Seriously? The sexy librarian?

GAH. I am so worked up that John McCain, whom I previously mostly supported and even received e-mails from him (his campaign, not himself personally, ala Obama and Scarlett) has SCREWED OVER THE ENTIRE PARTY with his ridiculous n00b, barely postpartum, obviously pandering VP candidate.

And now I'm tired and watching National Treasure and rediscovering why I am a history major. Because clearly why pursue law school when one can run around in pretty dresses doing God knows what but presumably she has a doctorate and is also "trained to handle delicate documents" and whatevs, I just want to be the waitress that Nicolas Cage picks up and impregnates next.

What? WHAT? SO I DON'T SHOOT HIGH. My parents are kind of proud of me, dammit.

Oh, also? Imladris is home and there is much jubilation and drinking. Can you tell?

Today was kind of boring, except for the part with Colleen coming home and the drinking. I'm wicked tired, had to get up super-early for Mass because I missed it yesterday.

Discovered two things during Mass- one, while I adore St. Eugene's and would never, ever leave, I kind of TOTALLY wish we had a pretty church like St. Monica's. And not just because I found myself mentally cataloguing all the late Gothic architectural elements (because that actually got distracting when I was writing an essay in my head about the transept instead of concentrating on the Lamb of God), but because it's all big! and pretty! and churchy! And there is a real baptismal fountain instead of a Jacuzzi and some palm fronds.

(Ugh. I kind of hate my parish sometimes when I actually stop to think about it.)

Second, it's really weird to see someone who you've kind of accepted as "your" priest being pastor somewhere else. I don't know why, but it didn't really occur to me that the guy I see being my pastor several times a week (well, at least the last month since the alcohol stopped working so much for the grief) would be saying Mass this morning somewhere else. Not sad or anything, like when Father Ken left, but just...weird.

Also, Padre? Why when I have nowhere to be is Mass over in 49 freaking minutes but this morning when I had to change and get to work you rambled about St. Peter for like THE WHOLE HOUR? Not cool, dude. Not cool.

But I got to work on time and goofed off with Derrick for awhile (There was Madonna. And dancing.) and completely restrained myself from throwing bags of coffee at the bikers (oh yes, they were plural) who ordered iced coffee but really wanted and iced flavored latte and dear, Lord, HOW IS IT THAT I DON'T HAVE A MASTERS YET!?!??!

I'm going to go have a Manhattan. Have a lovely sleep-in tomorrow. Unless you have to work, in which case your life sucks and my prayers are with you.

More embarrassing revelations.

The Sound of Music is on ABC Family RIGHT NOW and I am ridiculously excited. It's the part where the kids go storm the convent and are all "ZOMG YOU MUST LET US TALK TO MARIA DADDY HAS A NEW WHORE AND DOESN'T LOVE US ANYMORE!!!" and the nuns are, "Um, I think not. She's praying or something..." and the little one's like, "Bitch, look at my boo-boo." And the nun's like, "Oh, God, there is a REASON I have a vocation. This womb wasn't made for nurturing, Lord."

I love that movie.

Anyhoodles, you know Hamlet 2? Which is supposed to be hilarious and offensive and hilarious again? Yeah. I must see it. First of all, I am a whore for a fun kicky musical story. And I find the idea of Hamlet 2 hilarious. Also, I had the sneaking suspicion that at some point I adored Steve Coogan, even I couldn't remember when or why. So I searched him on IMDB, and DUDE HE WAS COUNT MERCY IN MARIE ANTOINETTE.

This is the embarrassing revelation. Not the fact that I freaking adored Marie Antoinette and even bought the DVD, which is embarrassing in and of itself, but that during the initial theater viewing of said movie (Yes, I paid to see it. On opening weekend. *shame* THERE WERE LOTS OF OTHER PEOPLE IN THE THEATER I AM NOT THAT WEIRD.), I totally kind of thought Mercy was hot. Like, I was pretty sure I wouldn't have wanted to talk about how my husband found having sex with me a physical impossibility around him.

At the time I thought it was just because I kind of find the idea of the historical Count Mercy adorable, you know, how she kept him around way longer than she needed to because she was lonely, kind of like when you find sixteen reasons to call your mom when you're lonely. And he was all like, "Oh, it's okay. You'll get to have sex eventually. I mean, you can only miss so many times, right? Right? Please say right. I really want to go back to Austria and NOT DIE BY THIS NEWFANGLED GUILLOTINE. I signed up for driving a 14-year-old across the border. I DID NOT WANT THIS. *ahem* Love ya, hon."

Now I'm pretty sure it's just because I adore Steve Coogan.

I feel old.

I helped my sister move into the dorms today, or rather I sat in the lobby because eleventy jillion people in a teensy weensy little suite? Maybe not so much fun and also may spook the roommate.

And while I was sitting in the lobby watching the masses of heavily eyelinered, skinny jeans-wearing, slouchy incoming freshmen, I noticed several boys wearing the same (heinous) outfit.

Apparently, it's considered attractive for young men to wear sleeveless t-shirts with the sides cut out. Like, really, gone. There was just a band around the waist. I saw like sixteen different boys wearing a shirt like this, and it absolutely astounded me.

I have never seen it before. I have missed and ENTIRE trend. I am only 20, and these kids today are completely not even consulting me long enough to mock, for heaven's sake. (Much like I did with the boys-wearing-girls pants trend. Grow up, Pete Wentz. You're going to be a father.)

So now I'm old. *sigh*

And yet, I want to be a perpetual student.

This afternoon I was driving home and passed Cardinal Stritch. It was small. It was pretty. There was a parking lot. That you parked in, and then walked into the buildings. It was like Concordia, but with the Blessed Mother. I had walked three blocks one-way to one of two bookstores only to discover that all my books were actually more expensive there than on Amazon. And then I seriously considered transferring.

