Oh, internets. This was a lovely weekend. A busy weekend, with my dad's birthday and my cousin's birthday and out-of-town relatives and working and homework and what you wanted to sleep pssh sleep is for the weak and also, how much more food do you think it's possible to consume without exploding?
(Answer: More cake. Apparently.)
I love weekends like this where I get to see both sides of my family, especially the Confederate Brigade. Even if it is just for two hours across a table and it's all, oh, yeah, I really wish we could talk more because I haven't seen you guys since, like, July, and let's be honest, I wasn't on my A game that day, but there are like eight people in between us so I can't. Which is typically how any gathering at a restaurant that involves more than six people is like, no?
Whatever. It was wonderful.
But real life is good too. It's probably just my inner control freak, but I even had fun this evening packing up my ungodly amounts of school stuff that...um...didn't get finished this weekend. You know what? I got busy. And I'll have it all finished by the time I graduate, okay?
(Funny story: My aunt asked me today if I was thinking about going to graduate school. Ha. Hahaha. Can you tell she doesn't have Facebook?)
Anyway. I'm going to attempt to sleep now, and probably not eat any complex carbohydrate for...oooh...about four days.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Friday, January 29, 2010
I don't know if I am Marquette, but my mom certainly is.
Hey! Want to hear another Kathleen-is-going-crazy story?
Well, I don't really care! Because I'm going crazy!
You all know that I applied to Marquette. And unless you've stopped paying attention to my increasingly fevered ramblings, you probably also know that they have not made admission decisions yet.*
You may not know that my mom actually did attend Marquette. In fact, she graduated from Marquette Law School twenty-five years ago this year! Exciting! (Or at least I assume it was. I wouldn't be born for another three years. But the pictures make it look exciting!)
This means she has a reunion this year. Very exciting. I think she should go. I mean, really. You spend three years literally killing yourself for a degree only to end up in a job that you despise?You should go to the reunion. At least get some free champagne out of it.**
This also means that she receives a piece of mail from Marquette Law School every. single. frickin. day. About very important things like are you planning on bringing your spouse/significant other/gender neutral partner/dog along with you to the reunion? And would he/she/it/Fido like a name tag?
And guess what? The Marquette insignia is REALLY BIG in the corner of the envelope. The "Law School- Sensenbrenner Hall" mark is REALLY SMALL underneath the GINORMOUS Marquette insignia.
I get the mail every day. I see the Marquette thing on a tiny little crush-your-dreams-you're-going-to-be-working-retail-for-the-rest-of-your-life envelope. I have a heart attack.
Every. Single. Frickin. Day.
Yes. I know I should have learned by this point to maybe look at who the envelope is addressed to before allowing my heart rate to increase like I'm halfway through a triathlon.*** But I would like to see you try to do that.
*They did not take this long to make undergraduate decisions. I have terrible memory, and honestly cannot remember much about four years ago when I was applying to college. But I do remember my Marquette story. I was out picking up my sister from school and I got a call from my best friend. She had just received her admissions packet. Now. A good person would have been thrilled for her best friend. A bad person would have choked out through gritted teeth, "Oh my goodness, I'm so happy for you," raced home at breakneck speed, and accosted the mail person to see if her admissions packet had arrived because if she didn't get into Marquette the world would cease spinning and she could never be friends with that person again because she would know her shame!
Guess which one I was? FYI, I got into Marquette. I stayed friends with Mary. The world continued to spin. I know, you're all thrilled.
**Although she did get to have her wedding at Gesu. I think that's worth almost anything. I will probably be turned down at Marquette and have to walk around the Biggest Baptismal Font In the World.
***BAHAHAHAHAHAHA. I kill me. Actually, a triathlon probably would.
Well, I don't really care! Because I'm going crazy!
You all know that I applied to Marquette. And unless you've stopped paying attention to my increasingly fevered ramblings, you probably also know that they have not made admission decisions yet.*
You may not know that my mom actually did attend Marquette. In fact, she graduated from Marquette Law School twenty-five years ago this year! Exciting! (Or at least I assume it was. I wouldn't be born for another three years. But the pictures make it look exciting!)
This means she has a reunion this year. Very exciting. I think she should go. I mean, really. You spend three years literally killing yourself for a degree only to end up in a job that you despise?You should go to the reunion. At least get some free champagne out of it.**
This also means that she receives a piece of mail from Marquette Law School every. single. frickin. day. About very important things like are you planning on bringing your spouse/significant other/gender neutral partner/dog along with you to the reunion? And would he/she/it/Fido like a name tag?
And guess what? The Marquette insignia is REALLY BIG in the corner of the envelope. The "Law School- Sensenbrenner Hall" mark is REALLY SMALL underneath the GINORMOUS Marquette insignia.
I get the mail every day. I see the Marquette thing on a tiny little crush-your-dreams-you're-going-to-be-working-retail-for-the-rest-of-your-life envelope. I have a heart attack.
Every. Single. Frickin. Day.
Yes. I know I should have learned by this point to maybe look at who the envelope is addressed to before allowing my heart rate to increase like I'm halfway through a triathlon.*** But I would like to see you try to do that.
*They did not take this long to make undergraduate decisions. I have terrible memory, and honestly cannot remember much about four years ago when I was applying to college. But I do remember my Marquette story. I was out picking up my sister from school and I got a call from my best friend. She had just received her admissions packet. Now. A good person would have been thrilled for her best friend. A bad person would have choked out through gritted teeth, "Oh my goodness, I'm so happy for you," raced home at breakneck speed, and accosted the mail person to see if her admissions packet had arrived because if she didn't get into Marquette the world would cease spinning and she could never be friends with that person again because she would know her shame!
Guess which one I was? FYI, I got into Marquette. I stayed friends with Mary. The world continued to spin. I know, you're all thrilled.
**Although she did get to have her wedding at Gesu. I think that's worth almost anything. I will probably be turned down at Marquette and have to walk around the Biggest Baptismal Font In the World.
***BAHAHAHAHAHAHA. I kill me. Actually, a triathlon probably would.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Restore time for little iPhone.
My iPhone is like a baby. I've named it. I have a tendency to take it picture at various occasions. There has been some definite Facebook tagging. And I can't count the number of nights I've been up with it because it's sick.
My iPhone(s) seems to have serious problems with the iPod software. Like, after awhile, it doesn't enjoy playing songs in order. I know. I know. Children are starving and orphaned and living in rubble in Haiti. I'm not saying that the fact that Josh Groban's discography is not in sequence is the most pressing issue of the day, but I will say that for how much money Apple charges, it should work.
And it happens all the time. Much like a child with a persistent ear infection, I have spent numerous nights restoring. And restoring again. And on hold with the Apple people. And booking appointments at the Genius Bar. (Hi Jason! Jason probably knows me by now, I'm such a frequent customer.) And crying from exhaustion because WHY WON'T YOU JUST TELL ME WHAT'S WRONG IT'S ONE O'CLOCK IN THE MORNING???
*ahem* Yes. That may have almost happened once.
Heloise fell ill again this morning, and I, like a good mother, ignored her when I got home because I was exhausted seriously five classes straight I am TIRED y'all, I do not CARE that I'm 22 and in fairly decent shape you talk to me after running all over campus from 9:30 until 5. And...now we're in the process of uploading all 600 songs back on.
Fanfreakingtastic. I'm going to bed. They don't make iPhone Motrin.
Can I just say- iPhones. Are AMAZING. When they work. And when they don't. Well, then not so much. They're fun and awesome and I don't really regret buying mine at all, but wow, so much hassle. Seriously. Blackberry. Way. To. Go.
My iPhone(s) seems to have serious problems with the iPod software. Like, after awhile, it doesn't enjoy playing songs in order. I know. I know. Children are starving and orphaned and living in rubble in Haiti. I'm not saying that the fact that Josh Groban's discography is not in sequence is the most pressing issue of the day, but I will say that for how much money Apple charges, it should work.
And it happens all the time. Much like a child with a persistent ear infection, I have spent numerous nights restoring. And restoring again. And on hold with the Apple people. And booking appointments at the Genius Bar. (Hi Jason! Jason probably knows me by now, I'm such a frequent customer.) And crying from exhaustion because WHY WON'T YOU JUST TELL ME WHAT'S WRONG IT'S ONE O'CLOCK IN THE MORNING???
*ahem* Yes. That may have almost happened once.
Heloise fell ill again this morning, and I, like a good mother, ignored her when I got home because I was exhausted seriously five classes straight I am TIRED y'all, I do not CARE that I'm 22 and in fairly decent shape you talk to me after running all over campus from 9:30 until 5. And...now we're in the process of uploading all 600 songs back on.
