Three strikes and you're out...of the gene pool

Oh, I wish.

Last night I accompanied Eli to wing night, which takes place every Wed. at the local Buffalo's (a mediocre, ostensibly Tex-Mex restaurant that also serves a variety of chicken wings). I used to go ea. wk. to these gatherings, but I quickly realized I dislike most of the ppl. there -- inc. those in our group -- and I hate the food even more, so I have significantly reduced my appearances. Fr. what I hear, the wings are quite good, but that does me no good. Everythg. I have sampled tastes like what I imagine would be the flavor of particle board with a texture to match. Point is, wing night holds few attractions for me and I have repeatedly failed to convince the few ppl. I do like who attend the wkly. ritual to change it to Mexican night.

And in case I needed that little extra push to convince me never again to return, I saw a woman last night who is a) a prime example of the sort of person who frequents this establishment, and b) also a prime example of the trash holes that populate this town. Observe:

1) When we pulled into the parking lot, I saw an unusually well-dressed pregnant woman (the phrase "barefoot and pregnant" originated in this region for a reason) walking toward the door and was slightly encouraged. I was quickly reminded that all hope is futile in this place when I passed said Pregnant woman Smoking w/a bunch of hillbillies just outside the entrance.
2) I was further unimpressed when it was brought to my attn. that this woman was attending a poker tournament being held in the restaurant, with her toddler in tow. I have nothing against responsible adults playing some poker if it strikes their fancy (I AM friends w/Eamonn, Chris, and Joe, for Heaven's sake), but I DO have a problem w/ppl. taking their small, developing children to an environment conducive to vulgarity, excess, and sometimes violence.
3) The superfluous icing on the cake was when the woman allowed her child to toddle about the restaurant unattended while mommy dearest picked at the leftovers that had not yet been cleared fr. a table in our section of the restaurant. It is important to note that the poker area was separate fr. our area, which means that she likely did not even know the ppl. who so generously provided her snack. Before I could fully appreciate her commitment to helping end American dietary wastefulness, I noticed her young child pick smthg. up fr. the floor. The child clenched it in her fist for a few moments, waiting for her mother to come admire her treasure. Now, I do not have kids and I certainly do not profess to be a child-rearing expert, but I know a few of the basics. Like, for example, don't let your kids eat shit off the floor, esp. in a public place. This lady -- and I use that term V. loosely -- examined the contents of her young one's outstretched palm and said, "That's candy. You put it in your mouth."

Oh, madam, if only YOU had simply put it in your mouth rather than following through with the whole procreationary act. Twice (that I know of).


Also, I had a FANTASTIC trip to Oregon to see Brianna and I will be posting pics and captions next wk. when Eli and I get back fr. Charleston. Highlights include: big trees, a crazy dog, and raccoon patty-cake. Yes, that's right.

And since I am abt. six yrs. behind in reading everyone else's blog due to the untimely death of my harddrive in June, I only just discovered this little gem on Daniel's blog: a website that generates your surprisingly comical obituary! Using my nickname, I got, "Evilly skulking around the neighborhood, jules died laughing hysterically. Jules will be terribly missed by the Lollypop Kids." This seems spot on to me, what with the reference to my evil-ness, my tendency to wander absently, my frequent laughter, AND my diminutive stature. The one that used my full name reminds me of how Brianna used to say I would end up like Blanche on Golden Girls when we got old (and it also references my evil-ness!). heh.

'What will your obituary say?' at QuizGalaxy.com

Lighter News

This isn't totally bizarre, given the Japanese people's reputation as Ameriphiles when it comes to thgs. related to fashion, celebrities, and music, but it made me chuckle nonetheless:

http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/asia-pacific/5038686.stm

I esp. enjoyed his personally selected collection of Elvis hits that sold millions of copies over there. Judging by the pictures, it seems that Mr. Koizumi is channeling a bit of Elvis via his v. un-politician-like hair. Now if he would only flop it over w/a side part and use a bit of pomade...

Israel and the Bush Administration: Tied for First

Well, they would be tied for first if there were a contest for WORST FOREIGN POLICY DECISIONS IN RECENT HISTORY.

I don't have time to go into a full-blown rant, as the wonders of Organic Chem await me before I turn in for the night, but I would like to address two thgs.:
1) Approximately 30 mins. ago, Israel allegedly entered Northern Gaza (addendum: in fact, they have massed troops on the border, but have not yet actually entered). This incursion compounds their recent insertion of troops into Southern Gaza, their numerous air assaults on the area over the past few weeks (which have done little more than miss the intended targets and kill innocent women and children), and their unequivocally aggressive rhetoric. Further, they have "arrested" several leading Palestinian politicians and are openly discussing assassinations (though not of the figures currently in their custody -- at least not yet)

I never thought I would see the day where I was defending Palestine beyond the perfunctory well-there-are-two-sides-to-every-story, but recent events and actions taken by Israel against the Palestinian territory have made it nearly impossible for me to do otherwise. I recognize that Palestinian militants, both with and without the support of their government, have fired rockets and mortars at their Israeli neighbors, as well as dispatched suicide bombers in crowded, public areas. I recognize that a Hamas-led government represents a serious concern for Israeli national security, and the fact that it was democratically elected by the Palestinian ppl. only makes it more so. I recognize that Israel and Palestine continue to be engaged in a decades-long struggle, and that such protracted conflict breeds paranoia, aggression, and offensive defense.

But, really.

Israel's actions of late, coupled now w/what is looking increasingly like a prelude to open warfare, are baffling in their extremity and perhaps reveal the extent to which the untimely exit of Ariel Sharon has left that country's government somewhat adrift. Fending off rabid conservatives -- including growing numbers of fascist-like nationalists -- the moderate party formed by Sharon and carried on by his successor, Olmert, appears now to be overcompensating for their "liberal" decision to completely withdraw fr. the occupied territories last yr. Israel has a strong tradition of militarism -- rightfully so, some would say, given the history of violence perpetrated against them -- so troop movements, missile strikes, and violent speech are not actually that unusual. However, it is the scale and the pace of this most recent escalation that I find most unnerving, to say nothg. of Israel's wanton disregard for the safety of non-combatants and their apparent willingness to ignore the destabilizing impact their behavior could have on the entire region, not just within their borders. To continue goading the Palestinian government, militias, and ppl. is v. likely to precipitate a wider conflict. I cannot fathom why at this delicate moment in time -- given Iran's nuclear goals, the horrific situation in Iraq and its security implications for the entire Middle East region, and the ever-present latent ill-will harbored against Israel by its neighbors -- I simply cannot understand why Israel would choose to ramp up the violence and the threats.

This is not the time for bravado and machismo. And when GW says he thinks you're handling the situation well, then you should really consider re-thinking your current course of action. (Mr. President and his administration of toadies recently said that they fully support Israel. Well of course they do -- Israel is the only country in the world doing thgs. that are possibly more dangerous and stupid than what we've done in Iraq. One further addendum: State Dept. officials -- inc. Conestoga -- are urging caution and diplomacy, but a spokesman for Pres. Bush yesterday stated that Israel is entitled to defend itself against terrorism, apparently by fanning the flames of a long-burning and dangerous fire.)

2) Don Gagner, a correspondent for National Public Radio w/the White House Press Corps recently accompanied Pres. Bush on his visit to Europe where he met w/the leaders of Britain, France, and other members of the G-8 who will be gathering soon for their annual meeting. Mr. Gagner summarized this warm-up for the big show by saying, "These summits usually reflect whatever crisis is facing the world today, and this yr. that crisis is certainly Iraq."

There is nothg. especially surprising abt. that statement, but there is smthg. exceptionally annoying abt. it. I find it irritating that the time and resources of some of the world's greatest powers are being focused on the "crisis" of Iraq. What abt. the crisis of the AIDS epidemic? What abt. the crisis of the staggering rate of poverty and its attendant maladies throughout the world? What abt. the REAL human rights crisis that is going on in Sudan, or the REAL terrorist threat taking shape in Somalia, where militant Islamists w/confirmed connections to Al Qaeda are gaining ground each day? These last two crises should stand in sharp relief to the fabrications, embellishments, and mishaps related to Iraq over the last three and a half yrs. (Addendum 3: I so win, but in this case, I wish I hadn't. Islamist militants today announced that they have taken total control of Somalia. While this claim is somewhat debateable, it *is* irrefutable that their power is growing and that last wk. they established as their new leader an ultra-conservative sheik believed to have ties to al Qaeda.)

It bugs the absolute piss out of me that the leaders of the "free and enlightened" world are spending so much time, money, and energy on a crisis of their own making. Okay, well, not all of the countries in the E.U. were or are involved in the war in Iraq, but by focusing on this problem to the detriment of issues that are just as -- if not more -- important, even those who are not actively part of the Coalition Forces are lending credence and legitimacy to what is ultimately not a legitimate war. I understand fully and personally the importance of this conflict and its political, economic, and security implications. But what kills my soul is that a war that should never have been started in the first place is now taking precedence over issues that have long deserved more attention than they have received, and that will continue to take a back seat to the wastefulness that is the war in Iraq and the ridiculousness that is the Bush administration and its agenda.

I have some funny stories to share next time I write, but I would probably not have gotten to sleep w/o venting a bit beforehand -- I guess that's what I get for reading the news right before bedtime.

Quote of the Day:

"That crap was so boring." -- Elise, on her high school religion class

Oh, my holy Jesus.

Listen to the intro theme song and don't even bother trying to correct all of the spelling and grammatical mistakes on her "At A Glance" section.

