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.