So, the whole perpetual student thing. I know, I know, you thought I was over this. The general law school vs. history thing hasn't shown up here a lot, and that's really been my only issue for over a year. In terms of a solid academic trajectory, barring major flubs like failing the GRE, I'm pretty much set.

But today I was reading a fantastic book by the guy who wrote My Life with the Saints, about his work as theological advisor to an off-Broadway troupe doing a play about Judas. Even discounting my glee as I paged through the photo insert and realized that the guy playing Satan was TOTALLY THE CAPTAIN ON LAW AND ORDER: CRIMINAL INTENT AND DO YOU REALLY KNOW GOREN???, I loved it really. And it made me feel smart, because in the "For Further Reading" section, he recommends John Meier's A Marginal Jew for the "truly ambitious". AND I'VE TOTALLY READ THAT. *self-satisfied squee*

That's right. I'm truly ambitious. So while I'm not going to be completely irresponsible and abandon the history Ph.D thing (which is still what I want to do for a career), I think I'm going to go for a doctorate in theology or religious studies too. Maybe concurrently or possibly right afterwards (really, once you've defended one thesis, what's the big deal about the second?), but I think I definitely want to supplement my background in "secular" history (history is very rarely secular, particularly before 1700) with graduate studies in theology.

And not just so I can meet Law and Order cast members.

Apparently there is a bird that you cannot change. Who knew?

So...went with the fam to see Lynard Skynard tonight, because they are The Artist Formerly Known As The Boy's favorite band evah omg. They were at some Harley gathering. There were 30,000 of them.

And me.

I'm trying to put this delicately. In a way that doesn't make me sound like a horrible snob, because while I am kind of a snob, I swear to God that's not what I mean here. These people make more money than I ever will, even if I have to sell my Ph.D to make rent. No, it's just that...they're not really my people.

I'm fairly confident that out of the crown of thirty thousand, I was the only one wearing a Josh Groban sweatshirt, listening to Mozart, and reading about the Easter Rising.

So it was just kind of awkward because I got the feeling that each and every one of them (including the women) could WIPE THE FLOOR WITH ME.

I'm really bad at the being young thing, so I have no desire to go stand in a pulsing mob of my peers listening to a band I actually like and getting beer poured on my head. I have less desire to stand in a pulsing mob of baby boomers listening to somebody scream "The South shall rise again!" and getting beer poured on my head by someone my father's age wearing a Confederate flag bandanna.

Guess which one happened?

And, oh, the second-hand smoke. And the saggy boobs. Lord, if I never see a boob that really should be supported but is instead shoved into a thin tank top that may or may not be lacking an actual BACK, I will be happy.

So when I marry that rich guy so that I don't have to sell my Ph.D to make rent, I'd better make sure he's not into motorcycles. Because there is no way I would do this for anyone other than my brother.

In which I live up to my family name...

...and royally freak out.

Doesn't happen often. But when it does, you can bet your ass it will have something to do with school. Because the normally rational me completely goes BATSHIT CRAZY whenever you mix academics and any amount of stress (and, um, I don't know if you noticed, but I've become an incredibly devout alcoholic, which is not entirely normal behavior). This could explain why when I think about taking the doctoral preliminary exams, I break out in a cold sweat and want to dry heave because WHAT IF I FAIL? THEN WHAT? BECAUSE I CAN ONLY RETAKE IT ONCE AND IF I DON'T HAVE A DOCTORATE MY CAREER PROSPECTS WILL BE EVEN WORSE THAN DISMAL AND NO ONE WILL LOVE ME AND I CANNOT WORK RETAIL FOR THE REST OF MY LIFE IS THAT WHITE ZINFANDEL????

Just a little bit.

Headed down to UnWed Mothers today to buy books and get UPasses and walk Imladris around and generally take care of pre-school stuff. Bought about half of my books. They were inexpensive and depending on how much of a personality change the professor has undergone over the summer, I may be able to return one or two of them. Happiness. Got my bus pass, and took Colleen around to find her rooms. Yay.

Then I picked up a bus schedule.

And proceeded to freak right out.

THEY CHANGED MY ROUTE. The beautiful little schedule that I have had the ENTIRE time I've been at UWM, a schedule I could recite in my sleep, one I depend on and can even figure out when they're going to be late. IS GONE.

They've added a stop at MATC North and changed the times and now I'm very confused and have to wait around until after two every day to be picked up and on Monday and Wednesdays I only have eight minutes and what if they're running late? Believe me, I've tried to get from Mequon to Brown Deer during rush hour and IT CANNOT BE DONE IN A TIMELY FASHION I WILL HAVE TO DROP OUT *WOE*.

Then I calmed down and actually read the route on the back and discovered that the route avoids the freeway, so it shouldn't be late. So perhaps the rending of garments and gnashing of teeth was slightly uncalled for. And I actually get to leave later in the mornings for a few days. So, um. Yeah.

I'm still confused and it will take a little while to memorize the new times, but I'm back to my calm, cool, collected (shut up) self.

I know you're all thrilled.

Jon and Kate Plus 8 is WAY more my style.

We're watching the Democratic National Convention. Or rather, we're watching three fake pundits on PBS talking about the Democratic National Convention. Because the real pundits on actual networks (except Comedy Central, which will be beginning it's Daily Show coverage tomorrow night- and I am way too thrilled for a halfway intelligent student of international history and politics) don't come on until nine, and other than Michelle Obama debuting her brand new White House Black Market find, not much is going on tonight.

Oh, I'm sorry. There's also a tribute to Teddy Kennedy, who is still alive but apparently not letting that stop him getting his glory. I'm so glad I live in a nation that puts together glorified PowerPoint presentations of murderers to some ridiculous power ballad. (ETA: They're using Orleans' "Still the One". Oh, *barf*.) This is really what the founding fathers had in mind. Well. Maybe Franklin. He was kind of a loose cannon.