Fanfreakingtastic. I'm going to bed. They don't make iPhone Motrin.
Can I just say- iPhones. Are AMAZING. When they work. And when they don't. Well, then not so much. They're fun and awesome and I don't really regret buying mine at all, but wow, so much hassle. Seriously. Blackberry. Way. To. Go.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Awkward.
Oh, hey, want to hear a funny story? That doesn't have anything to do with grad school?
I THOUGHT SO.
I had to run into Holton today to pick up some work stuff. I also had to stop at the bathroom because a.) Holton Hall water is the best thing ever and b.) I drink a lot of it. So I was scurrying into the ladies room trying to avoid anything like this. A lady was washing her hands, and she looked up and smiled at me.
Can I just say that I really hate any and all social interactions in restrooms?
(That sounded dirty. I mean conversations, perv.)
For reals. I'm uncomfortable even if it's, like, my sister or someone. I'm repressed. I know. But I'm okay with it. The repression. Not acknowledging people in the bathroom. That's just weird.
ANYWAY.
I kind of smiled at her, because if there's anything worse than friendly awkwardness it's rude awkwardness. Hopefully this will be the end of it. But Holton Hall's ladies rooms have really long and twisty corridors? I don't know how to describe it. But she had enough time to start talking.
"You're a lector at St. Eugene, aren't you?"
Excuse me?
Well, I can't not answer her. Because I am. And she knows it, obviously. And that means next Sunday or whenever will be like eighteen times more awkward than right now. Maybe. If that's possible.
"Um....yes. Hi. *awkward pause* I hope you can hear me. I'm kind of quiet."
"Oh! We can. And you always dress so beautifully!"
"Thank you?" Can you leave now?
"Are you a student here?"
"Um...yeah. I'm a senior."
"Oh, wonderful!"
"Yes. I think so." I. Am. Never. Entering. This building. Again.
Ookay. I can safely say that I have never had a discussion of any liturgical ministry in a bathroom before.
And I rather hope I don't have to ever again.
I THOUGHT SO.
I had to run into Holton today to pick up some work stuff. I also had to stop at the bathroom because a.) Holton Hall water is the best thing ever and b.) I drink a lot of it. So I was scurrying into the ladies room trying to avoid anything like this. A lady was washing her hands, and she looked up and smiled at me.
Can I just say that I really hate any and all social interactions in restrooms?
(That sounded dirty. I mean conversations, perv.)
For reals. I'm uncomfortable even if it's, like, my sister or someone. I'm repressed. I know. But I'm okay with it. The repression. Not acknowledging people in the bathroom. That's just weird.
ANYWAY.
I kind of smiled at her, because if there's anything worse than friendly awkwardness it's rude awkwardness. Hopefully this will be the end of it. But Holton Hall's ladies rooms have really long and twisty corridors? I don't know how to describe it. But she had enough time to start talking.
"You're a lector at St. Eugene, aren't you?"
Excuse me?
Well, I can't not answer her. Because I am. And she knows it, obviously. And that means next Sunday or whenever will be like eighteen times more awkward than right now. Maybe. If that's possible.
"Um....yes. Hi. *awkward pause* I hope you can hear me. I'm kind of quiet."
"Oh! We can. And you always dress so beautifully!"
"Thank you?" Can you leave now?
"Are you a student here?"
"Um...yeah. I'm a senior."
"Oh, wonderful!"
"Yes. I think so." I. Am. Never. Entering. This building. Again.
Ookay. I can safely say that I have never had a discussion of any liturgical ministry in a bathroom before.
And I rather hope I don't have to ever again.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Lest you begin to feel good about yourself...
I'm a white Christian. This means that, other than having to budget an inordinate amount of my income to procuring bottles of SPF 80 for daily wear, I've pretty much never been persecuted.
(I am Irish. And my people are fond of railing about the potato famine as though it were a great injustice and personal affront and...not a fungus that didn't know you had a mammy and eight kids.)
I'm also a Jewish Studies major. (Don't ask why. It has nothing to do with Jews.) Which means that all of my classes are about people who have actually been oppressed. Usually by people like me. This semester, my final semester, I have a lovely complement of classes.
We begin the day with Judaism, Christianity, and Islam. This tells me that I suck, but at least other people suck right along with me.
Then I have Antisemitism Through the Ages. This assures me that I have always sucked.
Next is Jews in Modern Europe. Guess what? I sucked right up through the twentieth century!
Finally we wrap up with Jewish and Christian Responses to the Holocaust, making sure that I know I have a lot of atoning to do for the sucking, don't think you're getting away with one address at the synagogue in Rome, papist scum.
My other two classes areself-flagellating independent studies. One, my senior thesis, is on Nostra Aetate in twentieth century politics. I suck so much that I had to convene an ecumenical council to deal with it. And it's still the shortest decree.
The other one is a critical analysis of the implementation of the Good Friday Accords over the last ten years in Northern Ireland.
Yup. That's right. The British get to suck a little bit, too.
(I am Irish. And my people are fond of railing about the potato famine as though it were a great injustice and personal affront and...not a fungus that didn't know you had a mammy and eight kids.)
I'm also a Jewish Studies major. (Don't ask why. It has nothing to do with Jews.) Which means that all of my classes are about people who have actually been oppressed. Usually by people like me. This semester, my final semester, I have a lovely complement of classes.
We begin the day with Judaism, Christianity, and Islam. This tells me that I suck, but at least other people suck right along with me.
Then I have Antisemitism Through the Ages. This assures me that I have always sucked.
Next is Jews in Modern Europe. Guess what? I sucked right up through the twentieth century!
Finally we wrap up with Jewish and Christian Responses to the Holocaust, making sure that I know I have a lot of atoning to do for the sucking, don't think you're getting away with one address at the synagogue in Rome, papist scum.
My other two classes are
The other one is a critical analysis of the implementation of the Good Friday Accords over the last ten years in Northern Ireland.
Yup. That's right. The British get to suck a little bit, too.
Monday, January 25, 2010
Five weeks.
Five weeks is an okay break. I'm excited to go back tomorrow, but I haven't reached that desperate point that I hit somewhere at the end of June when I'm all SUMMER CLASSES CAN I TAKE PLEASE LOOK I JUST NEED TO STUDY SOMETHING ANYTHING.
*ahem*
So. Winter breaks. Are good. But so are Spring semesters.
(Not, as a whole, as good as Fall semesters, I've decided. But they're still pretty good. And I hold infinite hope for Antisemitism. The class. Not the concept. I'm not an evil person.)
*ahem*
So. Winter breaks. Are good. But so are Spring semesters.
(Not, as a whole, as good as Fall semesters, I've decided. But they're still pretty good. And I hold infinite hope for Antisemitism. The class. Not the concept. I'm not an evil person.)
Sunday, January 24, 2010
The Cool Crowd
In the Friday paper, there used to be a column where local 20-somethings would talk about what they were doing that coming weekend. They were fabulous things that definitely did not involve going to bed at 9 p.m., attempting to not swear at the lovely patrons of Borders Fox Point, or consuming one's weight in brownies while watching Say Yes to the Dress.
Because that has totally never described one of my weekends.
Anyway. It's gone now. Like most of the paper, actually. I think it's a recession thing. However, I propose bringing it back. I could write it. Except it would be called the You're-Wasting-Your-Early-Twenties Crowd.
Make no mistake, this weekend included a large number of the typical embarrassing things. I watched What Not to Wear. For awhile. Until I fell asleep. I tried valiantly to not throw a book at someone's head and you know what, sir? I see that you're purchasing something from the Christian fiction section. Do you know what Jesus doesn't like? BEING OBNOXIOUS TO EMPLOYEES THAT'S WHAT. I read at Mass. That's not really embarrassing. It's just dorky.
But I actually did stuff too! Except even as I was actually doing stuff, I still managed to stay firmly in the "uncool" sector. I went to the Dead Sea Scrolls exhibit on Friday afternoon. That was cultural and outgoing. But then I was so exhausted when I got home I did nothing else the rest of the day.
(The exhibit? Is long. Fascinating and amazing, but it took us two and a half hours to get through.)
I went out with friends on Saturday night. That's normal. But when we were finished with dinner, one of us went back to the seminary, one spent the night reading Reformation-era theologians, and one listened to the last twenty minutes in a series of angry 16-year-olds hooking their angst up to amps and spewing it throughout the Grafton High School auditorium.
(Not John! John was lovely. And perfectly not-angsty.)
(Can you tell which one I was?)
Aaand, now it's Sunday night and I'm watching the eighteenth version of Emma on PBS. And I think it may be my favorite, despite the disturbing lack of Ewan McGregor. Yeah. That's right. I have a favorite version of Emma. Wow. Form an orderly queue, gentlemen.