All I can say is, she's NOT originally fr. Georgia. Neither myself nor other sensible Georgians asked for this woman to move here and expose us all to public ridicule.

Thank you, Angela, for making it even harder to tell ppl. we are fr. the state of GA w/o grimacing.

http://www.angelasos06.com/vote4-angela.htm

Quote of the Day:
Chester, my stepdad, on dually pickup trucks: I don't know why ppl. like those trucks. It's like: "Ew -- look at the huge rear end on that thing!"

Laughing so hard...

Quotes of the Week (thus far):

Nan, upon my return fr. lunch w/SDG at the State Department: So, did you see...what's her name -- Conestoga??

(While I did not see her wagonship, Ms. Condoleezza Rice, I am highly amused every time I think on Nan's [purposeful] misnomer.)

Nick, while saute-ing various ingredients for dinner tonight on Susan's gas stove: Huh. Well, I'm surprised that didn't catch on fire.

Hahaha... Lots of funny thgs. happening this wk., but I need to get out of my wet clothes and shower so that I will be awake tomorrow when Susan and Nick show up to make me bkfst. Having an excellent vacation.... And congratulations to my Daddy for passing his NCLEX (R.N. licensing exam) on the first try! Told you he was brilliant.

One further high point: Discovering on Susan's refrigerator a card I sent her more than a yr. ago, the contents of which were quite sentimental and I am glad she has apparently not yet been sickened by them. Also, Nan had every post card I sent her fr. overseas on her refrigerator. It's silly, but these thgs. make me feel special.

11 states in 48 hours: A travelogue in prose

Probably not so exciting as that song by The Nails, "88 Lines About 44 Women" ('Julie came and went so fast/She didn't even say goodbye!'), but my cross-country trip was quite an adventure nonetheless.

The great states of Georgia, Tennessee, Kentucky, Illinois, Missouri, Kansas, and Colorado as far as Denver (approx. 1700 mi.) were packed into 26 non-stop hrs. Oh, and I forgot to mention that me, Steve, and all of his worldly possessions were packed into a 24-ft. moving truck w/his car being towed behind. When we first fabricated this plan, I considered for only the briefest moment that the truck might just be too big for me to drive, but I quickly discarded that idea in favor of the delusion that I can do anythg. When Steve brought the truck home and proceeded to knock over the mailbox backing it into the driveway, I began to revisit my initial reservations. After all, Steve has driven large trucks before and his backing-up skillz are second to none (though perhaps tied w/Eli's), so if even he couldn't drive the truck w/o incident, I was fairly certain that there was no hope for me. Plus, it was raining. Plus, Steve loves his car more than he loves, well, anythg. else in his life, so if anythg. were to happen while I was driving to damage the car, all I could do was hope that it was an event of enough magnitude to take me out, too. So no pressure.

In the end, I did not actually drive the truck that much (maybe eight hrs. of the entire trip), but I was sufficiently unnerved by the prospect when I first took the wheel that I was instantly able to overcome the bone-crushing fatigue that comes only when one has been awake for nearly 24 hrs. after spending the entire wk. before foregoing sleep in favor of studying for finals. I feel comfortable giving myself the title of best road trip partner ever -- and I'm pretty sure I could get a second and a third on that nomination -- b/c I am one of those ppl. who doesn't like to sleep when the other person is driving b/c I feel like they need as much entertainment as possible, esp. if you're driving overnight and they're tired. Additionally, I can read aloud for a long time w/o losing my voice, I do silly dances and sing at excessive volumes, and can occasionally hold an interesting, protracted conversation. (This is true unless you're Eli. For some reason, I always fall asleep when I'm driving w/poor Eli. Let's be nice and say it's b/c I feel safest w/him.) This is nice of me, but in this case it meant that by the time we reached CO, where I was to spend two nights w/my grandparents and my aunt, I was nearly delirious fr. lack of sleep.

Apparently the two and a half hrs. I had during the drive were not quite enough: Not only was I no more than technically conscious, I made a v. inappropriate joke at the dinner table that still makes me look at the floor when I think of it. I won't repeat it, but let's just say it involved my grandmother's Bible study grp., my granddad, and fellatio. Actually, it would have been quite funny had it not involved my granddad. Yes, there go my eyes sliding downward in embarrassment at the memory. Oh, and before we move away fr. the subject of my granddad, I apparently inherited my naughty side honestly. Ever since Pop-Pop had a stroke a few yrs. ago, it's as if his internal censor has been officially switched off. The man is positively dur-tee, but absolutely hilarious. I encourage anyone w/an interest in skiing, snow, Johnny Cash (Pop-Pop watches "Walk the Line" at least once a week), and/or dirty jokes to come out to CO w/me for Christmas so that you can be part of the hilarity. Need further incentives? My grandmother is a really good cook/interior decorator and my aunt and her husband are really funny, too, albeit in a more wholesome way. Although, they both laughed really hard at my awful joke, so maybe they're not so innocent as I would wish to believe. Anyhow, point is, my family is awesome and I want to share the slightly twisted joy. So come on over for Christmas -- they have a lot of room.

Woke up dark and early two mornings later and drove abt. 4.5 hrs. to the western edge of CO to link back up w/my convoy (our friends Tess and Randy were w/us, too, on their way out to see Tess's family), then drove through Utah and Arizona before arriving nine hrs. (and approx. 760 mi.) later in fabulous Las Vegas, Nevada, for another two-night interlude. The highlight of this portion of the trip was unquestionably the water-based acrobatic dance show "Le Reve". I won't waste our time attempting to articulate it, but if you ever go to Vegas, it is worth the money. Absolutely stunning. Other events of note included Steven winning $500 at the blackjack table (!!) and some fat guy driving into the giant rental truck (oh, I am so sadly serious) and then having the gall to insist that we ran into him. A good time was had by all, but I really need to go back to Vegas w/Jennifer or Sarah or Ben and Jon (or any combination thereof). My last two visits have taught me that it's really the sort of place I should go w/only certain ppl., ppl. who would get a kick out of spending a few days eating good food, having a few drinks, and watching all of the crazy ppl., but who are also able to recognize the sheer ridiculousness of the whole place and therefore don't buy into what is essentially a superficial denizen of waste. The instant you allow yourself to be impressed by Vegas w/o also realizing that it is quite possibly the worst thg. ever to happen to the human race, it's over.

The final leg of the cross-country extravaganza involved a mere three hrs. fr. Las Vegas to Barstow, CA, where I was met by Marion, the best flatmate ever, and Steve and I parted ways as he continued his journey home. This farewell was pretty much what I thought it would be: abbreviated, light, and unable to do justice to the end of a four-year-long chapter in a relationship that best characterized as inconsistent. In fact, I was left wishing it was possible for me to have somehow ended the trip w/the drive fr. CO to Las Vegas. The 36 hrs. that Steve and I spent in that truck before Vegas were the most enjoyable of the roughly 35,000 hrs. we have known each other, at least in my opinion. We did not bicker. We talked abt. more thgs. than we had covered in the four previous yrs. together. We seemed to have, at the last possible moment, called a truce. It was one of those times where you are all too aware of its limited, finite nature, but you can't help wishing it would never change. You pay more attn. to details like the color of the sky or the shape of the landscape around you or the time when the other person finished your sentence b/c it was the first time he had thought deeply abt. anythg. you have said (even if what you said was smthg. you read fr. someone else's book).

That was where I wanted the trip to end, w/our pre-Vegas drive and a semblance of normalcy and understanding, not in the diesel fuel lot of some gas station where it is impossible to say the thgs. you shouldn't have waited until the last min. to say anyhow, and so you say nothg. at all, nothg. that matters.

Probably not suitable for public consumption

It's been a rather thick 24 hrs.

And this will probably be a rather voluminous, remarkably unhumorous entry, so I'll understand if you skip it.

I arrived at my father's yesterday evening, the purpose of my visit being two-fold: to see my father and his/my family and to attend his second graduation from nursing school (w/an RN this time instead of LPN). I viewed it as a visit to his/my family b/c that is exactly how I have thought of this arrangement for the past eight yrs.

I moved out of my father's house at 16, shortly after he began dating the woman who is now my stepmother. For five yrs., I had lived in what can generously be described as a "character-building" environment. I had parented my parent and myself and acted as mediator between my father and the live-in girlfriend (who alternately detested and depended on me) he had before he got together w/Jenny. I had held together the household and entertained/cared for my brother who was visiting when the live-in girlfriend left and Daddy locked himself in his room for a week w/a shotgun. And I had been told so many times that I was selfish and ungrateful that I began to believe it. I must add the disclaimer that this period was NOT all unrelenting horror, but it was...challenging on a regular basis. So by the time I was 16 and my father announced that he and Jenny were planning to move WAY out of my school district and social sphere, I felt this was an opportunity to get out of what I had long realized was a situation unlikely to change, no matter how many times I negotiated, cried, or begged.

Daddy, I remember, accepted my notice w/surprising docility, considering the vociferous manner in which he had rejected all previous overtures toward separation. Jenny at one point said to me, "I just don't know how you can treat your father this way." I thought to myself, "Oh, you will."

So I moved out, and my dad and Jenny moved away. One yr. later I went on an awkward vacation to the beach w/them and my father told me while we were sitting in traffic that he and Jenny were expecting a baby. I was nearly 18 and I was going to have a new sibling. They got married a few mos. after the vacation and had another baby (an accident this time) two yrs. after my little brother was born. My contact w/my father's new family has been confined to my bi-yearly visits to Maryland, one in the summer and one around Christmas, during which I spend two to four days at my dad's house, generally sitting w/him while he watches television and attempting to interact w/the two ppl. I unfortunately refer to as "my dad's kids".