Meh. I like politics, I really do. That's why I was initially involved in international relations, because I loved the political arena but certainly didn't want to run for office. (I did a three-paragraph reading at my grandfather's funeral in the church I've spent my entire life in, in front of pretty much immediate family and Mary laughing behind my back, and I ALMOST DIED RIGHT THERE. Actually. That would have been dramatic, and at least I would have gone out in a pretty dress. Huh. Anyway, somehow I didn't think public office would be the most amazing career choice.)

(OH MY GOD THEY ARE INTRODUCING CAROLINE KENNEDY WITH SWEET CAROLINE. I think I might throw up.)

("Barack Obama makes them feel hopeful like they did when my father was President." Oh, bite me, Caroline. The best thing that happened to your father's political career was his death. Had he lived, we all would have been screaming, "Hey, hey, JFK, how many babies did you kill today?" That is, if he hadn't already run the country into the ground because he SUCKED at domestic policy and we were actually damn lucky that the Russians started building nukes in Cuba because at least it distracted him from SCREWING US OVER at home. *ahem*)

(Okay, back to the real post.)

But while I'm interested in current politics, I'm really more of a historian. The part of politics that absolutely fascinates me is the way in which the political process is used to create (and destroy) countries and empires. This is part of the reason I'm an Article III groupie, because the privilege that the Court has is the ability to make history with every single decision, and they're (at least on paper) free from the disenchanting, unpleasant side of politics.

So listening to hours of newbie Democratic senators crying over how alive Barack Obama makes them feel? Makes me want to drink. (Which I am! Because this month has sucked! And I hate the world!)

And I'm not remotely a Democrat. Occasionally, I try to convince myself that I am. I think, being young, that my entire society tells me that the only thing worse than not being a Democrat is killing African AIDS babies by beating them with the body of a kitten that you've gutted while your grandmother watched. But I'm really not.

I'm a Republican. I'm a rather independent, tolerant, middle-of-the-road Republican, but I am a Republican nonetheless. I don't have a problem with gay unions, I'm against the death penalty, I am against any and all wars on principle, I think we need some health care reform, and I certainly don't always agree with Bush. But I'm fiscally conservative, I think that less government (at least in the context of our political system) is better. And DO NOT GET ME STARTED ON ABORTION.

I'm also cynical enough to realize that private industry is good for the economy. Seriously. It is. Take a history class. Any history class.

(Side Note: The phone just rang and I looked at the clock to see if it was nine o'clock. Now I'm going to get another drink.)

So I'm voting for McCain in November, even though I don't agree with him on everything. Now you know.

Although, only because they took Stephen Colbert off the list. Because I would become a Wiccan, Green Party member if that man told me to.

From Liberace...

Mary and I should not be allowed to sit next to each other at Mass. Because there is usually too much to laugh over, and then it just gets inappropriate.

So, book update! I still think I would be totally okay just using my own Bible in replacement of the NSRV one. I'd probably have to work harder at finding citations, but I could probably figure it out. Not really an issue, though, because Mary I had a stroke of genius and did a library search for all of my books. And guess what? SEVEN of them are available from my local library. I am thrilled. It will be kind of complicated, because sometime in November I'll have to return everything and check it out again, but it has the potential to save me HUNDREDS of dollars. Half of me is like, "Well, but what if someone else orders them? THEN WHAT STUPID PERSON?" And half of me is like, "Shut up, now we don't have to take up stripping."

Guess which half is winning?

This means I may actually be able to pay cash for everything and not have to max out my credit line, which would be amazing because I kind of totally have to do that next semester after the lovely familial gifts run out. But I'm not going to think about that! Not ever! *grins wildlly in denial*

I need to hang out with more religious studies majors.

Finally it looks like all of my books have at least been ordered, if they aren't already in the bookstore. Of course, it isn't the bookstore that's easy to get to, with a parking lot RIGHT THERE, but the one on the edge of campus and isn't nearly as pretty but also doesn't have distractingly cute sweatshirts (okay, they're few and far between, but if you look hard you can find some) that you can't buy because you are totally broke, so I guess it evens out.

This, obviously, allows me to kind of figure out how much they're going to be, and then do a quick internet search for "pimps" because mama needs another job STAT.

It actually doesn't look too bad- most are relatively inexpensive. Using the highest amazon prices I could find and rounding up, most of them only come to about $375. Three I couldn't find online, but even allowing about $50 for each, it's still less than $550, which is what I was kind of figuring.

Except one thing. My Hebrew studies class as five books. FIVE. I'm not even JEWISH, for God's (or rather, Christ's) sake!!! My Ireland class (which I am ancestrally tied to) only has two.

My issue- two of the five are Bibles. I have a bunch of Bibles already. The first required book is a Jewish Bible, so I'm guessing that one would be a little bit different (probably notsomuch on the Resurrection), but the second one is the NSRV. It's not allowed for liturgical use, but the USCCB even approved it for study. So how different would that be from my New American Bible? Could I not just follow along? I mean, I already know the major plot points. And it would save me probably around $30, which would be a major spiritual blessing.

I need a theology major roommate. It would make book shopping so much easier.

Wakeup with Morena.

It's really early. And Morena is not amused.

I was going to get up and go to Mass this morning, which isn't the part I'm annoyed with. I wanted to, 7:30 really isn't that early, I could, in theory, go to the church closer to my house that is later if I didn't have an irrational aversion to all churches but mine and feel like they were playacting the Mass, blah blah.

No, my issue is with the fact that I could get NO sleep last night. It was eleventy jillion degrees in my bedroom (and we know I can't open the windows and let in all those serial killer hacker people who are TOTALLY waiting in my front yard, confounded only by our cheap windows), and I slept probably like an hour. At least until quarter after five, when I fell asleep.

You can imagine that when my alarm went off at 5:45 I really could care less about the American Heart Association's recommended daily exercise advisement. They, frankly, could go screw themselves.

