and incredibly tasty gelato. So I didn’t move just for pizza. Really!!!

my day, starring me

I unfortunately have both strep throat and a job. This unpleasant coincidence meant that I left the office shortly upon arrival and worked the rest of the day from home. The arrangement worked well for everyone. I could hop in a cold shower every time my fever spiked... and my coworkers weren't reminded that I had totally exposed them to nasty germs all last week. (In my defense, I didn't know! Well, I knew that I felt like crap... but we had a uber-big project, so it didn't pay to find out just how crappy.) Point being, they were happy to see me leave today, despite the VP assuring them that I was no longer very contagious.

I exaggerate my pariah status slightly. See, someone had to be at the office at 7am today and I was the lucky volunteer. I figured strep or not, that no one was going to be too thrilled to finish off their three-day weekend with an early arrival at work. And yes, they were all quite happy that I hadn't passed off the joy to them.

And now, having completed the perilous journey to the Italian deli, I gelato into a pleasant feverish coma and bid all farewell.

running forward

There is a story in my head. Reasonable, excusable, tough as nails. I'm proud of this story in my head. I'm happy with this story. How compelling yet unchallenging it always remains. Why would I want it to be true? Truth defeats the entire point.

I wish more of it were true. Because then, maybe, I'd be able to pretend a little longer. Maybe then it would be ok. Maybe then I wouldn't notice my choice. Just a little while more. In a second. In a minute. In a sometime else.

So, story in my head, you said what you had to. You did what you had to. Now leave.

its paint your man-hole day

Crystal City, you sure are the class act of sidewalk maintenance.

well put

"The only lesson to be drawn from utopian dreaming is that all utopias are
hells. All attempts to design society by reference to one narrow conception
of human nature, whether on paper or in the streets, end in producing
something much worse."
Matt Ridley in Nature via Nurture

a la mode

The moment I realize that my pecuniary challenges are friendlier than believed: When a credit card listing my name escapes its leather binds and disposes $600 into the Annapolis economy.

The moment I realize that I have pleasantly arrived at the dreaded pasturelands of paupery: 120 seconds later.

aren't i clever

I think a clock radio would be a nice addition to my few square feet of daytime reign. Not only would a second alarm clock serve the useful purpose of irritating my neighbors, a radio would allow me to listen to NPR to my hearts content.

NPR is a truly wonderful and addictive thing. 1) You feel so much smarter just listening to it, regardless of whether you understand or are paying attention; 2) unlike C-SPAN you actually can pay attention on occasion; 3) working "I heard a very interesting story this morning on NPR" into any conversation immediately lets everyone know that you are smart. Or fierce. Or a douche.

At least I don't have the tote yet!

playing behind

My dad can't find a punchline. He gets lost so fast in a knock-knock joke that you'd think he was driving through Northern Virginia. Speaking of which, in the time it takes to fly from California to NOVA, board your moon-ship of pedestrian blight at Dulles, and beam back to 1995, it might occur to you that OJ and OJ who? belong between "knock-knock" and "you're on the jury!"

And as you'll realize sometime in the next six words, this sort of thing is inheritable.

confession to a pint glass

We called him 'Biceps' because he had big biceps. We knew this because he had us feel them. And because we had pretended to forget his name.

Near the end of the time spent with good food, un-witty banter, bicep-feeling, and unsuccessful sailor spotting, Rachel had gone off to snag us a table at the after-hours cafe. Meaning: make a private call. In the freedom of relative anonymity, speaking to no one in particular, though presumably to Biceps, “you know I hate ...”

I pause to swallow the medium-amber, pretending it’s a Fat Tire. I have verbalized the forbidden feeling, truth. “Well not hate, but dislike. Dislike that I did well enough on that stupid test, that stupid LSAT, that effn’ law school happened. It’s stupid. That place should burn in one thousand and ninety-six fires.”

A moment of silence. My barstool confession lacks luster and is patently unimpressive. A pretty white girl comfortable enough in life’s amenities, bemoaning fate’s cruel play. The fate that will satiate her with dark wood paneling , fly her first class, install granite countertops in a spacious kitchen, afford luxury vehicles, bring Mediterranean vacations on client yachts. “What sympathy can she, can I expect” I ask to no one in particular, though presumably to the bottom-third of the pint of what I want to be Fat Tire.

I pay up, walk beside the cobbled street, and sit at the table in the café window. Rachel has a pot of tea and a second mug waiting. Sipping hot normalcy, I nearly tell her that I’m absurd. But I don’t. Instead, I say something about sailors. She laughs. The nagging absurdity of me begins to drift away, soon buried in sands of thoughtlessness.

Pretending to tease she asks, “What was that?” Her smirk fails to hide the earnestness.

The words wait an unnatural second. “Nothing,” I murmur. “Just silliness. And sadness.”

dead blogs tell no tales

"My phone won't let me text. Sometimes it decides not to ring when someone is calling. It doesn't even tell me if I missed a call."

I pause. The phone's disabilities embarrass me. Hearing myself, I realize that the description sounds vaguely similar to"there is a monster under my bed. It won't let me get up in the morning. It also ate my homework." I'm embarrassed by me.