The stilted nature of these visits has mercifully declined over the yrs., due mostly to factors such as my littlest brother being one of the coolest, smartest kids in the world, making it much more enjoyable to be around him than when he was an ugly, unwanted (by me) baby and by my stepmother finally figuring out "how I could treat my father that way" and needing a comprehending, if not entirely sympathetic, ear (i.e., mine) to listen once in a while. Plus, Eli and I started buying her Herbalife stuff and telling other ppl. abt. it to drum up business for her, so that's been a bonding point. Jenny and I also share a love of 80s rock bands and hair straighteners, probably b/c she is only 10 yrs. older than me. (Don't freak out too much -- my dad was a child when I was born, so he's only 8 yrs. older than Jenny.) But I still, right up til this evening, thought of this group as first my father's family and only secondarily, perfunctorily as my family, too: my dad's/my family.

I have continued to love my father w/the unfailingly devoted adoration one sees in small children, old dogs, and religious fanatics. Through it all, I have loved my father deeply and unreservedly. I'm 24 yrs. old and I still call him Daddy, for fuck's sake. I think the normal reaction to our rather turbulent relationship during my formative yrs. would be outright hatred or at best a cool regard, but I, who have known for so long exactly who and how my father is, still love him as I did when I was five yrs. old and I cried for hrs. b/c my mother won custody in the final divorce (when she wasn't around, of course). In some ways, this is a blessing, as it means I am generally not surprised or hurt by anythg. he does to me (e.g., rarely calling [unless smthg. is WAY wrong, of course], never visiting, forgetting my last three bdays) and I am able to maintain a v. amicable relationship w/him, which makes me happy. However, having so thorough an understanding of both my father's behavior and his mental state -- and how his behavior so often contradicts and distorts how he really feels -- makes it extraordinarily painful to hear my stepmother talk abt. how my father behaves toward her and the children, to watch him drive himself deeper and deeper into depression and further away fr. the ppl. who love him most, and to know that -- despite his formidable intelligence, his Renaissance-man like aptitude for everythg. he decides to do, and, deep down, his desire to love and be loved -- my father is never going to be happy and he is never going to get a strong enough grip on his own emotions and behaviors to stop and think abt. how he makes everyone around him unhappy.

When I went to live w/Daddy when I was 11 yrs. old, it was under the pretence that he was going through a rough time following the departure of my first stepmother and needed someone to be w/him to help him get through it. I realize now that my father will always be going through a rough patch and will always want someone w/him to help him get through it (which explains the series of wives and girlfriends). And even though I also realize that it was completely inappropriate to charge a pre-adolescent child w/the job of seeing her father through a hard time, I still cannot help but feel, in the v. farthest reaches of my heart/psyche/whatever, that I failed him.

This occurred to me late last night, after my stepmother and I had finally said goodnight following a long and varied conversation. We discussed my plans for the next few yrs. and my brother (the older one, my full brother, the one traditionally thought of as MY brother) and I listened to the sounds of my father eavesdropping in an uncharacteristically un-stealthy manner that leads me to believe that he wanted us to know that he was there, listening to Jenny tell me abt. their marriage in terms that were sufficiently vague, but were well understood by me, the person who probably knows my dad better than anyone else. We also talked abt. my other siblings, the ones even my grandparents seem to forget are part of the family just like me or Trey. And it was at this point that my dad's/my family began to become simply my family.

As I've said, I love my little brother beyond description. He is just the funniest, cleverest, cutest kid in the world. And he loves me, too, which makes it a lot easier to love him than, say, my youngest sister who has spent the past four yrs. refusing to let me approach her. Even as a baby she would cry when anyone but Jenny held her. I've always heard stories abt. how smart Elizabeth is, how articulate she is, how cunning she can be (hee hee!), but all I ever saw was a whiny twit hiding behind her mother for days at a time while I visited. Initially, it appeared that this trend would continue when Elizabeth denied me a hello hug and instead buried her face in Jenny's knees and shook her head in vehement refusal. But then she just stopped. She started talking to me and showing me thgs. and laughing and making jokes that I would think a four yr. old wouldn't even understand, let alone formulate. My stepsister, too, underwent a sort of transformation in a matter of mins. She has been for so long my incongruous foil, it's really quite embarrassing to admit, considering that she is 12 yrs. younger than me and not nearly as smart. But she shares Elizabeth's cunning and has always known which buttons to push to make me want to push her out of a moving vehicle. But on this visit she was almost immediately engaging and interesting and where in the past she would say or do thgs. to make it clear that I was not in a place that was my home (like the time she tried to get Jenny to say that my old cat who still lives w/my dad belonged to her and "their" family and not to me), this time she made a real effort to include me in the group. Making fun of my dad w/her was a handy "in" for me.

As I surveyed Joseph's disaster of a room (so like mine!) and heard him beg to be allowed to sleep on the couch (just like me when I was his age!), as I watched Elizabeth shake her tiny booty while she danced to White Zombie (just like me!) and eat only three bites of her mini-pizza (again!), and as I looked at Lynn's artwork and recognized that she may not be as intellectually smart as me or Joseph and Elizabeth, but she is exceptionally gifted in her own way, and esp. when I heard fr. Jenny how hurt Lynn is every Christmas when my grandparents send presents and cards for Joseph and Elizabeth, but not even a hello for her, I felt an entirely new set of emotions emerge: belonging replaced separateness, enjoyment supplanted obligation, and a desire to protect and foster pushed out tepid apathy. I was finally able to identify the ways in which these ppl. are MY family.

And now I am more worried than ever abt. my father and his...ways. My brother (Trey) and I are basically functional adults, but we bear significant reminders of the events of our less-than-ideal childhoods. While not all of these marks were left by our father (my mother could take up a whole other blog entry [don't worry -- I'm not planning to do that]) and not everythg. he did was harmful, the effects of the less positive aspects of Daddy's approach to fatherhood linger. I often tell ppl. that I am crazy and they always laugh it off or deny that they've seen the signs, but I think that's a combination of politeness and of my well-honed ability to hide the insanity. I do not want what I am or what Trey is for my siblings. I am left in the odd predicament of wanting to protect Joseph, Elizabeth, and Lynn fr. one of the ppl. I love best in this world.

And so I have gained a family and paradox in one day's time.

Cal-i-for-nah-ay!: A Travelogue in Picture Form

B/C I am a lazy bitch and didn't feel like fixing this problem, the pictures are actually in reverse chronological order. I don't actually think it will matter since none of you would have known the difference had I not said anythg., but if it matters to you, you can start at the bottom and work up. Many thanks to Marion, one of the world's best photographers, whose mad camera skillz allowed me to leave my own camera at home, which is really good, considering that my bag was still four pounds overweight when I went to the airport to fly home. Also, this first picture *is* actually the first picture we took on the trip and I would like you disregard my face and notice only that a) we were camping (fun!) and b) I am wrapped in a giant coat b/c it was COLD (not fun).

Me and Marion at the crazy seal beach -- there were just so many of them! And please notice the sweaters -- it was NOT warm. Or sunny, for that matter.









SO MANY SEALS!! And did you know that they molt? I did not.













This is me being a jackass at the Monterey Bay Aquarium. I was inside a tunnel that, judging by its diminutive clearance and the woman sitting in it w/her two toddlers, was meant for children. But I love tunnels. And that blue fish at the top of the pic.








Oh, you know I had to get in the canoe.













This is what happens when Marion has not yet learned how exactly all of the settings on her camera perform -- it's a freaking work of art!! When I don't know how to use thgs., they usually break or at least produce outcomes of poor quality. Marion, on the other hand, does thgs. like this -- amazing. I love accidental art! This is in the jellyfish room of the Monterey Bay Aquarium, btw -- that's what the lights are -- jellyfish.




Look!! -- it's an English tea house in the middle of CA. I think this explains the astronomical price of real estate in the area; if you convert the sums into pounds, it's not actually that bad.









Me in front a random, but insightful, posting on what is apparently the world's shabbiest recording studio, located in Cambria, CA.










The unreasonably beautiful indoor pool at HC.













This picture only begins to demonstrate the over-the-top-ness of Hearst Castle. Yes, this was meant to be a domicile, not a cathedral.



















Me lounging by the outdoor pool (sans l'eau, malheureusement) at Hearst Castle, just like a thinner, brunette, not-famous Jean Harlow!










Marion and me in the garden at HC

WHOA.

Am sitting in Marion's bedroom in the planned-down-to-the-paint-chips town of Irvine, CA, listening to what I thought was a re-make of "The Exorcist", you know, that scene w/the little girl screaming in tongues?, but what is actually her neighbor's young daughter yelling at her sibling(s) and/or parents, as she apparently does on a daily basis. I want to toss some Lithium or some Haldol over the fence.

Absolutely amazing.

And scary as piss.

So I say again, NO KIDS FOR ME.

Also, incidentally, Marion lives in a neighborhood built exclusively for UCI professors and the father of the child next door she believes is a Psychology guy. I'm telling you -- we're all nuts.

The most awesome thg. I have ever seen in my life.

Most of you probably read this either in an email I sent you or in the similar entry on Daniel's blog, but I thought it bore repeating b/c Stephen Colbert is just amazing:

Wow.

I mean, WOW.