Of course, my lovely little graduated alarm thing doesn't turn off that easily and woke me up for good nine minutes later, by which point someone who shall remain nameless announced they were going out in public without brushing their teeth and then, well, after that the nausea kept me away.

So. I'm going to go shower my unellipticalled self and BRUSH MY TEETH BECAUSE I AM A CIVILIZED HUMAN BEING.

Have a lovely morning.

Because you really need *more* information about my life.

No, clearly Facebook is too demure. The never ending spout of stuff you never really needed to know about another person that is this blog, modest. Because now! Now I have Twitter! That's right, ladies and gentlemen, linked on the sidebar, you can see what I'm up to. Or you could get it yourself and we could talk! Without picking up the phone! Or even Facebook messaging! Because clicking that little "compose message", oh, so much work.

You may now begin to mock mercilessly.

Also found a lovely new template on some website that I'm pretty sure infected my computer with a virus. But look at the pretty coffee cup!

***

I'll bet you're all, like, dying to know what's going on with the washer, right? I know I was.

Luckily for my dignity and immortal soul, I did not have to proposition the repair guy. Within moments he was like, "Um, yeah, I think you have something caught in the pipe." Sure enough, there was what used to be a sock stuck in the drainage pipe, thus illuminating the mystery of where all those socks really do go. They get sucked into the machine and then result in a costly home visit! That's where!!!

Got it out, it's working fine, and I even did a load of towels. And then said a rosary in thanks. I even refrained from correcting the repairman's grammar, even under my breath, because I felt as though he were operating on my baby.

And also I'm not a huge awful person. Well. Not all the time.

You never think it's going to happen to you.

So you know my reason for living washing machine? The beautiful, wonderful, ginormous machine that makes my life so much easier?

Yeah. It's broken.

During a cycle this morning it started making HORRIFIC noises, noises that were not made to come from a washing machine. I ran out of the bathroom where I was straightening my hair (This, let me tell you, was an interesting sight. Half the head was already blown out and in two separate pigtails, and the other half was wet and frizzy. I looked lovely. Shocking that I'm not in a relationship, right?) and threw myself at it, possibly screaming and crying and begging God that if He lets this stop I will totally sacrifice my firstborn son, or, you know, a lamb or something look, I'm not sure what You're into now, Catholics pretty much let the whole Old Testament thing slide.

It stopped making the noise. I went back to my hair.

Ten minutes later, John announces that, um, maybe there's water? All over the floor?

Oh. Shit. I huddled in the corner rocking back and forth thinking of my happy place (which, incidentally, includes CLEAN TOWELS).

Not actually that huge a deal, because for some reason this week our family is fairly brimming with washing machines that aren't being used. Or, I could, I supposed, venture back to the laundromat.

Which actually just makes me think about the Norman invasion of England and the Crusades because I spent the entire time sitting there studying for my history midterm. So now when I think about communal washers I think about Innocent III. :)

ETA: Apparently somebody will be over tomorrow. "Now, that doesn't mean that it will be fixed tomorrow," my mother warned. Oh. Oh, it will be fixed. If I have to offer inappropriate favors and possibly threats against his family, it will be fixed.

ETA 2: Goodbye to Mickey! And Spawn of Mickey! You other two readers will really have to step it up in the comments section the next few days.

Attention all Gentlemen...

...I have found my engagement ring. Anyone who may in the future consider proposing? I'd like this ring. Just so you know.

And I also really want this one because oh! So old! And pretty! And medieval! And I'd love to walk around with an amethyst ring from 1450!

I've decided that from now on, all my jewelry must be vintage pre-1750. So, shop accordingly for Christmas.

That is all.

Last Night, on Mad Men

Last Sunday of Lent:

Peggy: Y hello thar, Father.

Fr. Colin Hanks: *is adorable* Help me with my sermon? I'm totes scared.

Peggy: Oh, is that what the kids are calling it these days?

Peggy's sister: *smolders*

Meanwhile, at the Draper's: There is sex. A lot of sex.

Palm Sunday:

Peggy's Sister: Bless me Father, for I have sinned. My last confession was two weeks ago and OMG MY SISTER IS A BIG WHORE. Seriously. FILTHY WHORE, UNDESERVING OF YOUR "FRIENDSHIP". She seduced a married man and EVERYTHING. And, oh, I'm angry about it. Um, yeah, that's my sin, being angry. That's totally why I'm here and it has nothing to do with my unsatisfying marriage.

Fr. Colin Hanks: *pouts* *is still adorable, even while pouting* Okay. Say three Hail Marys and two Our Fathers. *woe*

Meanwhile, at the Draper's: There is spousal abuse. And makeup sex.

Easter Sunday:

Peggy: Hi! I'm adorable and wholesome and ogling me is in no way a sin at all!

Fr. Colin Hanks: *still adorably pouting* Here. Have an egg. For your FILTHY LOVE CHILD that is apparently a bigger impediment to our awkward silences and meaningful stares than my vows. *woe*

Peggy: What? Wait. Have you been talking to my sister?

Fr. Colin Hanks: DO NOT SPEAK TO ME WHORE. I'm going to go pout for our relationship that now can never be because you drunkenly slept with someone.

Meanwhile, at the Draper's: Well, we don't know what happened at the Draper's, because the episode ended with the pouting. But I'm guessing there was sex. Those two are like rabbits.

So, all I can say is that if you're not watching already you TOTALLY SHOULD BE.

That is all.

Thoughts on Irish Fest

Pictures and a more complete review will be forthcoming, but oh, God, so tired, bloated, and tearful. This is not fair- I should not have to deal with a death in the family and Logan's final episode on Criminal Intent. Why, God? WHY???