Madge, the surly Verizon tech support person, finds me ridiculous. Interspersed between her futile attempts to exorcise the mobile terror are unoriginal wails of "ugh! It just froze again... did I mention [insert previously unmentioned complaint]." Madge is determined. Determined to stop the pathetic whining. It took me three months to get frustrated enough to call tech support; Madge is beside herself in fifteen minutes, perseveres, and eventually emerges triumphant.

A friend conspiratorially whispers, "don't tell your Mom. Don't tell anyone."

I vigorously nod my agreement. This story goes no further. The secret is safe. A reader-less neglected blog tells no tales.

Ironically, it was a picture-message of my thigh that froze the phone. Just wasn't enough memory for something that size.

Spark Tips

10 ways to figure out if you are a 1L at GMUSL (in case you are in doubt).

1. I say black -- you say dictionary
2. Speed (hump) signs make you giggle
3. Your significant other says "I love you" (for the first time) & you ask them to repeat the question
4. You found 22 "good" letters in the alphabet (hint: L,R,W, & A aren't included)
5. Affirming remarks from a professor are a triple-shot of espresso for thy self-esteem
6. Drunken sailors & haunted houses are the highlight of a week
7. Dune buggies should cease to exist
8. Last friday night/saturday morning you unwisely & inadvertently mumbled something about promissory estoppel to your date
9. You realize that some multiple-choice exams may require 33 essay answers
10. You aren't sure what a tort is -- but you know Ybarra is wrong

*New Classes* Spring Session 2008

ADMN 069 4units Prof. IE
Immigration and Passport Compliance

ARC 210 3 units Prof. AJ
Unearthing the Past: Digging up Private Information in an Electronic Era

FASH 212 3 units Prof. NN
Intro to High Fashion w/ royal Obsessional Clothing Descriptions

FASH 308 3 units Prof. AJ
Maritime Fashion: Navy, Merchant Marine, & Commercial

FASH/ECON 461 4 units Profs. SS & TT
Shopping on the Margin: the Marginal Analysis of Fabulous

KAN 113 2 units Profs. AJ & NN
All Things Canadia: A Succinct Synthesis of Why Canada is Superior

INABTPGITB 313 6 units Prof. TT *graduate course*
Intellectual Property Rights & the Dibs System

INABTPGITB 327 6 units Prof. AJ & TT *graduate course*
Motorcycles and Speed Limits: Is Twenty Plenty?

Saturday Workshops: Limited Space

*Library Research Prof. SS

*Basics to Stunning Touristry Prof. NN

*Word and Whiskey guest lecturer D. McD

*Tweed and Aviators guest lecturer D. McD

billable words

"The water was impacted by his rod, whereupon a polluting effect was achieved. The consequent toxification reduced the conditions necessary for the sustenance of the indigenous population of aquatic vertebrates below the level of viability. Olfactory discomfort standards were substantially exceeded, and potability declined. Social, economic, and political disorientation were experienced to an unprecedented degree."

Exodus7:20-21 New Law Student Translation

El pollo peanuts

Caddycorner to Dudley Morehead Hall is a slimey, cramped, greasy student eatery. The food is cheap, the beer cheaper, and ketchup is abundantly available. The french toast may kill you --- but what doesn't kill you will probably kill you eventually (it takes more than one visit to this fab spot to irrevocably clog those arteries). And for $3.15, this anytime breakfast is a much cheaper silent killer than cigarettes. [For non-SJSU econ readers, the name of this lovely idyllic spot is Peanuts.]

For SJSU alums there is something about Peanuts that sheds an aura of insurpassibility. In light of this, the following is clearly heretical and treacherous and should in fairness be treated as such.

But...

The fact is that Peanuts has been surpassed. Caddycorner to Hazel Hall is a clean, open, bustling, charbroiled chickenry. 1/4 lb of utterly delicious chicken (choice of white or dark meat) for $4. And if you go easy on the coleslaw & fries your arteries will need to look elsewhere for clogging.

In short, El Pollo Rico totally rAwks...by comparison, everything else is just peanuts.

1 liners anony

The credits for tonight's Emmys just flashed by and somewhere after director and and key grip there was overall smarty pants. No joke! Its just peachy that people like me are finally getting a wee bit of recognition for all our effort.

Note: I only turned on the Emmys after finishing up my assignment for legal writing. And you thought that I was the stereotypical procrastinating grad student. Goes to show what you know! (Oh, Shoot! Just remembered that I have 50 pages of reading for Torts tomorrow. Actually, I am joking... I've known all day that I had to read those pages.)

elevator troubles

Riding in an elevator is a simple enough task. If you want to go up you push the up arrow, to go down the down arrow. True, some individuals are genuinely convinced that if you want to go up you should push the down button since you want the elevator to come down to you. But aside from this tiny fragment of the population, humans seem to understand that the elevator process is beyond relatively simple. Which makes me wonder why, at least once a day, I feel obliged to push the 5 button when I get in at the 5th floor... or in some cases the L button when I just walked in from the lobby. One time would be funny but this daily ritual is worrying... primarily because it is becoming a ritual. (Fast forward 40 years and I may not even notice that the elevator car isn't moving.)

Reasonable explanations for this mindless behaviour are nonexistent. But if a conclusion needs to be drawn it would be this: I can kiss goodbye any shot at a spot in the hormonally-charged GA elevator

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.]