I am sure many of you have heard abt. Stephen Colbert's little speech to the White House Press Corps' dinner, but, truly -- if you have not seen it, you cannot understand what a badd ass this man is (and yes, I mean badd, w/two ds -- when you're this badd, it needs two ds). I thought I knew, being the avid Colbert Report fan that I am, but I did NOT. NOW I KNOW. So check it out:http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=-869183917758574879

And then check out Colbert's analysis of the whole event at http://www.comedycentral.com/shows/the_colbert_report/videos/most_recent/index.jhtml?start=17 (see "White House Correspondent Dinner" in the bottom row), remember that this is real, and laugh your asses off as your faith in the media is marginally restored.

Also, Jon Stewart's Daily Show commentary on the speech was quite amusing, paying homage to Colbert's balls of steel and summing up with, "Holy Shit."

I could not be more in love w/Stephen Colbert than I am at this v. moment.

Preach it, sister! OR Thank you, master of the obvious.

Girl in Library: I do NOT want to take this final.

That pretty well sums up my day, though it hardly warrants such a vehement announcement. It perhaps would be more newsworthy if she said she DID want to take her final, as that is certainly an unusual sensation I have yet to experience.

Back to the grind, best wishes to my fellow sufferers (esp. my MUSC girls). If I can just make it to California, everythg. will be alright....

Oh, also, am totally enthralled by overheardintheoffice.com -- laugh my socks off every time -- as well as Gnarls Barkley and Editors. Give a listen to them if you have a minute. Pretty spectacular.

Word of the Day: Buba

I walk in to Physics today, slightly late as usual, and am greeted w/a sight so wholly unexpected and adorable that I actually exclaimed, "Look at you!!" to my professor. Dr. A, who, as mentioned previously, is Nigerian, was wearing an oversized smock-type shirt, decorated in bold African patterns and vibrant hues of pink, purple, turquoise, and black, which he informed us is called a 'buba' (boo-buh -- he even spelled it for us). I say this was unexpected b/c although he *is* Nigerian, Dr. A. is perhaps the most assimilated foreigner I have ever known. His English is impeccable -- he even understands the nuances and more intuitive aspects of the language that generally separate native speaker fr. fluent, non-native speaker -- he drives some sort of sports sedan, and he has always dressed more like a J.Crew model than someone who would even consider wearing any sort of tribal garb, native African or not. I felt rather like an asshole after my comment (who walks in to a room and says, "Look at you!!"??), but I think he knows that I'm more of jackass than an asshole and that my comment was truly ingenuous. Plus I paid more attn. than usual today b/c I was so amused by the buba, and Dr. A always likes it when I pay attn. heh.

Also seen today was a student, approximately 20 yrs. of age, chasing a hapless yard duck around the grassy area in front of the library. I don't like this when small children do it, so imagine the rage I felt watching this idiot who is apparently old enough to go to university (I would say smart enough, too, but, let's face it -- it's Georgia Southern -- brains have little to do w/admissions) running after an obviously distressed animal waddling as fast as his little legs would go. I was so incensed that I started to run after the guy, w/the intention of running around after him for a few mins., possibly throwing some pine cones for added flair, to let him see what it's like. Then I realized that is REALLY crazy. Then I had this mental picture of me running after this tall black guy while throwing pine cones and yelling and first I laughed, but then I stopped when this was followed by a further mental picture of me being prosecuted for a hate crime or smthg. Then I laughed some more b/c, come on, that's funny.

Oh, thank God.

Sun. through Wed. of this past wk. were what I have come to call "The Week from Hell." I realize that a wk. consists of seven, not four, days, but enough bad shit happened in those four days for me to feel justified in referring to them as The Week from Hell.

Mercifully, this was followed by a brief respite in the form of a Fri. trip to Charleston. I was able to see Jennifer for a too-short but fulfilling visit before I got my hair cut, which is always fun since I have the best hair person ever, followed by as painless a trip to the car mechanic as is possible, and rounded out by a wonderful visit w/Jill and her Australian friend, Monica. We went to a ukelele/jazz concert (sounds weird, but it worked well) where we enjoyed a bottle of half-priced wine and good conversation. We then went to a photography exhibit put on by two Honors College students that was really quite good. The photos were all portraits of friends of the photographer's, but they weren't posed. It was more like candid shots of ppl.'s faces while doing everythg. fr. smoking to stuffing a whole cupcake in someone's mouth to convincing your drunk friend to stop unbuttoning his shirt. I bought a print of what looks like an attractive though somehow too-smooth guy holding his cigarette as he whispers smthg. into the ear of a girl who looks as if she's mesmerized by a snake she knows will bite her. Wary, mocking, but still intrigued. I visited w/Gary for a little while before driving back to SAV in my surprisingly *awesome* rental car, keenly aware of the fact that as soon as I pointed the car in direction of home I was overcome by nausea.

At one point in the evening, Jill was talking abt. visiting her former housekeeper, who is now too old to clean house, but who is still devoted to Jill and Gary and vice-versa. Apparently, this woman's house recently burnt down, leaving her homeless and completely bereft of worldly possessions, and also w/o the means to replace them. She was most upset abt. all of the "nice thgs." that Jill and Gary had given her over the yrs., most of which were actually just hand-me-downs, but were special to her b/c of their origins. Jill said that as soon as she found out abt. her housekeeper's predicament, she and Mariel (Jill's daughter) spent several hrs. buying their friend new clothes, toiletries, and other needful thgs. She gave up her time and her money to do everythg. that she could for someone she loves and who has loved her. It seems like an obvious thg. to do, but I have begun to realize that this is perhaps not so obvious as I once thought. I think that was the best part of the evening, being reminded that there are ppl. like Jill out there and that I am fortunate enough to have some of them in my life.

Of course, stifling my laughter as Australian Monica bitched out some young English jerk for throwing his cigarette butts on the ground was also pretty enjoyable. You damn English act like you still rule the world. ;)

So inappropriate.

So there's this guy in my Physics class who has the most beautiful hair. And I really want to touch it.

I'm not sure what his ethnic origins are, but Middle Eastern or Turkish seem possible, given his complexion and nose and various other little details I have noted during my surreptitious sidelong glances. This guy is beautiful. I mean, like how exotic Ottoman princes look in movies or romantic paintings or whatever. He almost reminds me of a sexed-up Jesus, w/his big, inscrutable brown eyes and a perpetual expression of serenity.

But it's his hair that gets me.

It's black, falling just below his shoulders and he keeps it in a low ponytail. Usually I find ponytails of any persuasion on a male to be completely revolting, but w/this guy, I just want to reach out and touch it. It's so lovely. It's the perfect texture and has this amazing sheen -- not greasy -- more like it's so soft and healthy that it actually radiates. The girl I babysit LOVES to play w/my hair, and her favorite thg. to do is to put it into a ponytail and take it back down and then put it back up and take it back down, ad nauseum (or until I can no longer feel my scalp and make her stop). That's what I want to do w/this guy's hair. I want to slide the elastic holder off of his ponytail and run my fingers through like a comb and then wrap the holder back around it. And take it off. And put it back on. And take it off. Ad nauseum.

Luckily, he sits behind me, so checking this undeniaby odd urge has not been much of an issue, but today I was walking behind him after class and my hands actually started tingling, like, I was digging my nails into my palms to keep myself fr. extending my fingers toward the coiff.

I feel like a stalker, except I don't actually follow him anywhere (on purpose).

But, seriously, this guy is hot, so if any of you single ladies among my acquaintance would like to run down here in the next wk. to check him out yourself, I would encourage that. And I swear that if you hooked up w/him I would not touch his hair. More than once.

"You could have made a 100%!"

So lamented my Physics professor after handing back my test w/its grade of 70%. He also said, "I expected you to make a 100%," which really boggles the mind b/c I cannot imagine what would have given him the impression that I know enough abt. what's going on in that class that he would *expect* me to make a perfect grade on the test. Perhaps he was misled by my regular attendance, or my perpetual grimace and occasional nodding during lecture, or maybe he honestly thinks I'm smart enough to do that well. I dunno. Either way, after going over my many mistakes w/Dr. A, I have determined that while it is possible (though not likely) that I am smart enough to have made a 100% on that test, I just don't care enough to try. I simply can't be asked.

All of my mistakes were the result of simple carelessness (lots of missing or misplaced negative signs) or an incomplete understanding of the concept at hand, not b/c it was hard, but just b/c I didn't feel like spending 10 more mins. making and memorizing some stupid flashcards. Seriously. I barely made a C on a not-too-difficult test b/c I'm f-ing lazy, end of story. Lazy ppl. do not do well in med school.

I need to sort this out.

On the upside, I still did better than most of the ppl. in my class (of course), so it appears that a curve is likely for our final grades, though Dr. A has been resistant heretofore. Goody for me. I have another Physio test on Wed. and am fending off contractions of panic that are coming more and more frequently as I realize I have less and less time to read all of the stuff I have been putting off for the last four wks....

....And yet, here I sit during my four-hr. break b/t classes NOT studying.

brilliant.

Balance.

I tried to end the last entry on a lighter note, but in case it didn't work out, I also thought I would include a few thgs. for which I am grateful:

1) Lent is over in less than a wk. -- praise Jesus! I will be celebrating the end of my Lenten ban on alcohol on Easter Sun. by extending the sacrament of Communion beyond its allotted 20 mins. during Mass and imbibing two bottles of wine (one red, one white) to joyously commemorate Jesus's miraculous return fr. the dead. I will probably be less enthusiastically celebrating my own similar miracle the next morning when I drag myself to school at 8am.

2) Today is mine and Eli's nine yr. anniversary -- how old are we?! Yes, it was on this day nine yrs. ago that I made Eli ask me to officially be his girlfriend. I have happily spent the last nine yrs. making Eli do an assortment of thgs. he may or may not have wanted to do. He seems happy, too.