So, Irish Fest was lovely for the second day in a row. One of the alter boys was ridiculously adorable. At least I hope he was just an alter boy. If he was a deacon, I'm totally going to hell. In past years, there occasionally was a Father What-A-Waste, which usually just kicks my Catholic guilt into high gear, so we thankfully avoided that this year. But the alter boy! HOT!

So were the accompanists and director of the children's choir we sat through. Accented. Lovely. I'd have taken choir if the guy directing it had looked like that.

Then it got ridiculously hot and killed my buzz.

And that's all for tonight. :D

Maybe I should write about someone else's life.

Maybe I should turn my blog into someone else's, a writerly experience, like Anonymous Lawyer.

Because, well, if I were to write about my actual day? I could write about sleeping until ten. Or balancing my checkbook. Or setting up online banking because I suddenly realized while waking up this morning that I kind of maybe had exhausted almost my entire credit line that I was planning on using to pay for books on Monday and perhaps I should find out exactly how my I had left. (Should you care: Oh, holy mother of God, not much.) Or how I managed to do my hair in only! one! hour! and this is clearly a personal victory. Or how I fell asleep for two hours this afternoon while watching Doctor Who. Or how I woke up hungry and devoured a meat pie and several chocolate chip coconut Kahlua cookies (oh so tasty). Or, finally, how I'm now too full for dinner and am watching running (Side Note: There are not words to describe my loathing for and philosophical opposition to running) and drinking a lovely glass of wine (we need more, btw).

Yes, I'm sure any of those would be just ripe for internet fodder.

But then you wouldn't get random pictures in which I look kind of halfway pretty.

My brother looks okay, too. But it's all about me. If you don't know that yet, you're reading the wrong blog.

And oh! If I was pretending to be someone else, I probably couldn't tell you that this guy? Is back. And he's friendly.

Oh, I don't really mind that I had nothing going on today, because did I mention the wine? No, really. Yesterday was kind of packed full of unpleasantness and then finally fun but still packed, and then tomorrow will be very fun (presumably there will cake) but still like four things to do and that clearly is way too many for a hermit such as myself. I'm getting tired just thinking about it.

And when, for the love of God, will I finish the Doctor Who episode I fell asleep during today?

The Fest.

It's Irish Fest weekend! And omg, so important.

Because I have just now returned from the awesome, and am a teensy bit tired (but I have a Celtic cross! And perfume! And a stomachache!), I'm giving you adorable pictures of my very first Irish Fest, twenty years ago. Yes, adorable little eleven-month-old me, rocking out at Irish Fest. With my grandma. And my mommy. Who finally had an Irish girl to dress up.

(I know the scans are terrible, but they're scans of copies of old pictures- it's not my fault, really.)

My mom actually made this little outfit, even embroidering my name on a little removable panel. She made the panel removable so that if she had another little girl, she could wear it too. Two years later when it came time for Colleen's first Irish Fest, she seriously underestimated the amount of work that two toddlers required, and instead of a whole new panel that said "Colleen", Colleen got a button that said "Colleen" pinned over the "Kath" part.

Second children. They have it so difficult.

I think someone had taken away my Irish Fest baby in this picture. I had a little doll that said "Thank God I'm Irish" that I was clearly enamored with, because I'm playing with it in every other picture from that day). But it's not in this one, and I look a little bit peeved about something, so I'm guessing that's it.

Please note the '80s sunglasses. And the fact that my crazy mother has me in a sweatshirt (also with my name painted on, with little shamrocks, in case someone should catch a glimpse of me and think that I wasn't Irish enough) in August.

Good times.

Suddenly, the fact that they HAVEN'T RELEASED A REAL TRAILER YET kind of makes sense.

Harry Potter 6 movie pushed to Summer '09. DAMN! I was totally looking forward to generally embarrassing myself in, like, two months. And now I have to wait a YEAR before I get to see Alan Rickman run like a girl and kill Dumbledore?

Why must you toy with me? Why, WB, why?

Gah. Hate the world.

I'm stealing links today, because the Potter scandal has thoroughly deflated me. *tear*

Frankly, more movies need to call Johnny Depp "king of the world". (So I know the Latin. Shut up, I know I'm a dork.) I'm intrigued by the concept, and edified that look! Johnny likes history too! Fake history that comes from a comic book and let's face it, even the "real" history it's based on is not so much with the real but I don't care! Clearly we're meant for each other, right? RIGHT!?!?

*ahem*

Anyway, I'll be there with bells on.

Finally, Colin Hanks to guest on Mad Men. OMG! OMG! OMG! I love Colin Hanks. I love Mad Men. I LOVE THEM TOGETHER EVEN MORE!!!

(Also, take a look at the picture and laugh at how much he looks like his dad. Haha.)

I'm just guessing, but the story line has the potential to be interesting. Last season Peggy had a fling with her soon-to-be-married co-worker and ended up pregnant but didn't realize it until she gave birth. Her crazy-conservative family still doesn't know she had the baby. I'm thinking maybe they find out? And some shit hits the fan?

Cannot wait.

Joey Cheek on the The Colbert Report

Because I am so unbelievably tired and have nothing else to say except that I really regret that I lack the strong black Irish features that allow one to carry off a lovely scarf and cool earrings but instead possess the ruddy shanty-Irish complexion that only allows you to wear one color at a time and God help you if that color is red.

Oh, and I really, really like days off from the painting. Because the open sore on my finger is preventing me from even holding a pencil or makeup brush. (NO!!! THE HORROR!!!)

So. Here you go. It's...well, it's not as funny as the show normally is, because Cheek seems unable to realize that he's on the frickin Colbert Report, despite the fact that he's the core demographic (college kids without actual jobs). But two years ago when he was an Olympian my mother inexplicably decided that he was my intended and clearly I had to marry him and she would start buying clothes for our adorable sports-savvy babies.

No. I don't know why.

Yet another example of how practical a degree in art history actually is.