Oh, whatever. I frickin' love Emma. The lesson to be learned from this version is primarily- Mr. Elton: Reason #1 for Priests to Remain Celibate. We do not need your drama, Father.
Because that has totally never described one of my weekends.
Anyway. It's gone now. Like most of the paper, actually. I think it's a recession thing. However, I propose bringing it back. I could write it. Except it would be called the You're-Wasting-Your-Early-Twenties Crowd.
Make no mistake, this weekend included a large number of the typical embarrassing things. I watched What Not to Wear. For awhile. Until I fell asleep. I tried valiantly to not throw a book at someone's head and you know what, sir? I see that you're purchasing something from the Christian fiction section. Do you know what Jesus doesn't like? BEING OBNOXIOUS TO EMPLOYEES THAT'S WHAT. I read at Mass. That's not really embarrassing. It's just dorky.
But I actually did stuff too! Except even as I was actually doing stuff, I still managed to stay firmly in the "uncool" sector. I went to the Dead Sea Scrolls exhibit on Friday afternoon. That was cultural and outgoing. But then I was so exhausted when I got home I did nothing else the rest of the day.
(The exhibit? Is long. Fascinating and amazing, but it took us two and a half hours to get through.)
I went out with friends on Saturday night. That's normal. But when we were finished with dinner, one of us went back to the seminary, one spent the night reading Reformation-era theologians, and one listened to the last twenty minutes in a series of angry 16-year-olds hooking their angst up to amps and spewing it throughout the Grafton High School auditorium.
(Not John! John was lovely. And perfectly not-angsty.)
(Can you tell which one I was?)
Aaand, now it's Sunday night and I'm watching the eighteenth version of Emma on PBS. And I think it may be my favorite, despite the disturbing lack of Ewan McGregor. Yeah. That's right. I have a favorite version of Emma. Wow. Form an orderly queue, gentlemen.
Oh, whatever. I frickin' love Emma. The lesson to be learned from this version is primarily- Mr. Elton: Reason #1 for Priests to Remain Celibate. We do not need your drama, Father.
Friday, January 22, 2010
Have you added anything to the Constitution lately?
I'm pretty sure I've written about Roe v. Wade at some point on here. I can't link to it, because when I did a term search I just found my opinion on Gardasil and my letter to Queen Elizabeth that would have made more sense a few weeks ago.
But I'm sure I have. Because goodness knows that if there's anything that I enjoy more than commenting on social issues it's commenting on social issues that INVOLVE THE SUPREME COURT.
Yes. I am something of a Supreme CourtWhore Groupie. I read their blog, man. I'm pretty sure their significant others don't do that. It's pretty boring. But I still read it. I read decisions for fun. I want to be on the Supreme Court. If I thought I could handle more than one day of actually being a lawyer without wanting to kill myself from boredom, I would be obsessing over my law school application right now.
(But I don't. So I'm not.)
ANYWAY. One of the (few) things I am (very) fond of criticizing the Court for is the Roe decision and the fact that it should never have even been a decision. It's couched in Griswold, which is a bad ruling, too. I don't care how awesome you think it is, there is no right to privacy in the Constitution. Also, no penumbras. And I think that Justice Blackmun allowed his personal experience as legal counsel for the Mayo Clinic influence his opinion. He unfortunately witnessed the admittedly horrible things that happen when abortions are attempted in, well, I don't know how else to say this, but less than ideal conditions. (Is killing a baby ever in an ideal condition?) And that sucks. But oh, guys, you messed up with this one.
Honestly. Viability? Because that's not an ever-changing mark. I think that's the thing that depresses me most about abortion- it's so hopeless. You don't know what that child would have done or been. When I was born, I wasn't supposed to live. If my parents had known before I was born what was supposed to be wrong with me, they would have had the option to abort.
But nothing was permanently wrong. (Well, that we know of. I'm only 22. It could still happen.) And I still could have been gone. Like the almost fifty million children who are because of this legalization.
But I'm sure I have. Because goodness knows that if there's anything that I enjoy more than commenting on social issues it's commenting on social issues that INVOLVE THE SUPREME COURT.
Yes. I am something of a Supreme Court
(But I don't. So I'm not.)
ANYWAY. One of the (few) things I am (very) fond of criticizing the Court for is the Roe decision and the fact that it should never have even been a decision. It's couched in Griswold, which is a bad ruling, too. I don't care how awesome you think it is, there is no right to privacy in the Constitution. Also, no penumbras. And I think that Justice Blackmun allowed his personal experience as legal counsel for the Mayo Clinic influence his opinion. He unfortunately witnessed the admittedly horrible things that happen when abortions are attempted in, well, I don't know how else to say this, but less than ideal conditions. (Is killing a baby ever in an ideal condition?) And that sucks. But oh, guys, you messed up with this one.
Honestly. Viability? Because that's not an ever-changing mark. I think that's the thing that depresses me most about abortion- it's so hopeless. You don't know what that child would have done or been. When I was born, I wasn't supposed to live. If my parents had known before I was born what was supposed to be wrong with me, they would have had the option to abort.
But nothing was permanently wrong. (Well, that we know of. I'm only 22. It could still happen.) And I still could have been gone. Like the almost fifty million children who are because of this legalization.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Catholic Theological Union is screwing with me.
Every day when the mail arrives, I throw up a little. Not really. That's kind of gross. But I want to, internets, and that's the important part. Because while I'm 99% sure that of course there won't be anything from any school I've applied to, there could be! And dude, I don't see a big envelope. Which means it must be a small envelope. Which is bad news. Oh, God, please don't let me see the Marquette return address on a small envelope.
(My head. It is a scary place sometimes.)
However, I can be certain that I will have received something from Catholic Theological Union. They were on my original list of schools. About a year ago. When I was...I don't know, high or something, and I thought hey! Two master's programs! At two different schools! One in a different city! I can totally do and afford this!
Ha. Hahaha. Yeah. No.
ANYWAY. I didn't apply at CTU, mostly because of the fact that the packet they sent me was like 90 pages long and I didn't have a week to devote to tracking down everyone who had ever seen me help a child and make them write a letter or recommendation . Also, the whole hey, why don't you apply for a program you're actually qualified for, moron? thing.
They haven't gotten the hint. I still get postcards. And folders. And scholarship applications. And letters offering all sorts of assistance because they haven't received my application yet!
I know! And it's January! You'd think you guys would catch on already!
So. To recap. Pieces of mail I've received from schools I've actually applied to: 0. Pieces of mail I've received from CTU: 583,049. As of yesterday.
I'm beginning to regret not applying, to be perfectly honest; because I think they'd at least be better at the whole contact thing. I don't think they'd consign me to the horrors of Northwestern's application page staring blankly out at me every morning. At least I would get a frickin' postcard or something, even if it just said, "Hi! We're still thinking about whether or not we should crush your dreams! Stay tuned!"
(My head. It is a scary place sometimes.)
However, I can be certain that I will have received something from Catholic Theological Union. They were on my original list of schools. About a year ago. When I was...I don't know, high or something, and I thought hey! Two master's programs! At two different schools! One in a different city! I can totally do and afford this!
Ha. Hahaha. Yeah. No.
ANYWAY. I didn't apply at CTU, mostly because of the fact that the packet they sent me was like 90 pages long and I didn't have a week to devote to tracking down everyone who had ever seen me help a child and make them write a letter or recommendation . Also, the whole hey, why don't you apply for a program you're actually qualified for, moron? thing.
They haven't gotten the hint. I still get postcards. And folders. And scholarship applications. And letters offering all sorts of assistance because they haven't received my application yet!
I know! And it's January! You'd think you guys would catch on already!
So. To recap. Pieces of mail I've received from schools I've actually applied to: 0. Pieces of mail I've received from CTU: 583,049. As of yesterday.
I'm beginning to regret not applying, to be perfectly honest; because I think they'd at least be better at the whole contact thing. I don't think they'd consign me to the horrors of Northwestern's application page staring blankly out at me every morning. At least I would get a frickin' postcard or something, even if it just said, "Hi! We're still thinking about whether or not we should crush your dreams! Stay tuned!"
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
3
No, not the irritatingly infectious Britney Spears single that is totally not at the top of my current playlist and even my iPhone loves it so much it pops up on shuffle an awful lot. Pssh. That would be weird.
No. Rather, this is in reference to the number of books I have to buy this semester. Ah, the joys of being a senior. My freshman year I spent $700 a semester on books. I'm not entirely sure how. But I know that packaged sets for two foreign languages and a geography survey are EXPENSIVE, y'all. And I'm almost completely positive that they were not worth it. Because I can't even remember what I took freshman year. So I'm thinking the books weren't that valuable.