3) My St. Andrews crew. We have been forced to move on separately w/life, but we maintain generally good contact and talking to or otherwise hearing fr. y'all makes me so happy. (Yeah, it's sappy, I know. But I talked to Benjamin yesterday and I'm going to CA to see Mar and Sarah in a few wks., so I'm becoming giddy w/excitement.)

4) I stole this fr. Duncan's blog b/c I thought it was good geeky fun:

Go to Wikipedia and look up your birth day (excluding the year). List three neat facts, two births and one death in your journal, including the year.

6 February

Neat Fact #1: These are actually two facts, but I got such a chortle out of the irony of them occurring on the same date that I put them together:
a) 1820 - The first 86 African American immigrants sponsored by the American Colonization Society started a settlement in present-day Liberia.

b) 1900 - The international arbitration court at The Hague is created when the Netherlands' Senate ratifies an 1899 peace conference decree.
hahahaha.... While Charles Taylor's trial is not to be held at The Hague, I think those of you w/a grasp of current events can see why this was funny to me.

Neat Fact #2: 1952 -- Elizabeth II becomes Queeb upon the death of her father George VI. At the exact moment of succession, she was in a treehouse at the Treetops Hotel in Kenya.
...Which is exactly where I would want to be at such moment. In fact, I might never have left the treehouse if I were her.

Neat Fact #3: 1998 -- Washington National Airport is renamed Ronald Reagan National Airport
....*tear* Ah, for the days when the Republican party was all abt. money-making and good parties, before it got all mixed up in this religion business. Pour yo' 40 out for Ronnie! (PS: He also shares the Best Day for a Birt-Day w/me, which is why the airport was renamed on 6 Feb. This does not count toward the requested two bdays.)

For some reason, MY birth was not included in Wikipedia, but I found these schlubs:
Birth(s) #1 (notable ladies): 1912 -- Eva Braun (HAHA!), 1917 -- Zsa Zsa Gabor (HAHA!), 1913 -- Mary Leakey (I love primates, too!), and 1976 -- Kim Zmeskal (I had a poster of her when I was a gymnast. Clearly, she was quite a bit better at [and more dedicated to] gymnastics than I was.). Also, 1577 -- Beatrice Cenci, Italian noblewoman who conspired to kill her father. I don't who she was, but I like 'er.

Birth(s) #2 (the fellas): 1564 -- Christopher Marlowe (he was a spy, a poet, a playwright, he liked to pick fights, and he may have been Shakespeare, if you go for conspiracy theories -- rock on), 1756 -- Aaron Burr (I don't care if they're illegal -- duels are f-ing cool, esp. if you're the winner), 1931 -- Rip Torn (HAHA!), 1932 -- Francois Truffaut (pretty fly for a French guy), 1945 -- Bob Marley (jammin'), and another musical superstar and the love of my life when I was 11, 1962 -- Axl Rose (leather pants in the "Sweet Child O'Mine" video -- ARGH!). Also, 1910 - Carlos Marcello, Tunisian-born gangster. I don't know who he was, but I like 'im.

Death: 1918 -- Gustav Klimt. The only thg. that consoled me after this loss was Magritte's embarkation upon his prolific Surrealist career shortly thereafter.
Also, oddly: 1986 -- Frederick Coutts, the 8th General of The Salvation Army (so are they a *real* Army??), and 1989 -- Chris Gueffroy, last person killed escaping over the Berlin wall (if the rest of the Communist military had continued the fight for so long, maybe they would have won the Cold War -- haha!)

I sometimes want to die (and take a few ppl. w/me)

So the other day I was riding w/a friend of mine to Savannah. Immediately after turning onto the main road out of town, we were forced to come to a complete stop in the middle of the road to allow a funeral procession to exit the funeral home on the left. I did not pay close attention to the caravan since such thgs. make me want to cry b/c I know what it's like to forever lose a loved one; to sit through the memorial thinking in no chronological or emotional order of memories you shared w/this person in life, punctuated by visions of their smile, their laugh, and the recognition that you will never see these thgs. again; to gather your shattered concentration long enough to drive to the burial site; and to then watch as your friend or family member is lowered into the ground and dirt is thrown on top, forming a progressively impenetrable barrier b/t you and them. Death is a big deal. And it makes me cry to think of other ppl. having to experience that sort of loss b/c I can think of how it felt/would feel for me to be in their position. So I didn't look closely at the motorcade slowly entering the road in front of us, but I DID notice it, esp. since we had to sit in the middle of traffic for several mins.

My companion, the driver, apparently managed to miss what was happening right in front of our faces.

On the way out of town, I became increasingly confused and angry as he complained abt. how slow we were moving, abt. why there were so many cops on the road (to allow the procession to move unimpeded), how a funeral procession should not hold up the rest of traffic (I guess they're supposed to race to the cemetery and hope that everyone makes it??), and abt. how dumb it was that ppl. in our lane were going so slow when the procession wasn't even near us. It occurred to me after this last comment that perhaps my friend did not know where the caravan was, b/c it was directly in front of us and I told him as much. Three times. I pointed it out THREE TIMES, saying w/what I thought was complete clarity, "THAT [pointing at the long line of cars moving in our lane of traffic] is the funeral procession." I had hoped this would penetrate to my friend's brain and heart and elicit a more sympathetic response, that he would consider the emotional state of the ppl. in that line of cars, would remember the times that he lost someone he loved. This, it turned out, was over-optimistic of me.

The sighs of exasperation continued and then got worse when we moved out of the town proper and the speed limit went up, but we were still moving at a muted pace. My friend ultimately sped up to try to pass the whole line, but met resistance when he encountered ppl. in the right-hand lane who had pulled over or slowed to a speed even lower than that of the funeral procession, as drivers are wont to do OUT OF RESPECT TO THE BEREAVED. This is esp. true here in the South, where, as my stepfather once lamented, ppl. are more likely to pull over for a funeral than an ambulance. In fact, ppl. here pull over even if they are in the opposing lane of traffic. It's just smthg. we do out of consideration for others who are trying to grapple w/one of the most difficult facts of life. This, too, was lost on my companion, who proceeded to cut INTO the funeral procession and to scoff at my explanation for why ppl. who were not going to the funeral were still driving as if they were.

The crowning moment came, however, when we had to make a left-hand turn on to another road, the same road onto which the procession turned. It turned out that my friend had cut in front of the last person in the line of mourners and she was desperate to try to keep up w/the rest, probably b/c she wasn't fr. around here and didn't want to get separated fr. them on some country-ass road in the middle of nowhere. As we approached the left turn lane, my driver started to move into the lane and was incensed to find that the driver behind us was scurrying to close the gap b/t herself and the rest of the funeral procession, resulting in my friend nearly side-swiping her as he moved over.

One guess what happened next.

My friend had the audacity to not just honk at the woman -- which I could almost have excused, since it's sort of a natural reaction when you're on the road and smthg. happens that could endanger your safety, regardless of who is really at fault -- but further, to hurl obscenities and slurs and give her the finger. He flipped off a person hurrying to follow her dead loved one to his or her final resting place, trying to be there for the last moments of that person's time above ground.

I have never been so upset in my entire life. I think I hit him. I definitely yelled at him. He attempted to defend himself by saying, "She's probably not even going to the funeral!" I just wanted to cry, get sick, and throw myself out of the still-moving car. I wanted to kill smthg. he loved so that he would know what that person was feeling. I wanted to be as far away as possible fr. this person whom I have somehow grown to love, but who is so incapable of thinking of others that he couldn't even act appropriately when presented w/the most obvious occasion for sympathy. It didn't even matter if the woman wasn't going to the funeral (which, as it turned out, she WAS), the point was that my friend didn't know whether she was or not, but rather than thinking beyond himself and erring on the side of caution (which would have allowed the woman to get in front of him w/minimal fuss), he threw a fit and behaved in a manner so vulgar and insulting it made me want to die.

I will never understand how ppl. can be so thoughtless, so thoroughly selfish that they ignore any common sense they might have (and my friend is quite smart; he has the raw ability to think better of his actions) and act in ways that make it physically painful to be alive in this world. I j u s t d o n ' t g e t i t. Though I have tried to inure myself against what I have long recognized to be an inevitable fact of human existence, I have met w/little success. It hurts just as much now as it did yrs. ago and what hurts even more is that my immediate reaction when someone behaves in such a careless, hurtful manner is to hurt them right back, purposefully, pointedly, and deeply. My first reaction makes me worse than them b/c I want them to hurt. I didn't just want to yell at my friend, to call him names, or point out to him the ways in which his behavior made him THE Biggest Jerk in the Entire World. I didn't even want to hurt him physically, not really. What I wanted to do was take smthg. fr. him he loves more than he knows. I wanted him to hurt fr. the inside and I wanted to be the one to do it.

I was inexpressibly angry and hurt by my friend's utter lack of consideration for someone else's potential emotional state, but his behavior and its impact on the other driver was, at the root, the result of carelessness, not premeditation. My response was considerably more directed. I'm not sure, but I have a feeling this desire for wilful retribution makes me pretty close to evil, which does little to make me feel better abt. being alive in a world already so full of it.

Or maybe it means I should find a cape and a sidekick and become a masked crusader for justice. I dunno. Eamonn *did* just send me the Guide to Real Ultimate Power, so I figure I could probably be jump-kicking ninja-for-justice in abt. five days. If anyone is interested in subsidizing my super-hero bid, I wear size XS and my weapon of choice is the laser beam. I'll supply the telekinesis.