Much like first-year psychology students who find themselves unable to go home for Thanksgiving because they fear sleeping with their moms and the resulting castration at the hands of their fathers who are really, really pissed that they slept with their moms, art history students are unable to complete everyday tasks without intellectual contamination.

For instance- painting. If you are, say, shown to a room, handed a can of primer, and left alone with just the Killz fumes and a friend who the same educational background and indeed has spent many, many lectures giggling over the Ecstasy of St. Theresa with you? Madness will ensue.

You will begin to harmonize with Josh Groban singing Vincent, with some slight variations that made very little sense three years ago when they first entered your personal lexicon (SQUIRREL!!!) and less so now. You will start to laugh about Youth Camp 200-whatever, because you can't remember what year it was but you know you were also painting and singing spirituals from memory, which isn't a lot (although I realized this morning that I totally remember the entire song that they play at the end of the Mass with exposition, a little reminder of the countless Mondays I served in my early teens).

But perhaps most tellingly, you feel that you are overqualified simply to paint the wall white. You know too much. Surely my mother actually meant a triptych? With a Madonna? And the Christ child? And John the Baptist? Arranged artfully in the pyramid shape? After all, I have not spent countless hours and pages learning how to do just that to waste my talents.

I know what colors to use, I know that all the angles must be actually pointing to the Child, and what to stick in the background just to rack up the grace points for those poor illiterate fools that these paintings were usually aimed at. (Survey says crosses and other indications of future Passion-ness score rather high, other saints and Bible stories lower.) Hell, I could even date it approximately by how cute Jesus is- if it looks like an actual baby and not this weird anthropomorphic little man? Post- 1500.

But then a breeze cleared out some of the fumes and I realized that I actually have no talent, at anything (including priming, as it looked, well, not like HGTV, when I was finished), and am only good at memorizing other people's accomplishments. It was sad really.

Well, at least until Gwen Stefani's The Sweet Escape came on and I seriously embarrassed myself by rocking out.

My emotional insecurities- let me show you them!

Or would you rather see my injuries?

No snark today, I promise. I'm too tired. Emotionally and physically, although currently physically is winning.

As though the actual dying wasn't enough, we also have a house to deal with. Fortunately (I guess), my family and I are polar opposites. My mom and sister can't deal with the physical changing of the house, but are perfectly content to spend eight hours going through piles of papers. I have very little problem with washing walls that another family painted when my grandparents still lived in another state, but while I was moving stuff so I could clean said walls I ran across a bag from Stemper's filled with cards that were (of course) itemized on the front of the bag and it said, "2 Granddaughter birthday " and burst into tears.

It actually works out quite well. Hand me the Killz and let me put my iPod on shuffle and pretend that it's somebody else's- anybody else's- bathroom. Y'all can deal with letters and pictures and clothing and all that stuff.

Well, at least I thought it was a good deal until I spent five (yes, five) hours scraping the ceiling. Do you know how difficult it is to scrape a ceiling when you are the same height as a hobbit? Very. I burned my wrist on the light (huh, I know how the CSI:NY episode worked now), lost feeling in my thumb, somehow took a gouge out of my finger without realizing it, and cannot move my right shoulder. And it still didn't all come off.

My mom walked in and asked what we the hell we were going to do with it. I'll tell you what we're going to do with it. We're going to paint it and call it faux-finishing. And if anybody begs to differ, they will get to view the scar on my wrist.

Oh, hey! Speaking of shuffle, I heard a lot of great songs that I haven't heard in a long time today. Like the ending to the Resurrection piece of the Passion of the Christ? Lovely. And Avril Lavigne! I forgot how much I love her! She speaks to my pasty white angriness.

I'm going to go die in a corner now. See you tomorrow.

Olympic Self-Loathing

So, you guys know me, right? I mean, you're all related to me, and you've been reading my drivel for, like, over three years now. (You know, back when blogging was cool and something that people who didn't have fertility issues did.) Ergo, you know that blogging? Is pretty much the only thing I've managed to stick with.

EVER.

I have a horse in the backyard. A flute upstairs in my closet that I actually received as a gift for Christmas because my parents got tired of paying rental fees TWO YEARS after I stopped taking lessons. I've changed my major five times, finally giving up because I'm too damn old and if I'm going to be in school for the rest of my life at least it won't be undergrad.

Girl Scouts, horseback riding, piano, flute, horseback riding, 4H, that random homeschooling group, I've dropped all of them. Most for good reasons (no talent, what the hell kind of Kool-Aid are they drinking in 4H anyway?, I was the world's worst homeschooler) some for bad (I don't like socializing. Ever.).

Well, upstairs next to my flute is a leotard, because, once upon a time, I was a gymnast. I was pretty good, too- I made the team. I quit though, because the daily practice and twice weekly *choke* ballet classes were seriously cutting into the time I normally reserved for reading Nancy Drew books and, I don't know, picking at my feet or something. What? I don't remember what I was doing around age 10. Whatever.

I'm not terribly broken up about it. Probably for the best, as shortly after this I woke up one morning and needed a C-cup. And also? I really like my neck as it is- a different entity from my shoulders.

But watching these ridiculously talented and YOUNG! gymnasts bopping around like nobody's business is almost as depressing as watching the figure skating. You know, when the prepubescent beauty spends fourteen hours a day skating and somehow has time to sing Christmas carols with old people and cure AIDS too!

*scoffs* It disgusts me.

If there is one thing I dislike, it's watching people who are several years younger than me and in way better shape accomplish things. At least, I don't like doing that without a glass of wine. Well. It's a good thing that's not happening tonight!!!

Good days and bad days.

Today? Not so much a good day.

I suppose it wouldn't be when you hang out at a cemetery and realize that you are hugely in debt- not only the lovely financial aid debt that doesn't really count because you don't have to think about that for, like, years, especially if you are on the never ever leave not ever plan for graduation, but real credit card OMG PAY US NOW OR WE WILL CHARGE YOU EXORBITANT INTEREST BECAUSE YOU HAVE NO CREDIT RATING AND WE DON'T CARE THAT YOUR GRANDFATHER DIED AND YOU NEEDED A DRESS MWAHAHAHA.