Wait. That's not true. I remember French because it was so blindingly horrible and medieval history because it was awesome. The other eight? Not so much.
Anyway. I'm a senior now, and I've managed to skate through the last few semesters buying the bare minimum. I believe it was the semester that I was told to buy two Jewish study bibles that I adopted the "screw you" attitude towards book buying. So now I wait to see if I really need them. And if I do, then I'll see if the library has them. And if not, I'll get old editions from the internet because- psst!- the professor probably hasn't read enough of them to differentiate between editions either!
So this semester I managed to get all of my books from the library or alternative sources (God bless e-reserve), and only have to purchase three. One is a course packet, which I'm mad about having to buy because it's all stuff that I already have for my thesis and whatever, I do not want to go to some random printer on Oakland so I can have a THIRD copy of Nostra Aetate. I bought another one for $12 (including shipping) from some probably less-than-reputable internet person. (There's a special place in hell for someone who cheats a student out of a holocaust book.) And the final one I don't even need for a month an a half and...yeah...I'll deal with that later.
My last semester in undergrad and I don't even have to enter a bookstore.
No. Rather, this is in reference to the number of books I have to buy this semester. Ah, the joys of being a senior. My freshman year I spent $700 a semester on books. I'm not entirely sure how. But I know that packaged sets for two foreign languages and a geography survey are EXPENSIVE, y'all. And I'm almost completely positive that they were not worth it. Because I can't even remember what I took freshman year. So I'm thinking the books weren't that valuable.
Wait. That's not true. I remember French because it was so blindingly horrible and medieval history because it was awesome. The other eight? Not so much.
Anyway. I'm a senior now, and I've managed to skate through the last few semesters buying the bare minimum. I believe it was the semester that I was told to buy two Jewish study bibles that I adopted the "screw you" attitude towards book buying. So now I wait to see if I really need them. And if I do, then I'll see if the library has them. And if not, I'll get old editions from the internet because- psst!- the professor probably hasn't read enough of them to differentiate between editions either!
So this semester I managed to get all of my books from the library or alternative sources (God bless e-reserve), and only have to purchase three. One is a course packet, which I'm mad about having to buy because it's all stuff that I already have for my thesis and whatever, I do not want to go to some random printer on Oakland so I can have a THIRD copy of Nostra Aetate. I bought another one for $12 (including shipping) from some probably less-than-reputable internet person. (There's a special place in hell for someone who cheats a student out of a holocaust book.) And the final one I don't even need for a month an a half and...yeah...I'll deal with that later.
My last semester in undergrad and I don't even have to enter a bookstore.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Freud is history.
Hot TA was fond of saying that. So I'm fond of saying it. Also, Freud was ridiculous and has been almost uniformly discredited. My little repressed self is happy with that.
I'm not sure why I felt the need to share that. The cold medicine? Maybe? I don't know. Probably. DayQuil is beautiful but wow, after a few solid days you stop needing solid food. Which is strange.
Anyway. I promised Nicole I'd give them a shout-out. So! Cafe Aduro! First and third Tuesdays of the month! Way more fun than sitting at home awkwardly helping your brother memorize the psychosexual stages of development while spewing mucus from almost ever orifice. You should come!
I'm not sure why I felt the need to share that. The cold medicine? Maybe? I don't know. Probably. DayQuil is beautiful but wow, after a few solid days you stop needing solid food. Which is strange.
Anyway. I promised Nicole I'd give them a shout-out. So! Cafe Aduro! First and third Tuesdays of the month! Way more fun than sitting at home awkwardly helping your brother memorize the psychosexual stages of development while spewing mucus from almost ever orifice. You should come!
Monday, January 18, 2010
I Can't Hear You. Lalalalalala.
I'm not getting sick. I am definitely not getting sick. I have stuff to do this week and school next week and whatever, it's not an issue because I'm not getting sick. Nope. Absolutely not. I mean, I'm really only taking the DayQuil because I like the taste. That's completely why.
Meanwhile, it's Martin Luther King, Jr. Day. Which means no mail. Which means no acceptance. But it also means I don't have to worry about it. So...that's okay.
This completes the "bury one's head in the sand" portion of the day.
Oh, who are we kidding? Most of my life is denial. Vatican II? I don't know what you're talking about, I've got, like, months for that.
I blame my mother and her family. If ever a family was fond of the rose-colored glasses, it was the McDonoughs. They took a story about a guy ditching his wife and daughters and turned it into a tragic tale of a young man's journey during the industrial revolution gone horribly awry.
So it's not my fault and I certainly do not have a cold.
Meanwhile, it's Martin Luther King, Jr. Day. Which means no mail. Which means no acceptance. But it also means I don't have to worry about it. So...that's okay.
This completes the "bury one's head in the sand" portion of the day.
Oh, who are we kidding? Most of my life is denial. Vatican II? I don't know what you're talking about, I've got, like, months for that.
I blame my mother and her family. If ever a family was fond of the rose-colored glasses, it was the McDonoughs. They took a story about a guy ditching his wife and daughters and turned it into a tragic tale of a young man's journey during the industrial revolution gone horribly awry.
So it's not my fault and I certainly do not have a cold.
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Superpower
What would your superpower be? Flying would be pretty cool. Being invisible would allow me to take my Facebook stalking to the next (illegal) level. But I think the power I would definitely like to have is the ability to cry and be pretty at the same time.
I'm not saying I'm pretty. But most of the time I look pretty normal. Until I feel slightly choked up and then my skin turns weird colors and for some reason my lips get bigger and whatever, it's just unattractive. If I had possessed that power this afternoon I would still have been crumbled in a ball on my mom's bedroom floor having the meltdown that I've joked about having for weeks on a crying jag about financial aid and eighth grade graduation and yeah, I don't even know.
But at least I would have been pretty while doing it.
(NO! I wasn't turned down by anyone. That would imply that I KNEW ANYTHING YET.)
So. There's that. And that sucked.
I was going to attempt to liveblog or at least Twitter the Golden Globes. But...I've kind of hated everyone who has won so far. So my tweets would have been limited to the following:
@mi_morena: HFPA, you turn down Neil Patrick Harris, you are dead to me.
@mi_morena: Thank God Carlo Rossi makes the jug of white zinfandel.
@mi_morena: Wait. Have I had anything solid to eat today?
@mi_morena: Hmmm. A sandwich? Around noon.
@mi_morena: Ooh. This is not going to be pretty.
@mi_morena: Whatever. I'm probably not going to Europe and I'm probably not going to graduate school so I may as well be hungover, too.
That last one may have been more than 140 characters. I probably would have had to break it up ala Meghan McCain.
Oh, wait. Helen Mirren just showed up. I love her. Okay, Golden Gloes. You just slightly redeemed yourself.
I'm not saying I'm pretty. But most of the time I look pretty normal. Until I feel slightly choked up and then my skin turns weird colors and for some reason my lips get bigger and whatever, it's just unattractive. If I had possessed that power this afternoon I would still have been crumbled in a ball on my mom's bedroom floor having the meltdown that I've joked about having for weeks on a crying jag about financial aid and eighth grade graduation and yeah, I don't even know.
But at least I would have been pretty while doing it.
(NO! I wasn't turned down by anyone. That would imply that I KNEW ANYTHING YET.)
So. There's that. And that sucked.
I was going to attempt to liveblog or at least Twitter the Golden Globes. But...I've kind of hated everyone who has won so far. So my tweets would have been limited to the following:
@mi_morena: HFPA, you turn down Neil Patrick Harris, you are dead to me.
@mi_morena: Thank God Carlo Rossi makes the jug of white zinfandel.
@mi_morena: Wait. Have I had anything solid to eat today?
@mi_morena: Hmmm. A sandwich? Around noon.
@mi_morena: Ooh. This is not going to be pretty.
@mi_morena: Whatever. I'm probably not going to Europe and I'm probably not going to graduate school so I may as well be hungover, too.
That last one may have been more than 140 characters. I probably would have had to break it up ala Meghan McCain.
Oh, wait. Helen Mirren just showed up. I love her. Okay, Golden Gloes. You just slightly redeemed yourself.
Saturday, January 16, 2010
Narcissistic Personality Disorder
What? I'd know. I was a psych major for about three minutes.
Okay. That's a lie. I was never officially a psych major. But only because I was too young! For a good week freshman year I was all about psychology. And not only because my psych TA was ridiculously adorable. So adorable that he was christened, and still referred to as, Hot TA.
Okay. That's a lie too. Hot TA was a big part of it. But I do love psychology, and I would love to be a psychiatrist, but that's just the thing. I'm from the "go big or go home" school of thought, and therefore, while I have every respect for therapists and psychologists and they work very hard and have advanced degrees and do tremendous amounts of good, if I'm going into psychology, I want a prescription pad.