Indefatigable beauty and Who's the fat American now?!

As usual, spring sprung here in the Coastal Empire slightly before its calendar designation and we Southerners were enjoying mild temperatures and early blooms in late Feb./early Mar., much to the envy of my friends and relatives living in less hospitable regions of the nation and world. There were beach trips and tank tops and a collective smugness stemming fr. the understanding that we are, truly, more climatalogically blessed than the majority of the Northern Hemisphere at this time of yr.

Perhaps to chastise us for our perennial March hubris, Mother Nature dealt a bitterly surprising blow just before the official first day of Spring -- below average temperatures, rain, and wind. And this continued for more than a wk. All floral developments halted: the blooms drooping in frozen confusion, buds cautiously opened only part-way as if to protect their delicate, still-folded blossoms while peeking out persistently, expecting more encouraging temperatures to arrive at any moment. The grass was left pathetically mottled, varying between its dull, brittle brown winter palate and its tentative, freshly verdant change. Sweaters were hastily retrieved fr. their new haphazard home in the won't-need-this-for-months corner of the closet, the coat was grudgingly removed fr. the closet where it had been most happily consigned only two wks. before, and, most painfully, the flip-flops were left unattended for ten long days. We even saw snow when Eli and I went to Biltmore this weekend (in fact, it snowed nearly all weekend, but v. little collected, except on the higher peaks).

Bemusement turned to irritation turned to desolation as the temperatures remained low and the machinery of Spring ground to a halt, leaving us to wonder if perhaps we had lost the one sure bet we had in the ongoing war b/t North and South -- weather. Even our normally warm, friendly dispositions and impeccable manners (both of which are also points for us in the aforementioned struggle) suffered as we chafed under the unwelcome weight of jackets and trousers and mourned the apparent loss of our environmental blessing. The fact that it was warmer last w/e in Boston than it was in Charleston was like pouring salt into the gaping, excruciating wound to our Southern pride.

Enhancing my own dolorous outlook on the situation was Ft. Stewpid's decision to initiate "controlled burns" thoroughout the forest that lines abt. 25 miles of the road I travel every day to and from school. I understand that these thgs. are supposed to beneficial for the growth and help prevent large, uncontrolled fires, but a) I'm just not convinced, and b) it looks really ugly and makes me sad to pass these smoldering carcasses of trees and plants that have been there for a long time and/or have provided a stabilizing natural beauty that has often made the difference b/t me arriving home in a good mood or me still being anxious/irritated/upset abt. school. Further, for some reason, they have started clearing large areas of the forest close to the back gate of the main garrison. I don't know why they're doing this; they can't build a range b/c there's a lake in the middle and I don't know why they would be constructing a building *outside* of post that would be so large as this lot would indicate.

So last wk. I was driving home fr. school, irritated b/c I had to run the heat (b/c it was cold outside when it should be warm) in my car and I couldn't get it to an ideal, or even comfortable, temperature -- I was either baking or I was chilled. I entered the slashed and burnt remnants of the forest and became even more put out. I then came upon the area that is being cleared and wished more than anythg. else that I did not live where I live now. And then, time slowed for just a few moments and I looked to my right and saw, in the midst of the destruction and seasonal interruption, a flowering tree in full bloom. I mean, full on -- branches barely discernable through the blanket of white petals illuminated nearly to gold by the sunlight streaming in from behind them, this lone holdout against all the odds, natural and man-made, a pocket of beauty tucked amongst ruin and disappointment.

Incomprehensibly, indefatigably beautiful.

On a more pedestrian note, some of you know that I went to Universal Studios in Orlando, FL a couple of wks. ago w/my friend Jennifer, Eli, and our friend Michael. Jennifer and I are among the best travel buddies ever. We are uber-efficient in our sight-seeing (we made it through both Universal and Islands of Adventure in nine hrs., inc. an hr. break for lunch), we are v. good at avoiding the most pernicious of tourist traps, we play fun car games, AND we can *always* find a deal on our hotel and activity costs. More than this, though, we both share an almost obsessive love of funnel cakes. (For those of you not familiar w/this culinary delight, it is fried sweet dough covered in powdered sugar, almost like a doughnut, but better and not nearly the same shape. Funnel cakes are squiggly.) The best places to buy funnel cakes are fairs, carnivals, and amusement parks. This being the case, Jennifer and I went in w/the unspoken understanding that at some point during our day at Universal, we were having a funnel cake, regardless of cost, facility cleanliness, queue length, or fat content. So imagine our disappointment when, after a good four hrs. in the park, we had yet to see any funnel cake. No stands, no one carrying some, no tell-tale smudges of powdered sugars on anyone's faces/shirts/hair, nothg.

We were standing in the serpentine line for the Jaws ride lamenting this fact (after marvelling at the numerous beer kiosks) when we looked over into the line moving past ours and we saw...a girl carrying a half-eaten funnel cake!! B/C I have no ability to censor myself when I get really excited abt. smthg. like this, I exclaim to this unsuspecting stranger, "WHERE did you get that funnel cake?!?" She laughs and says, with an English accent (of course), "I got it just over there at a little stand. But to be honest, this may sound a bit weird, but I'm not going to finish this -- do you want it?" I look at Jennifer and I hesitate just long enough to think to myself, "Of course she's not going to finish it, she's British and that is SUCH an American food item, oh, she's going to think I am a stupid, fat American if I take it," and, "Nan (my germ-phobic grandmother) would have a fit if she knew I was going to take half-consumed food fr. a stranger, which could be poisoned" [flash to ever-so-brief mental image of severe abdominal cramping and Eli saying he told me so]. Despite these flashes of decorum, concern for safety, and paranoia, I readily accepted the proffered funnel cake, after which Jennifer said, "I would have told her yes if you hadn't." See, perfect travel buddies!

We immediately set abt. decimating our found food and I think the British girl was a little appalled and probably scared when we passed her in line again less than five mins. later and the whole thg. was gone. Seriously -- Michael timed it -- it was smthg. like 3.5 mins. We saw the lady several times later in the day and she v. purposefully avoided our still-grateful smiles. I'm quite certain that she was thinking we were some bipedal breed of pig.


Oh, yeah -- Quote of the Day: "I can jump fences like a mutha-fucka." -- Jay, on his days as a gang-banger. heh.

Development Shmevelopment

Surveying anew the disaster that is mine and Eli's room, it occurred to me that such has been the regular condition of nearly every bedroom I have ever inhabited. I can remember my room being so messy at one point around age eight that my friends and I broke my bed playing this game where we jumped off of it like the side of a pool into the 'water' that was my cluttered floor. The toys, clothes, books, crap on the floor were literally two ft. deep. I don't know how I managed to get my room this messy or how my mother went for so long w/o making me clean it up, but the broken bed put her in a punitive mood and I did not go outside for nearly a wk. while I worked to clear the floor AND my closet (I must have worn only clothes that I could scoop out of the 'pool' during this time b/c the closet was unreachable). The last night of this, my mom wouldn't even let me go to bed until I finished cleaning the room. I still remember crying on the floor, begging to go to bed (I NEVER asked to go to bed), all the while folding my little clothes and plotting her demise.

While mine and Eli's room is not quite so bad as this and some of the mess is Eli's, whether he wants to admit it or not, it is def. becoming a nuisance, even for me. (For example, I have bruises on my lower shins fr. so often running into thgs. that clutter our floor.) And I thought to myself, "After 24 yrs. of life, and roughly 22 yrs. of being responsible for my own space, why is it such an impossibility for me to maintain neatness?" Examining more closely the specific contents of this fallout zone, I spotted another characteristic that has persisted since early childhood -- I am the worst postal patron ever. At the moment, I have boxes to mail to Sarah, Marion, Stuart, Benjamin, Daniel, Nicole and baby, Neil and Helen, my dad and his family, Brianna, and Tristan and her baby. I have had some of these boxes for nearly eight mos. now. (However, I would like to point out that, despite multiple inquiries, I am still lacking addresses for some of these recipients -- ahem.)

This has been common w/me since the first time I moved after learning to write proficiently. After moving to Maryland for a semester when I was nine, I received a letter fr. one of my Georgia friends, Karen. Karen had not only written, she had decorated the letter and included candy (Twizzlers -- one of my favs). Naturally I felt compelled to reply in kind. I wrote a letter, found some Butterfingers I was trying to get rid of, sealed them up, and....ended up giving it to Karen four mos. later when I went back to GA, though I think I had taken the Butterfingers out, as I had doubts abt. their quality after so long. Later, when I moved to South Carolina, I took w/me a book I had borrowed fr. my friend Brooks (w/whom I was madly in love for most of my 5th grade yr.). That book then moved w/me six mos. later when I again relocated to MD and did not make it back to Brooks for another nine mos. when I finally put it in the mail w/a goofy letter sending my best wishes and apologies. I actually have no idea if the book ever ended up back in Brooks's possession b/c I never heard fr. him and given my deplorable rate of return, he may v. well have moved to a different address and/or died by the time I sent it off. These are only two examples of what can only be described as a sad pattern of behavior that, like the unmanageable room, is showing no signs of progress with age.

But I have a solution to these and similar problems I have.

I need a butler.

Or a maid or a PA, whatever. Just someone who can keep track of my shit and clean up after me. I don't even need them in the rest of the house; I am quite good at keeping the kitchen and living room under control (esp. the kitchen since I hate germs), it's just my freaking bedroom that always gets the best of me. My career goals now revolve around making this a reality. Be it doctor or government worker or lady of the night, I WILL make enough money in my occupation to hire someone to either live in my house or to come often enough to keep my room under control. And maybe cook me some meals b/c I don't really like doing that, either.