Yeah. That kind.

But did actually manage to get writing on the crypt, so we're what? Nine years ahead of schedule? And they had better be able to fit "Elizabeth" on there, so help me God, because I did not waste like seven good years of my childhood learning to spell my ridiculously long name if I don't get to see my namesake's actual name on the damn wall.

And then I may have yelled at my parents and made them choose a burial site because they've been pussyfooting around for my entire life about where they're going to go and I DO NOT WANT YOU TO DIE IN A CAR CRASH AND THEN I HAVE TO PICK A CEMETERY BECAUSE I KNOW WHICH ONE I WOULD PICK AND I DON'T WANT TO MAKE MY THEORETICALLY DEAD DAD MAD SO MAKE UP YOUR MINDS FOR GOD'S SAKE WHY YES I AM A LITTLE BIT STRESSED AND THE ALCOHOL DOESN'T WORK AS WELL AS IT DID TWO WEEKS AGO.

Yeah. I told you it wasn't a great summer.

Goodness. We're just capitalizing up a storm tonight aren't we?

ETA: Oooh! Michael Phelps won a race! I got all patriotic for a moment.

8-8-08

I'm rather exhausted a little bit, and am going to go watch the end of the opening ceremony (Four hours in, and USA is almost up. God, I don't know why I watch this.), so just links.

There is a special place in hell. I don't think Dante invented enough circles for people who cheat on their cancerous wives who lost a child a few years ago and then make her campaign for him for his sorry adulterous ass. I've never dealt with dead children or, obviously, campaigning, but I do know how cancer affects a family. I love my father, but if he had hurt my mother one sixteenth of how much that ratfink bastard probably hurt his wife, well, he'd never be able to come close to committing adultery again. In fact, urinating might be an issue.

What rage? I have no rage.

Creepin'

I don't like heights. I don't like bridges. Driving over a high bridge? I don't like that.

Just so you know.

***
Had planned to go to Boring Starbucks today, but discovered upon arrival that something in the shopping center had caught fire and all the trucks were seriously messing with our mojo and clearly this was a sign that God wanted us to go to the prettier Starbucks a few miles south with way more atmosphere. Obviously.

It was such a pretty day that we sat outside, which afforded us a lovely view of old people who kept removing items of clothing (with the woman it was her pants, and the guy it was his shirt- no, I'm not making this up.) and St. Monica's, which was way prettier than the crazy old naked bikers. I'm just saying.

It was so pretty that Colleen wanted to go creep on it. (In a long digression, we discovered that were she to be gang-raped walking to Mass, she would be canonized and she would become known as St. Colleen the Creeper, and the picture on her holy card would be the one of her creeping on historic Cedarburg. I look forward to the made-for-TV movie.) I don't remember much about the inside, because I was only dragged there for super-conservative confession with the Opus Dei priests (Colleen: Wait. They're real? I thought you were being sarcastic!) who wanted me to kneel and I'm sorry, I'm a baby of the nineties, I don't kneel in confession, just absolve me and leave me alone!, and that was emotionally scarring enough to block out any and all aesthetic recollections.

Finally, it was decided that we would go to Peg Bradley, tell them that I was getting married, and that Colleen and Keelin were my bridesmaids because I apparently look "mature" enough that this would totally work. Alas, they were closing. *tear*

When I got home, Bright Young Things had arrived in the mail. I am now watching it. Aside from the horrendous porn mustache marring David Tennant's lovely face, it was a good day.

Here I go again...

...ZOMG ONLY TWO HOURS UNTIL I GET TO SEE MAMMA MIA AGAIN!!!

*ahem*

Perhaps, just perhaps, Colleen will treat the entire car to her unique rendition of "Super Trouper" which had me laughing so hard I almost had an accident last week. Well, that and I got lost somewhere behind St. Monica's because I forgot I had to go back to Bayshore and why does no road just go straight, dammit???

But that's a whole different story.

Not a whole lot going on. Yesterday was a little bit exhausting, and I fell asleep this afternoon watching John Adams.

Oh, John Adams. A few thoughts. Thomas Jefferson is kind of hot. Not as hot as he usually is. I'm not sure when they decided that of the historical figures, Thomas Jefferson would get to be the cute one (sex in that cool Monticello bed just a bonus), but he always is portrayed by someone hot. This one isn't the hottest one I've seen (Shut up, I like revolutionary war dramas. Sue me.), but pretty good.

Except there's this totally awkward part in France where Jefferson is all widowered (is that a word?) and totally being weird with Abigail and she's all giggly and "OMG ur so charming" and John is all blustery and "Wut? I'm not charming? Whatevs." Which I'm pretty sure didn't happen.

It could have. Because I think it was around the time that history declared him Teh Hawt Founding Father, it also turned him into a hound dog. An undocumented, possibly-cleared-by-DNA-but-we're-not-really-too-sure-hound-dog, but one nonetheless.

Wallpaper of a Color Not Found in Nature: A Photo Essay

Alternately entitled: Why You Should Change Your Wallpaper Occasionally At Least Like Every Century or So.

Alternately Alternately entitled: I'm Betting Keelin's Mom Recognizes This Because It Hasn't Changed Since She and Mickey and Mommy Were In High School Even Though Now All Their Kids are in College.

And I thought yesterday was fun. Oh, ha! Painful photography and embarrassing service people with our family issues? Nothing. Because today I got to strip. Wallpaper.

Of course there are pictures. As Susan was tearing the paper off, she said, "Oh, I hope you took pictures," and then kind of laughed and said, "Wait. I'm telling your family to take pictures?" Yes. the family that spends half the given time for any activity documenting it for posterity. Which could explain the metric assload of Baby Spawn of Mickey #1 pictures that we found today. Colleen said there were more photographs of that child than Prince William. She's probably right.