(This life philosophy also came into play when my younger brother, slightly annoyed that I occasionally scream "SEMINARY!" at him, suggested that maybe, in an attempt at peace, he would become a deacon. I told him that was ridiculous.)
And I furthermore know that any admissions department at any medical school anywhere other than..oh, I don't know...San Salvador would laugh so hard at my application that they would choke.
("No! Really! She took Chemistry for Non-Science Majors! And got an A-! BAHAHAHAHAHA.")
So. That's out as a career path.
Where was I going with that? Oh! Right! Narcissism. Because this next sentence is kind of narcissistic. Sometimes I don't like to update my blog because I really liked the last post I did, and then it gets shoved down on the page and no one will ever love it again. Not that I think the post was particularly brilliant, but I just liked it.
Last night's post? Was not one of those. Should you care, there's a lot of blah blah grad school blah blah going crazy blah blah I don't think they're ever going look at my application blah blah why are any of you still friends with me? Blah. So...scroll down for that. Anyway, I have no compunction about posting this, then.
Except I don't really have anything to say. Except that I like saying "compunction."
Ooh! I could talk about Northern Ireland's various sex scandals. You know, how the First Minister's wife slept with a 19-year-old and her name is literally Mrs. Robinson and now she's been forced out of Parliament and he's on leave and the government could collapse because I've said it once and I'll keep saying it until, well, the government collapses but THE GOOD FRIDAY ACCORDS DID NOTHING, oh, and Gerry Adams' brother is a pedophile?
Yeah. That.
Because there are four things in the world that make me happy.
1.) Watching the British fail at partition.
2.) Dramatic political events involving centuries-old tensions.
3.) Gossip.
4.) Ecumenical councils.
Three out of four isn't bad.
Meanwhile, I can't wait for my independent study on Northern Ireland to start. Maybe I can write about the effects of inappropriate conduct on the implementation of police powers.
And title will be "Good Friday is just Sunningdale 2.0 and Trust Me, It Didn't Work Any Better in 1998 Than It Did in 1974. Oh, and Iris Robinson Is Kind of a Slut."
It's going to have to be in very small letters.
But I'll probably get an A. The professor. He loves me.
Okay. That's a lie. I was never officially a psych major. But only because I was too young! For a good week freshman year I was all about psychology. And not only because my psych TA was ridiculously adorable. So adorable that he was christened, and still referred to as, Hot TA.
Okay. That's a lie too. Hot TA was a big part of it. But I do love psychology, and I would love to be a psychiatrist, but that's just the thing. I'm from the "go big or go home" school of thought, and therefore, while I have every respect for therapists and psychologists and they work very hard and have advanced degrees and do tremendous amounts of good, if I'm going into psychology, I want a prescription pad.
(This life philosophy also came into play when my younger brother, slightly annoyed that I occasionally scream "SEMINARY!" at him, suggested that maybe, in an attempt at peace, he would become a deacon. I told him that was ridiculous.)
And I furthermore know that any admissions department at any medical school anywhere other than..oh, I don't know...San Salvador would laugh so hard at my application that they would choke.
("No! Really! She took Chemistry for Non-Science Majors! And got an A-! BAHAHAHAHAHA.")
So. That's out as a career path.
Where was I going with that? Oh! Right! Narcissism. Because this next sentence is kind of narcissistic. Sometimes I don't like to update my blog because I really liked the last post I did, and then it gets shoved down on the page and no one will ever love it again. Not that I think the post was particularly brilliant, but I just liked it.
Last night's post? Was not one of those. Should you care, there's a lot of blah blah grad school blah blah going crazy blah blah I don't think they're ever going look at my application blah blah why are any of you still friends with me? Blah. So...scroll down for that. Anyway, I have no compunction about posting this, then.
Except I don't really have anything to say. Except that I like saying "compunction."
Ooh! I could talk about Northern Ireland's various sex scandals. You know, how the First Minister's wife slept with a 19-year-old and her name is literally Mrs. Robinson and now she's been forced out of Parliament and he's on leave and the government could collapse because I've said it once and I'll keep saying it until, well, the government collapses but THE GOOD FRIDAY ACCORDS DID NOTHING, oh, and Gerry Adams' brother is a pedophile?
Yeah. That.
Because there are four things in the world that make me happy.
1.) Watching the British fail at partition.
2.) Dramatic political events involving centuries-old tensions.
3.) Gossip.
4.) Ecumenical councils.
Three out of four isn't bad.
Meanwhile, I can't wait for my independent study on Northern Ireland to start. Maybe I can write about the effects of inappropriate conduct on the implementation of police powers.
And title will be "Good Friday is just Sunningdale 2.0 and Trust Me, It Didn't Work Any Better in 1998 Than It Did in 1974. Oh, and Iris Robinson Is Kind of a Slut."
It's going to have to be in very small letters.
But I'll probably get an A. The professor. He loves me.
Friday, January 15, 2010
Productive?
(Hey! Remember when I said I wasn't going to blog about school anymore? Yeah. I lied.)
I mailed off the final portion of my application today- the fellowship application. Otherwise known as, the Part That Allows Me To Afford All the Other Parts.
Because, well, I'm not sure Borders will still be in business in September, and I'm even less certain that they will have, for some reason, increased my wages to $400 an hour. Although that would be lovely.
SOOOO. The full tuition and living stipend that's more money than I've ever seen before? Would be pretty awesome.
Of course, the director of graduate studies then had to send me an e-mail and screw with my head. He's an old professor of mine, and even wrote me a lovely letter of recommendation.*
He finished the letter with the sentence, "Looking forward to (possibly) having you in some of my grad classes!"
Wait. What? Possibly? What does that mean? Oh, this required some thinking. I took it to mean that they're totally never going to accept me and I'm going to die alone and barren** and working at Barnes and Noble.***
My mom took it to mean he thinks they're going to let me in, but it's not official yet, and he can't say that without qualifying it.
The guy passing my house whom I flagged down and dragged into my kitchen to read my e-mail? He wasn't totally sure.
So. That's a whole different layer of crazy that you uncovered, Dr. *I Really Want To Go To Your University So I'm Going To Not Write Your Name All Over The Internets*.
*That I printed. And hung on my bulletin board. And read sometimes when I'm feeling like no one will ever accept me. Or when I'm feeling like no one will ever marry me. Or when I'm feeling like even if I do get accepted I'm never going to pass the doctoral exams and I don't even speak French, what the hell. Or when I'm feeling bloated. Or when I'm feeling like eating cookies. Or when it's, like, Tuesday. I read that sucker a lot.
**Please don't ask me why I assume that as soon as I get into a master's program I'll get married and pregnant. I'm pretty sure that's not on the curriculum.
***What? I'm disloyal.
I mailed off the final portion of my application today- the fellowship application. Otherwise known as, the Part That Allows Me To Afford All the Other Parts.
Because, well, I'm not sure Borders will still be in business in September, and I'm even less certain that they will have, for some reason, increased my wages to $400 an hour. Although that would be lovely.
SOOOO. The full tuition and living stipend that's more money than I've ever seen before? Would be pretty awesome.
Of course, the director of graduate studies then had to send me an e-mail and screw with my head. He's an old professor of mine, and even wrote me a lovely letter of recommendation.*
He finished the letter with the sentence, "Looking forward to (possibly) having you in some of my grad classes!"
Wait. What? Possibly? What does that mean? Oh, this required some thinking. I took it to mean that they're totally never going to accept me and I'm going to die alone and barren** and working at Barnes and Noble.***
My mom took it to mean he thinks they're going to let me in, but it's not official yet, and he can't say that without qualifying it.
The guy passing my house whom I flagged down and dragged into my kitchen to read my e-mail? He wasn't totally sure.
So. That's a whole different layer of crazy that you uncovered, Dr. *I Really Want To Go To Your University So I'm Going To Not Write Your Name All Over The Internets*.
*That I printed. And hung on my bulletin board. And read sometimes when I'm feeling like no one will ever accept me. Or when I'm feeling like no one will ever marry me. Or when I'm feeling like even if I do get accepted I'm never going to pass the doctoral exams and I don't even speak French, what the hell. Or when I'm feeling bloated. Or when I'm feeling like eating cookies. Or when it's, like, Tuesday. I read that sucker a lot.
**Please don't ask me why I assume that as soon as I get into a master's program I'll get married and pregnant. I'm pretty sure that's not on the curriculum.
***What? I'm disloyal.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
I always thought real highly of her.
My grandmother has spent the last eleven years with God. And the last two with Van Johnson. And the last eighteen months with Grandpa. I think Van Johnson wins. We spent the last eleven years growing up without her (I'm twice as old as I was when she died, and that's really weird), but you know, there's jewelry. So that's good.