Some of you may think this silly or frivolous, but you are probably the same ppl. who have changed significantly since the age of five. I have not. Maybe it's b/c I was pretty much left to make my own way at that age, or maybe it's b/c I simply can't be bothered w/'development', but I am essentially the same person I was nearly 20 yrs. ago, just more articulate and taller (but not much). I have accepted that I am flawed in the areas of maintaining order in the bedroom, prompt mailing, and cooking for myself on a regular basis, and I will likely remain so. Therefore, I am now attempting to find a practical stop-gap measure that both solves my problems and allows me to continue avoiding what some would call "useful" or "easy" or "necessary" changes. Now I need only find a job that pays me enough to live and to pay someone else enough to live. Should be a snap, no?

But it hurts so bad

Why I will not have children, Reason #230741: They are germ magnets. And I have the immune system of someone w/advanced leukemia. So when you put me w/in a 12-ft. radius of a sick kid for an extended period of time (e.g., overnight babysitting of my friend Tess's child, who was actively carrying Babyfunkitis this past Fri.), the inevitable end result is me contracting whatever the little rodent had when I came in contact w/him or her. In this case, the ague seems to be your garden variety severe cold -- intermittent fever, neck stiff like a curare victim's, head throbbing dully and apparently inflated to six times normal size, sore throat that makes each swallow an occasion for tears, aches and pains that I dare even a stint in the Iron Maiden to rival, and a general inability to maintain consciousness for more than one episode of Dallas.

Earlier today, Steve thought it would be funny to put me in a headlock. This naturally put a lot of pressure on my pathetically swollen, angry glands and my stiff, tetanic neck muscles. I nearly punched him in the face. Steve didn't think that was funny, but I sure did.

When I was at CofC or St. Andrews, I would normally drag myself to class unless my condition was truly dire (which it never was) b/c I could manage to walk the two or three blocks, sit through class, and then ooze my way back to bed. Illness probably impaired my ability to actually learn much, but venturing forth under such physically non-ideal conditions made feel better b/c I could go home and collapse knowing that I had tried hard. Thus, I was quite distressed to realize that this was no longer possible when my alarm went off at 7 this morning. I missed school today for the first time in three yrs. -- inc. my twice-wkly. Physiology lecture I *really* shouldn't miss -- b/c I was too weak to drive the hr. to school, make it through the eight-hr. day, and then drive the hr. back home. I feel like such a weenie.

But that brings to mind a funny sight I saw this w/e -- Best Streetsign Ever: Black Weiner St.

I shit you not.

I'll try to get pics next time I'm in SAV.

Back to my Sucrets and Chloraseptic. mmmm....menthol I love you.

Smthg. less palaverous

Good word, that -- palaverous. Had thought of adding to the last entry as promised, but after seeing how long it was, I started thinking that a) the odds of anyone actually reading it in full were already quite slim, and b) it was probably for the best to simply move on to smthg. new and more brief. So that's what I'm doing, sharing a short(ish) tale of my daily life.

In Physics today, we started discussing light reflection in mirrors. After giving us a basic description of what mirrors are (highly polished glass w/a painted back), Dr. A walked over, stood directly in front of my desk, looked at me, and said in his precise, Nigerian-accented English, "You know all about dis, unh?" He then giggled and walked away. Assuming he meant that we all knew abt. mirrors b/c we all use them and that his pause in front of my desk was merely the sort that happens every class period b/c he's a pacer when lecturing and that his prolonged eye contact w/me was also the routine look he gives me to make sure I'm really awake (I've learned to sleep w/my eyes open -- gross), I thought little of this comment, laughed at him giggling, and went back to my notes.

But when abt. three mins. later there was a question abt. the direction of reflection in a mirror and he again walked over to me, repeated his question directly to me, and giggled again, it occurred to me that this was deliberate. But why the fuck would he be expecting me to know more abt. light reflecting in mirrors than anyone else in the class? I usually sit there smiling mildly, hoping he interprets this expression as enthusiasm for his class, and on the rare occasions that I do know enough to hazard a guess in answer to his questions, he usually either ignores me or can't hear me b/c I talk abt. Physics like I speak French -- quietly and self-consciously. So WTF was up w/the repeated, direct questioning? After seeing my look of suspicious confusion, Dr. A made his way back to the board and announced, "See, I am asking you dese tings becos girls use mirrors more dan bwoys. hee hee hee...."

Some of you may be thinking, "Why, that chauvinist African bastard!" but my immediate reaction was to jerk around in my seat and survey the motley remainder of our Physics class and exclaim, "Fuck, I AM the only girl left in here!" Approximately half the students in what was not a large class to begin with have dropped, leaving 10 of us behind, fervently hoping that it was not a mistake to hold fast and stay in the class beyond the last-day-to-withdraw-with-a-W date. And I am the only girl among that naive few. I cannot think of another class I have ever taken where that was the gender breakdown. It's a real switch fr. CofC's female-saturated population, let me tell you. It doesn't bother me, it just sort of snuck up on me, so it stands out as even stranger than it would otherwise be.

Dr. A reassured me with, "Oh, don't warry, I weel not peek on you all de time." heh.

I honestly wasn't in any way offended by his little joke b/c a) I've talked to him numerous times in his office abt. a variety of thgs. other than Physics and he seems to think I'm pretty smart, b) I do have one of the highest grades in the class right now, and c) he still raves abt. the quality of my lab reports fr. last semester (which makes me laugh b/c I never knew what I was doing), so I really don't feel that he thinks I am the average Georgia Southern twit, esp. since I'm the only chick w/the balls to stay in his class.

What did bother me is that his implication that I frequently stand admiring my reflected figure was such a gross (though accidental) misrepresentation of me. I don't like mirrors. I avoid them whenever possible and when I do use them, only rarely do I ever look at myself in full view. I'll look at whatever part of my reflection I need to -- my eyeball when I'm putting my contacts in, my hair when I'm trying to tame it, my eyelid when I'm putting makeup on -- but I do not generally take in the whole picture. Which leads to funny little incidents like one that happened yesterday where I don't recognize my own reflection. I went w/Steve to drop off his car at the mechanic's and noticed a girl in the lobby abt. 10 ft. away fr. me and I thought, "Wow, I like her hair!" And then I realized it was me, reflected in the one-way mirror of the mechanic's office. I laughed so hard -- I seriously did not identify that image as my own until I first processed that it was a one-way mirror and secondly made the connection that if that was a mirror, then the person standing in it must be me b/c there was no one else in the lobby. What an idiot.

But it's not as if Dr. A should be aware of this particular quirk of mine, so I don't know why it bothered me so much. Maybe b/c I *am* the only girl left in the class and I don't want them to think that I am like most GSU girls, planning to make it past Dr. A by batting my eyes, blushing, and bending over in front of him -- a lot. I want them to know that I am smarter than all of those girls and most of them, the boys left in my class, too. I want them to know that I am NOT like them. I am not really a Georgia Southern student, I am just here b/c of an unfortunate diversion in my heretofore respectable academic path.

For perhaps the first time ever, I want to set myself apart in an unconditional, completely close-minded sort of way. I want no connections made b/t myself and this student body, no common ground to be uncovered, no sleeper cell of interesting ppl. of the sort I would normally associate with to emerge. Which, paradoxically, makes me v. much like the ppl. I am eschewing so vehemently. My most common criticism of GSU is that its students are so small-minded, so narrow and sheltered w/no interest in expanding their views. But by continuing to cling to my absolute refusal to think anythg. good abt. this school, I am becoming the v. thg. I detest. It's a quandary. And while I can try to mean it the next time I think, "Well, the lake is pretty nice," or, "Not everyone here is retarded," or, "The curriculum doesn't have to be the best to be good enough," I think the fact that I have to try to mean it does not predispose my efforts toward success.

But I'll try.

B/C the lake *is* nice (esp. all the turtles and ducks), and it is *impossible* that everyone here is retarded (I have met at least five ppl. of reasonable intelligence, or who at least have enough common sense to make their company enjoyable), and the curriculum, while far fr. the best, will hopefully be enough to get me past the MCAT.

Home spun desperation's knowing/Inside your cover's always blown...

So I didn't realize how long it had been since I last wrote until Ben (finally) emailed me and criticized me in his typically polite, English way for dropping the ball. My bad. But while we're talking abt. ppl. dropping the ball, let's talk abt. how I hadn't heard fr. Ben in so long that I had actually begun to worry that he was dead. Really. I didn't think much of it at first, esp. since I've had trouble keeping track of time recently, but then I realized it had been more than a month than I heard even so much as a mocking blog comment fr. him. And then I started thinking abt. all the thgs. that could have happened. Maybe he'd gotten mugged and shot on the gritty streets of London. Maybe he'd been hit by a bus while crossing the street w/o looking b/c he was too busy ogling some fit girl across the way. Who knows, maybe he'd gotten overzealous w/noodles at Wagamama's and had some sort of fit that caused him to collapse in a lifeless heap on the floor. Point is, I was worried and was beginning to debate at what point it was appropriate to call a friend's family to enquire abt. his mortality. "Hi, Gina, this is jules. I spent a few days at your house back in November? Yes, it was one of the most pleasant visits I've ever had. Is Ben dead?" riiight. Mercifully, *the*very*day* that I was going to choke back my uncertainty and call Ben's parents, he saved me the embarrassment and left an especially know-it-all comment on my blog regarding the Longaberger basket. Seems quite fitting, really. After all, the only person I know who is more likely than Daniel to come back fr. the dead (real or imagined) just to show off his useless knowledge is Ben.