Because we figured that maybe the metallic silver that was literally put up in 1960 (yes, for reals) wouldn't just rake in the potential inhabitants. And I sure as hell am not moving into this. I don't care how adorable the neighborhood is or how many times I've mentally placed my unborn children's cribs in the adorable bedroom upstairs. Hell no.

Um. Yeah. Look at that flowery pink, turquoise, and silvery goodness. And what's that you ask? Does it go up onto the ceiling? Why yes! Yes it does.

There it is. Covering the ceiling. When one steps inside, it's like a bright shiny cave. A bright shiny cave from the Kennedy era. Jackie would be proud.

Ooh, wait. It's too bad I don't have a picture of the kitchen, because then you could see that the turquoise flowers match the turquoise EVERYTHING in there.

Yes, folks Someone actually thought that this was pretty enough to put underneath the door handle. Dear God. We may bypass the renters altogether. Hell, I may go through menopause before this place is ready for me to live in.

Sadly, we're missing pictures of the upstairs bathroom because I left my camera downstairs. If you did have pictures, they would mostly be of my trying not to retch while standing in the tub (I'm sorry, I won't call that a shower) pulling moldy wallpaper off. Or me trying not to retch while pulling brown-stained wallpaper off from around the toilet (I don't want to know!!!) or me trying not to retch whilst discovering that the entire room is actual a horrid orange color underneath it all. And the dust and random allergens and floaty things?

I had to come home and wash my hair. Unholy things fell into it.

Skipping around, I'm amazed that man made it to 91 and didn't fall to his death down these stairs, which I, a healthy 20-year-old almost killed myself on, like, six times this afternoon. And I wasn't even drinking. Yet.

Then my brother found this DVD and it made me laugh. I'm sorry. But if you're compiling a DVD on the Pacific victories during WWII? You should know that unless "hour" is possessing of the "on" (unlikely), it does not require an apostrophe.

AHAHAHAHAHA.

*ahem*

Yeah. It's going to be a fun couple of months.

We're going to leave on a sentimental note. Being in his house isn't has wrenching as it was a few weeks ago. On the day he died I actually cried more standing in the hallway upstairs than sitting with his body that morning. (No, we're not Jewish. Just procrastinators.) That's gotten better, especially as more things get changed. But I can't get over how unreal it is that he's not there. I kept expecting him to come into the room, or walk out to the car, or answer the door. And he's not going to. There are all of his papers and notes and stuff covered in his handwriting that I can totally see him writing. Less than a month ago I took him down there to putter around for a few hours and we cleaned out his fridge. I convinced him to leave most of the stuff because it wouldn't expire before he came back home. That was less than a month ago. Maybe I just process things slower than most, but I didn't have time to get used to him being sick and dying much less gone. And that's what I think is going to take the longest to come to terms with.

Adventures in Photography

One of the drawbacks of being Catholic, along with the gnawing guilt, is that most parishes decide to periodically publish a photo directory with pictures of their members. In theory it's supposed to "help you get to know one another!", but in reality is used mostly to bring shame upon your family and allow for rude comments about other people's clothing choices.

Oh. Wait. Is that just me?

Anyhoodles, our church is doing one this summer, ostensibly to allow the new priests to "get to know us!" (Yeah. I'm sure they're sitting in the rectory making flashcards and quizzing themselves.), but again, mostly just there to piss me off.

We did one like five years ago, and...well...it wasn't pretty. Not only had I not discovered the joy that is a flatiron and thus Diana Ross probably could have looked at my hair and wondered what product I used to get such great body and volume!, but we were all pissy and annoying and kind of at each other's throats by the end.

The guy who was helping us pick? Started to swear. (That story killed at cocktail parties for years, btw.)

Not our finest moment. And the picture that we ultimately settled on? Well, it was so bad I almost had to change religions.

Needless to say, I wasn't holding out a lot of hope for tonight. I figured that if we could get away without embarrassing ourselves, it would be a successful evening. But lo! There was kind of a rocky start when the guy told me to straddle something and I don't care if it makes me immature, you cannot expect me to react appropriately to that, and the awkward when I had to kind of sit around John and then he was all, "Oh, do you want copies for the parents!?!?" and Mom was all, "My dad just died." and the guy was all, "Um...oh...I'm sorry for your loss..."

Other than that, it went fine. The picture was actually not terrible, I looked not hideous, and you totally can't tell that I was straddling my little brother.

And nobody screamed or swore or cried. So we're getting better!

Drinking. And headachy.

more cat pictures

Sometimes I amaze even myself.

Oh internets. I accomplished absolutely nothing today. Possibly even less that my sister, who apparently ate her weight in carnie curds and I'm convinced some bootleg Mike's Hard Lemonade because she was buzzing when she got home this afternoon.

No, internets, today I spent twelve hours in bed, read two books, and went to Mass. Um. Yeah. You know when people say they experiment in college? I don't think I'm going to have any of those stories. I experimented with what shirt to wear? That's about all.

I've even fallen off the LSAT/GRE wagon. And let me tell you, three hours at a wake and then another three at a post-funeral party having every friend of your mother's that you haven't seen in ten years ask, "So! What are you doing now?" doesn't actually force you into decision-making. It actually makes it more confusing. I was rotating stories by Monday night. Odd numbered people got law school, evens got history professor. Occasionally I threw in a "Oh, I work Wisconsin Ave? By the river?" for fun. But only people I didn't like.

I'm kidding. In no way did I tell anyone at my grandfather's funeral that I was hooker. At the party after? With booze. Maybe.

Because I have very little going on in my life.

My father's favorite strapping mill owner talks to Entertainment Weekly.

And complains about the heat.

See, Daddy??? Thorton would want you to keep the AC on!!!