I feel kind of badly sometimes because I talk about about Grandpa a lot. I miss him during random parts of the day, I can still hear his voice (although I did drop my phone the first time I called his house after he died and the answering machine picked up), I really wish I could talk to him about some of this school stuff, and well, I blog about it. A lot. Too much to link to, in fact.
(Pretty much check out any post from the end of July 2008 through...oh...last week sometime.)
I feel like I'm cheating Grandma out of some quality grieving. Which is stupid, because obviously I miss her just as much.
My middle name is "Mary Elizabeth," after her. For those of you who actually know my entire name, please note that it is FREAKING LONG. When I was applying to college, the school I ended up choosing required my entire name. So now whenever I show up on a roster, or get a letter, or even an e-mail, it shows up as "Kathleen Mary Elizabeth *Redacted Because I Don't Need Any Help Finding Crazy People*". Just last week I sent an e-mail and realized how long and stupid that looked. I was about to log onto PAWS to apply to change my name to Kathleen M *Redacted Because I Don't Need Any Help Finding Crazy People*, thus saving the university THOUSANDS in ink costs over the next semester. But then I stopped and thought, well, that's kind of horrible. I love my middle name, even though it means my signature can never fit on a traditional line. I love that my mom felt like she wanted to name me after her mom. And I love that it shows up.
(Confirmation name: Elizabeth. There is a point.)
Whenever I think about marriage, I think about my grandmother. She and my grandfather probably didn't have a grand, passion-filled marriage (and if they did, I don't want to hear about it), but he cared for her for ten years, even after she stopped knowing who he was. (She still thought he was cute, though. It was pretty adorable.) I don't know that I'll ever find what they had, but at least I know what I'm looking for.
So Grandma, I love you and I miss you. And I forgive you for wallpapering the ceiling in the bathroom. Kind of.
I feel kind of badly sometimes because I talk about about Grandpa a lot. I miss him during random parts of the day, I can still hear his voice (although I did drop my phone the first time I called his house after he died and the answering machine picked up), I really wish I could talk to him about some of this school stuff, and well, I blog about it. A lot. Too much to link to, in fact.
(Pretty much check out any post from the end of July 2008 through...oh...last week sometime.)
I feel like I'm cheating Grandma out of some quality grieving. Which is stupid, because obviously I miss her just as much.
My middle name is "Mary Elizabeth," after her. For those of you who actually know my entire name, please note that it is FREAKING LONG. When I was applying to college, the school I ended up choosing required my entire name. So now whenever I show up on a roster, or get a letter, or even an e-mail, it shows up as "Kathleen Mary Elizabeth *Redacted Because I Don't Need Any Help Finding Crazy People*". Just last week I sent an e-mail and realized how long and stupid that looked. I was about to log onto PAWS to apply to change my name to Kathleen M *Redacted Because I Don't Need Any Help Finding Crazy People*, thus saving the university THOUSANDS in ink costs over the next semester. But then I stopped and thought, well, that's kind of horrible. I love my middle name, even though it means my signature can never fit on a traditional line. I love that my mom felt like she wanted to name me after her mom. And I love that it shows up.
(Confirmation name: Elizabeth. There is a point.)
Whenever I think about marriage, I think about my grandmother. She and my grandfather probably didn't have a grand, passion-filled marriage (and if they did, I don't want to hear about it), but he cared for her for ten years, even after she stopped knowing who he was. (She still thought he was cute, though. It was pretty adorable.) I don't know that I'll ever find what they had, but at least I know what I'm looking for.
So Grandma, I love you and I miss you. And I forgive you for wallpapering the ceiling in the bathroom. Kind of.
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Things I've Discovered Being in the Room While My Sister Watches Everwood
-This is the craziest town in the world. No. Really. Take all the crazy people in your average mid-size city, such as, oh, I don't know, Denver. Stick them in two square miles and deprive them of Starbucks. Throw in a surprisingly non-racist grandma and more doctors than you can throw a stick at (And yet they all practice ALL kinds of medicine! Huh!), and let simmer for a few years.
-Honestly, there are too many doctors there. We're on the Marcia-Cross-guest-starring season, and my goodness, there are like ten of them.
-Statutory rape? Totally okay. As long as it's sensitive, she's-older-and-really-hot statutory rape.
-For being a supposed neurosurgeon, Dr. Brown is pretty damn thick when it comes to his kids. I mean, really. Ephram pretty much has the babysitter on the table and Delia is one, "I can't talk to you right now, honey, I'm sleeping with my frenemy's sister," away from joining a religious cult and committing suicide to meet Haley's comet.
- I am. So. Damn. Sick. of the willowy, sad girl with pursed lips and doe eyes being the epitome of beauty in this town.
- Any town, really. Have you people seen Gilmore Girls?
- God, I hate Rory Gilmore.
- Harold Abbot may be, I think, my favorite person in the world.
- I get that he's a fictional character.
- I can never watch Chuck again without seeing his sister raping a 16-year-old. Even if it an adorable 16-year-old who is surprisingly mature and looks like a baby Gary Sinise.
- She also looks much better, and significantly less slutty with dark hair than blond.
-Honestly, there are too many doctors there. We're on the Marcia-Cross-guest-starring season, and my goodness, there are like ten of them.
-Statutory rape? Totally okay. As long as it's sensitive, she's-older-and-really-hot statutory rape.
-For being a supposed neurosurgeon, Dr. Brown is pretty damn thick when it comes to his kids. I mean, really. Ephram pretty much has the babysitter on the table and Delia is one, "I can't talk to you right now, honey, I'm sleeping with my frenemy's sister," away from joining a religious cult and committing suicide to meet Haley's comet.
- I am. So. Damn. Sick. of the willowy, sad girl with pursed lips and doe eyes being the epitome of beauty in this town.
- Any town, really. Have you people seen Gilmore Girls?
- God, I hate Rory Gilmore.
- Harold Abbot may be, I think, my favorite person in the world.
- I get that he's a fictional character.
- I can never watch Chuck again without seeing his sister raping a 16-year-old. Even if it an adorable 16-year-old who is surprisingly mature and looks like a baby Gary Sinise.
- She also looks much better, and significantly less slutty with dark hair than blond.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Oh! Oh! I can do that!
Oh, internets. You know my undying dream is to become Queen of England. Honestly. I don't even think Prince William is that attractive, but dammit, I want to be Queen.
(What? You mean they aren't looking for an Irish-American Catholic who likes to swear?)
I can think of no better use for my background and work ethic. I can swivel my wrist and ramble about the dismantling of the empire. Other than that? Meh. I'm tired and want to take a nap.
(I'll bet there's lots of time for napping when there's a Regina after your name.)
Of course, I have watched any and all movies about the various monarchs of the realm, even if they are grossly inaccurate *cough*Braveheart*cough*. Of course, I went to see The Young Victoria. And other than the over-dramatic nature of it all and omg-Lord-Melbourne-wants-to-take-over-the-universe-and-probably-get-into-Victoria's-pants-too part and the completely fictional assassination attempt, I was, of course, able to geek out over it.
My favorite part, though, was the ending. It ended kind of right after Victoria and Albert's marriage, and at the end of the movie they had them cuddling and then the caption popped up on the screen that read, "Victoria and Albert had nine children. They form the ruling families of Britain, Russia, Norway, etc."
But they said it like it was supposed to be all heartwarming and their love! It spawned a generation! And don't you get all tingly just thinking about it? *swoon*
No. You get entangling alliances just thinking about it.
And their love? Their love did nothing. Their shared chromosomes spawned WWI, but that's about it.
Really. Think about any one of your first cousins. Now think about how screwed up your kids with that person would be. Think about it. Are you thinking about it? Now imagine that, times eight generations. And give them 25% of the world's population to play with. As my sister so eloquently put it, they'll play with it in all the wrong ways.
I think this is a point in my favor. Now, in addition to my biting wit and ability to deal with all sorts of awkward family situations, I bring the following to the table-
My family has never run India into the ground, destroyed the Austro-Hungarian Empire, wiped out a generation, brokered the most ridiculous peace treaty ever that did nothing except make the opposing sides so angry that it led to the murder of two out of three European Jews, or allowed for the rise of the Third Reich.
So, Your Majesty...I offer you (and your grandson) my daisy-fresh gene pool and totally unrelated-to-you-womb. And we don't swear that much. I promise. The womb hardly at all.
Now I think there are only two things (except for The Act of Settlement) standing in my way.
The first will be the awkward moment when I tell them oh, right! The wedding? Will be at a Catholic Church. And we're going to have a real priest. Not one of your fake ones. And the kids will be Catholic. But you're welcome to come!