Desperate for a bit of fresh air and time alone, I took a weekend trip to Biltmore a couple of wks. ago. I had wanted to see Biltmore, the largest private home in America, for most of my life, and since Eli was in the great white north visiting his family and Steve was having one of his many "friends" over for the w/e, I figured it was as good a time as any to go. I rented a car (a Dodge Stratus, which made me laugh b/c I kept thinking of that old SNL skit w/Will Ferrell and Sarah Michelle Gellar -- "I DRIVE A DODGE STRATUS!! I deserve some respect!"), found a great deal on a hotel, packed my bag, and got the hell out of town, leaving behind a petulant Steve ("You've known I want to go there, too, I can't believe you're going w/o me!") and the dull box that now confines my life. I arrived in Asheville, NC, late Fri. night, reveled in the wonder that was my surprisingly nice hotel room (it was so cheap!), and enjoyed a "What Not to Wear" marathon as I fell asleep.

The next morning I braved the Winter Weather Advisory and took off in icy rain for Clemson to spend an afternoon w/my misguided brother, who was experiencing what was perhaps the first real crisis of his life. Naturally the coping method I suggested (after sufficiently discussing the situation to feel confident that it was more or less resolved) was alcohol. Lots. So we hit up the bars at 2pm and were rewarded with a "You want all of those drinks together? For the two of you?" fr. the slightly-older-than-middle-aged waitress behind the bar. heh. I don't think she was reassured when the following exchange took place as we were lvng.:

Waitress, looking concerned and a little awed (I'm sure she thought we wouldn't be able to get off of our bar stools): Y'all have a nice day, okay? You're not driving are you?
Me, slightly buzzed and amused that this total stranger was so concerned abt. our well-being: Oh, no, ma'am, we're walking, don't you worry.
Trey, having more difficulty containing his drunken glee: Yeah, we're walking -- to the next bar!!

hahaha... riiight... So we did walk to the next bar, where we had a few more drinks before I deposited Trey back at his dorm. He had an RA mtg. to get to at 530, and I received a rather amusing text msg. fr. him as I was driving back to Asheville. It said, "Holy shit, I'm supposed to lead a discussion tonight and I'm drunk!" heh. I enjoyed my drive back more than the drive there. (I get anxious when driving somewhere I've never been before b/c I worry that I've missed my turn and will wander forever in an unknown land. When I was little I didn't want to learn how to drive b/c I thought that I would one day take the wrong exit and never find my way home again.) Most of the drive was on smaller roads wending their ways through the soft mountains of upstate SC/western NC, which were covered in a mist that hovered just above them, allowing one to enjoy the hazy effect without being worried by hazardous roads.

The next morning I woke up early to a cold but clear, bright day. I stuffed my face at the complimentary breakfast buffet downstairs, packed up the car, checked out of my room, and started out for Biltmore. Turning in to the gates, I knew that I was going to love it. And I also knew I was so glad to be there alone, at least for my first visit. The driveway is smthg. like five miles long, and you go about two miles of it before getting to the welcome center/ticket distribution place. I was already wondering how much a yr.-long pass would be. When I got to the front of the line and learned that the cost was significantly reduced for the month of Feb., I couldn't say no. So now I have yr. pass to Biltmore. Pls. come visit me so that we can go. When I finally made it to the parking area, I scoffed at the tourists herding together at the shuttle stop, shivering in the early morning chill and looking at me as if I were actually wearing a dunce cap when I passed them by, opting instead to walk the half mile to the house. (Honestly, it's no wonder ppl. in this country are so fat. We're weenies. Lazy, stupid weenies.)

I was mildly surprised to find that, upon reaching the house, I was more taken with the view and the landscape than with the house itself. I'd always thought I would run toward the house like Melanie running to meet Ashley in GWTW, so long had I waited and wanted to see it, but instead I spent the next three hrs. running around the grounds, taking more pictures of trees and snow than anyone would care to see. At one point, I had to force myself to put my camera away and put my hands in my pockets b/c I was losing all sensation in my fingers. The gardens were a bit stark since it was winter, but there were a few early buds peeking through, glittering in a coating of ice that had yet to melt in the morning sun, and the conservatory was was a happy hideaway of tropical warmth and color which my frozen hands were especially happy to see. After spending nearly an hr. in the conservatory, I took off through the rest of the gardens in search of the "Woodland Trail," which turned out to be a path through the woods and over the hills that reminded me so much of Kemback Forest outside of St. A's that I felt happier than I have since the last time I went for a walk there w/Marion, Olley, Eamonn, and Abdul. In fact, most of the landscape reminded me greatly of Scotland, which is perhaps why I enjoyed it so much. Lost in my recent malaise and ennui, I had nearly forgotten what it was like to get so much pleasure out of simply walking and breathing. I've been desperate to get back to Scotland since I left it, and it was...soothing to find smthg. comparable to (though not quite as good as) the country that has oddly become more like home to me than that in which I have lived most of my life.

One further factor that made the morning so pleasant for me was that there was no one else around. Perhaps due to the rather low temperatures, no one seemed interested in walking the grounds further than the conservatory, leaving the snow untouched, the songbirds without competition, and creating a solitude of the rare sort that leads one to think, if only for the shortest time, that the world is yours and it is happy. What's great abt. having no one around is that you don't have to hear them, don't have to be constantly subjected to the aural assault that is human communication. It was so quiet that as the temperature rose (slightly), the ice coating the leaves in the trees started to melt and the sounds of the forest were increasingly punctuated by the delicate crackling of the ice separating from itself and from the leaves, followed, after an anticipatory silence, by the determined click of the water splashing onto the hard, still-frozen ground. Fucking Zen, I tell you.

The house itself was, of course, stunning. Though it was overshadowed by its natural environment, I do think Biltmore may be one of the best domiciles I have yet visited. The place is categorically huge; there's no two ways abt. it. But it manages to get its point across ("I have more money and living space than God") w/o making you choke on it and also w/o making you forget that it's a house. When I went to see Versailles last spring, it was hard to be impressed, really, b/c you couldn't take it seriously as a place where ppl. lived and did normal living thgs. like dancing naked in your room, or arguing w/your siblings, or breathing. It was just *too* big. I know the point of Versailles was to be a stage on which the French monarchy could display its wealth and potency, but I think it served/serves that purpose rather too well. When walking through the chamber in which les reines francaises birthed their royal progeny, all I could picture was Marie Antoinette in full court dress w/her ridiculous three ft. tall powdered hair towering above, sitting bolt upright in bed, legs wide open, skirts pulled up just enough to allow a newborn babe to pass through w/o suffocating on her layers of satin and lace, and looking slightly bored with the whole thg. B/C I think that's what life would be if it was that contrived. Boring.

Anyhow, fast-forwarding a few centuries back to the material point, Biltmore isn't like that. It is unquestionably impressive, but you can picture ppl. living there. You can imagine what it must have been like for little Cornelia Vanderbilt to tear ass through those long corridors, squealing and sliding on the hardwood floors, and jumping on the beds that look smaller than normal beds only b/c the rooms in which they sit are so large. You can look out of the windows and understand why a Yankee fr. NY would want to choose that spot in the backwoods mountains of NC as the place on which he built his escape fr. everythg. real. The toilets and bathrooms are featured prominently in the tour b/c they were cutting edge for the time (all indoor plumbing w/flush toilets), so you are left w/no uncertainties abt. whether or not ppl. digested at Biltmore b/c you even understand the exact flushing mechanism involved in removing the end product of that bodily process. Point is, while jaw-droppingly amazing in its scale and accoutrement, it doesn't alienate you. It doesn't make you hate it b/c it's so much more than you will ever be, it isn't completely incomprehensible, and it isn't tacky, an unfortunate pitfall for many large homes. It's just pretty. And gracious. And looking at the art in there (Geo. Vanderbilt collected pencil drawings, mostly portraits [my favorite], including several by Duhrer) made me cry for the first time since seeing the Sistine Chapel three yrs. ago. (Made me cry over art, I mean, not made me cry for the first time in three yrs., as well you all know -- haha...)

So, yeah. I loved it. Eli and I are going together at the end of the month.

I plan to add more to this entry, but Eli is increasingly jealous of the computer, so I will publish what I have to this point and try to pick it up tomorrow. But b/c it's me, I probably won't get around to it until Mon. or Wed. when I have a huge break in my school day and like to do thgs. like post on my blog rather than use my time efficiently by, oh, say, studying.

Quote of the Day:
"I think that plastic bottle in the gutter is a form of American art. Americans are the white trash of the world." -- Eli, pretty perceptive for someone whose only experience w/foreign travel involved an M-16 and and a flak jacket he had to wear in 120 degree heat.

Will write soon...

And when I do, you will have the following topics to look forward to:

-- My trip to Biltmore (I may even inc. pictures!)

-- Pancake Day/Mardi Gras memories
-- Why it is important to email or otherwise contact me at least once a month, OR, How I narrowly escaped an awkward conversation w/Ben's parents
-- An update on the infamous basket
--Some other stuff I meant to mention next time I wrote, but now cannot remember....hmmm...

You know you want it.

Quote of the Day:
"I'm not being vindictive, I'm just being fair... I'm not angry, I just don't want her to fucking have anythg." -- some twat across the cubicle fr. me, who seems to interpret 'fair' and 'not angry' the way Fox News interprets 'fair and unbiased'.