Possibly worse will be when I inevitably spout off regarding Anglo-Irish relations. "I mean, honestly, Bloody Sunday? That was not cool, guys. Overall I approve, but whose idea was it to send in 1 Para? I mean...where are you going? I'm on your side! I promise! Why are you leaving?"
I can hardly wait.
(What? You mean they aren't looking for an Irish-American Catholic who likes to swear?)
I can think of no better use for my background and work ethic. I can swivel my wrist and ramble about the dismantling of the empire. Other than that? Meh. I'm tired and want to take a nap.
(I'll bet there's lots of time for napping when there's a Regina after your name.)
Of course, I have watched any and all movies about the various monarchs of the realm, even if they are grossly inaccurate *cough*Braveheart*cough*. Of course, I went to see The Young Victoria. And other than the over-dramatic nature of it all and omg-Lord-Melbourne-wants-to-take-over-the-universe-and-probably-get-into-Victoria's-pants-too part and the completely fictional assassination attempt, I was, of course, able to geek out over it.
My favorite part, though, was the ending. It ended kind of right after Victoria and Albert's marriage, and at the end of the movie they had them cuddling and then the caption popped up on the screen that read, "Victoria and Albert had nine children. They form the ruling families of Britain, Russia, Norway, etc."
But they said it like it was supposed to be all heartwarming and their love! It spawned a generation! And don't you get all tingly just thinking about it? *swoon*
No. You get entangling alliances just thinking about it.
And their love? Their love did nothing. Their shared chromosomes spawned WWI, but that's about it.
Really. Think about any one of your first cousins. Now think about how screwed up your kids with that person would be. Think about it. Are you thinking about it? Now imagine that, times eight generations. And give them 25% of the world's population to play with. As my sister so eloquently put it, they'll play with it in all the wrong ways.
I think this is a point in my favor. Now, in addition to my biting wit and ability to deal with all sorts of awkward family situations, I bring the following to the table-
My family has never run India into the ground, destroyed the Austro-Hungarian Empire, wiped out a generation, brokered the most ridiculous peace treaty ever that did nothing except make the opposing sides so angry that it led to the murder of two out of three European Jews, or allowed for the rise of the Third Reich.
So, Your Majesty...I offer you (and your grandson) my daisy-fresh gene pool and totally unrelated-to-you-womb. And we don't swear that much. I promise. The womb hardly at all.
Now I think there are only two things (except for The Act of Settlement) standing in my way.
The first will be the awkward moment when I tell them oh, right! The wedding? Will be at a Catholic Church. And we're going to have a real priest. Not one of your fake ones. And the kids will be Catholic. But you're welcome to come!
Possibly worse will be when I inevitably spout off regarding Anglo-Irish relations. "I mean, honestly, Bloody Sunday? That was not cool, guys. Overall I approve, but whose idea was it to send in 1 Para? I mean...where are you going? I'm on your side! I promise! Why are you leaving?"
I can hardly wait.
Monday, January 11, 2010
Priceless
We had the teaching Mass in confirmation tonight, and afterwards the teenagers were asked to fill out a form talking about their favorite parts, what they learned, what they'd change, etc.
(About the session. Not the Mass. That one is generally not open for 11th grade discussion.)
I was going through my group's papers at the end, and there seemed to be a theme. A good 80% of them wrote about the same thing for the most important part of the session. It wasn't about the presence of scripture in the liturgy, it wasn't about when you could wear pink...I'm sorry..."rose", it wasn't even that the pause after the "let us pray" is to actually, well, pray, which I didn't even know.
No. It was that vestments? Are really expensive.
Real presence of Christ in the Eucharist- meh, we've got it. That you can drop $1,500 on a chasuble? THAT is interesting.
Maybe it's a good thing they didn't distribute Communion.
(About the session. Not the Mass. That one is generally not open for 11th grade discussion.)
I was going through my group's papers at the end, and there seemed to be a theme. A good 80% of them wrote about the same thing for the most important part of the session. It wasn't about the presence of scripture in the liturgy, it wasn't about when you could wear pink...I'm sorry..."rose", it wasn't even that the pause after the "let us pray" is to actually, well, pray, which I didn't even know.
No. It was that vestments? Are really expensive.
Real presence of Christ in the Eucharist- meh, we've got it. That you can drop $1,500 on a chasuble? THAT is interesting.
Maybe it's a good thing they didn't distribute Communion.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Resolutions: Revisted
I know I didn't really make any. But usually in early January I am struck with an incredible urge to do two things- pilates and organize things.
Now. Pilates. I think pilates is kind of a load of crap. Unless you do it for like three hours a day, but let's face it, unless you're Megan Fox, you probably don't have time for that. Really. The girl doesn't have anything else to do except practice her pout. She certainly doesn't eat. Meanwhile, I've been doing pilates for literally over a year and meh, I'm unimpressed. I don't think it's done anything.
Anywho. Pilates. Good for Megan Fox. Not for the rest of us.
Organizing tends to be a little bit more inclusive. I already ripped down the Christmas decorations with glee that would make Scrooge proud. I was foaming at the mouth as soon as the Epiphany came around. I've thrown away half-empty bottles of conditioner and moisturizer and probably some things that didn't belong to me, but whatever, they were in my way and if there's dust on the tube? Chances are you're not going to miss it. So. Gone.
This afternoon I worked in my office, which had become quite scary. I haven't been working down there because it's break, but I really do need to get restarted on this thesis thing. Also, being the basement, it's a good twenty degrees warmer than our living room, so it's quite a lovely place to spend time.
(I'M KIDDING. I'm glad I get to live herefor free.)
It was a little bit scary. When we put up the evil Christmas decorations, all the normal stuff was shoved down there (because I didn't want to come up with a better place for it.), and then when the semester ended I just kind of threw my bag down there and ignored the fact that sixteen weeks worth of notes about Jewish Wisconsin strewn across my desk was not going to be helpful in creating a good work environment. Friday was the last straw, when I realized that I needed a place to put all my National History Day paper/posterboard/judging files/whatever, I don't care, they're paying me. And no matter how much I loved the class, perhaps my notes on Jewish intermarriage could be put away.
I guess.
Anyway. There was no point to this story. Except that my office is now clean and shiny and perfectly organized and as soon as I get a new desk calendar I will have to begin searching for another reason to avoid writing about Nostra Aetate.
Now. Pilates. I think pilates is kind of a load of crap. Unless you do it for like three hours a day, but let's face it, unless you're Megan Fox, you probably don't have time for that. Really. The girl doesn't have anything else to do except practice her pout. She certainly doesn't eat. Meanwhile, I've been doing pilates for literally over a year and meh, I'm unimpressed. I don't think it's done anything.
Anywho. Pilates. Good for Megan Fox. Not for the rest of us.
Organizing tends to be a little bit more inclusive. I already ripped down the Christmas decorations with glee that would make Scrooge proud. I was foaming at the mouth as soon as the Epiphany came around. I've thrown away half-empty bottles of conditioner and moisturizer and probably some things that didn't belong to me, but whatever, they were in my way and if there's dust on the tube? Chances are you're not going to miss it. So. Gone.
This afternoon I worked in my office, which had become quite scary. I haven't been working down there because it's break, but I really do need to get restarted on this thesis thing. Also, being the basement, it's a good twenty degrees warmer than our living room, so it's quite a lovely place to spend time.
(I'M KIDDING. I'm glad I get to live here
It was a little bit scary. When we put up the evil Christmas decorations, all the normal stuff was shoved down there (because I didn't want to come up with a better place for it.), and then when the semester ended I just kind of threw my bag down there and ignored the fact that sixteen weeks worth of notes about Jewish Wisconsin strewn across my desk was not going to be helpful in creating a good work environment. Friday was the last straw, when I realized that I needed a place to put all my National History Day paper/posterboard/judging files/whatever, I don't care, they're paying me. And no matter how much I loved the class, perhaps my notes on Jewish intermarriage could be put away.
I guess.
Anyway. There was no point to this story. Except that my office is now clean and shiny and perfectly organized and as soon as I get a new desk calendar I will have to begin searching for another reason to avoid writing about Nostra Aetate.
Saturday, January 09, 2010
You're welcome.
It's eleven-thirty. Do you know where your 22-year-old without a life is? Disinfecting the counter top and saving the household from H1N1.
Please. It's my pleasure.
But lo- that's not all I did tonight. I also emailed two professors. (Who I'm sure are going to get back to me, like, pronto, because they have nothing better to do with their lives. Or Saturday nights.) AND I scraped wax off of a plate.
Should your advent wreath ever, well, melt? All over the plate? Fear not. You can still celebrate the solemn-yet-hopeful liturgical season next year. Just soak the plate in hot water for a few minutes and the wax comes right off. News you can use.
Oh. Wow. I'm going to be a fantastic professor. Maybe I need to take a page from Annie's blog and go to ineedahusband.com. Because this is just sad.
Please. It's my pleasure.
But lo- that's not all I did tonight. I also emailed two professors. (Who I'm sure are going to get back to me, like, pronto, because they have nothing better to do with their lives. Or Saturday nights.) AND I scraped wax off of a plate.
Should your advent wreath ever, well, melt? All over the plate? Fear not. You can still celebrate the solemn-yet-hopeful liturgical season next year. Just soak the plate in hot water for a few minutes and the wax comes right off. News you can use.
Oh. Wow. I'm going to be a fantastic professor. Maybe I need to take a page from Annie's blog and go to ineedahusband.com. Because this is just sad.
Friday, January 08, 2010
I have entirely too much time on my hands.
Scene: Kathleen's bedroom. 4:30 am.
Alarm: *goes off*
Good Kathleen: GOOD MORNING!!!
Bad Kathleen: Do not even start with me. *hits snooze*
4:40 am
Alarm: *goes off*
GK: GOO-
BK: I will cut you. *hits snooze*
5:00
Alarm: *goes off*
GK: Um...hi? I don't want to be rude, but we really need to get up now.
BK: Umfh.
GK: What was that? Was that, "of course, let me just turn on the light"?
BK: No. It was "it's warm and cozy and snuggly in here and I'm not leaving."
GK: Oh, fiddlesticks! We have things to do! And if you don't get up this second, there won't be enough time to do them!
BK: What could we possibly have to do at five am? Surely Johnny Depp did not decide to propose last night and is waiting in the driveway as we speak?
GK: No...I don't think so. And why would we want that? He smokes. And is probably a bad influence.
BK: You are so dumb.
GK: Anyway, we need to skedaddle.
BK: No, we don't. It's cold. And we're on winter break. Surely illegal episodes of Doctor Who can be watched at ten o'clock.
GK: We need to exercise!
BK: I don't like that.
GK: You like our clothes don't you?
BK: I'll buy new clothes.
GK: Not with our credit card, you won't.
BK: Whatever. That can be done later.
GK: No! We have important actually-leave-the-house things to do today!
BK: Like what? Again, illegal episodes on my laptop. Hell, we don't even need to shower.
GK: We have to go to UWM and make copies! Lots and lots of copies! And since we have to do that, we're going to Mass too!
BK: Oh, great joy. Can't you find a parish that's within the same frickin' county as us? And copies? Why the hell would I want to do that? I don't like going to campus in the snow. There's a snow emergency. We'll have to pay for parking. And also it's REALLY COLD OUTSIDE THIS BED SO LEAVE ME ALONE.
GK: Listen, missy. You know what you do like? Paying our bills. And going to Starbucks. And buying clothes that only fit because I make us work out. How are you supposed to do that if WE DON'T GO TO OUR JOB???
BK: But those women in the departmental office scare me. They're always asking if we're married or engaged.
GK: They should scare you. They're alone and bitter and angry and I will die before I let us turn into an archetypal female academic with ovaries as dry as books.
BK: I can't hear you over the warm snuggliness.
GK: Look. If you get up and work out and let us get going, I'll let you unlock the door to the office that isn't ours but we have a key to so it's kind of like ours, okay?
BK: You will?
GK: Yes, Bad Kathleen. I know how much you like that.
BK: I really do. *pause* Do I have to wash our hair?
GK: No. But you do have to shower.
BK: Can we get Starbucks?
GK: No.
BK: Why?
GK: Because I am also our voice of fiscal responsibility.
BK: Fine. But I'm not wearing heels.
GK: Yes, you certainly are, young lady. Where would we be without me?
BK: We'd be a lot more well-rested.
GK: I am so not being paid enough for this.
Alarm: *goes off*
Good Kathleen: GOOD MORNING!!!
Bad Kathleen: Do not even start with me. *hits snooze*
4:40 am
Alarm: *goes off*
GK: GOO-
BK: I will cut you. *hits snooze*
5:00
Alarm: *goes off*
GK: Um...hi? I don't want to be rude, but we really need to get up now.
BK: Umfh.
GK: What was that? Was that, "of course, let me just turn on the light"?
BK: No. It was "it's warm and cozy and snuggly in here and I'm not leaving."
GK: Oh, fiddlesticks! We have things to do! And if you don't get up this second, there won't be enough time to do them!
BK: What could we possibly have to do at five am? Surely Johnny Depp did not decide to propose last night and is waiting in the driveway as we speak?
GK: No...I don't think so. And why would we want that? He smokes. And is probably a bad influence.
BK: You are so dumb.
GK: Anyway, we need to skedaddle.
BK: No, we don't. It's cold. And we're on winter break. Surely illegal episodes of Doctor Who can be watched at ten o'clock.
GK: We need to exercise!
BK: I don't like that.
GK: You like our clothes don't you?
BK: I'll buy new clothes.
GK: Not with our credit card, you won't.
BK: Whatever. That can be done later.
GK: No! We have important actually-leave-the-house things to do today!
BK: Like what? Again, illegal episodes on my laptop. Hell, we don't even need to shower.
GK: We have to go to UWM and make copies! Lots and lots of copies! And since we have to do that, we're going to Mass too!
BK: Oh, great joy. Can't you find a parish that's within the same frickin' county as us? And copies? Why the hell would I want to do that? I don't like going to campus in the snow. There's a snow emergency. We'll have to pay for parking. And also it's REALLY COLD OUTSIDE THIS BED SO LEAVE ME ALONE.
GK: Listen, missy. You know what you do like? Paying our bills. And going to Starbucks. And buying clothes that only fit because I make us work out. How are you supposed to do that if WE DON'T GO TO OUR JOB???
BK: But those women in the departmental office scare me. They're always asking if we're married or engaged.
GK: They should scare you. They're alone and bitter and angry and I will die before I let us turn into an archetypal female academic with ovaries as dry as books.
BK: I can't hear you over the warm snuggliness.
GK: Look. If you get up and work out and let us get going, I'll let you unlock the door to the office that isn't ours but we have a key to so it's kind of like ours, okay?
BK: You will?
GK: Yes, Bad Kathleen. I know how much you like that.
BK: I really do. *pause* Do I have to wash our hair?
GK: No. But you do have to shower.
BK: Can we get Starbucks?
GK: No.
BK: Why?
GK: Because I am also our voice of fiscal responsibility.
BK: Fine. But I'm not wearing heels.
GK: Yes, you certainly are, young lady. Where would we be without me?
BK: We'd be a lot more well-rested.
GK: I am so not being paid enough for this.
Thursday, January 07, 2010
I have SOME standards.
According to my site tracker, a bunch of people have found my blog by googling "Irish American", "alcohol poisoning", "Catholic drinking game", and (my favorite), "ecstasy and NyQuil". Or, occasionally, "ecstacy (sic) and NyQuil".
I feel the need to clarify a few things.
I am Irish American. (NOT a nationalist, however. I am firmly on the sit-down-and-shut-up side of the Troubles.) That didn't really need a disclaimer.
I have never had alcohol poisoning. Nor do I anticipate this occurring anytime soon.
I'm not sure what a Catholic drinking game is, but they ended up being sent to my post from Monday. So- in no way did I actually turn the archbishop's installation Mass into a drinking game. It was 1:30 in the afternoon. That's a real quick way to end up with the aforementioned alcohol poisoning.
I'm guessing ecstasy and NyQuil, even when spelled correctly, are a bad combination. I'm not a doctor. And I'll own it, I've never tried ecstasy. But I do have a lot of experience with NyQuil. And I'm thinking you need to just enjoy those two separately, okay?
I think that's all. I'm going to go back to constantly refreshing Marquette's application page now.
I feel the need to clarify a few things.
I am Irish American. (NOT a nationalist, however. I am firmly on the sit-down-and-shut-up side of the Troubles.) That didn't really need a disclaimer.
I have never had alcohol poisoning. Nor do I anticipate this occurring anytime soon.
I'm not sure what a Catholic drinking game is, but they ended up being sent to my post from Monday. So- in no way did I actually turn the archbishop's installation Mass into a drinking game. It was 1:30 in the afternoon. That's a real quick way to end up with the aforementioned alcohol poisoning.
I'm guessing ecstasy and NyQuil, even when spelled correctly, are a bad combination. I'm not a doctor. And I'll own it, I've never tried ecstasy. But I do have a lot of experience with NyQuil. And I'm thinking you need to just enjoy those two separately, okay?
I think that's all. I'm going to go back to constantly refreshing Marquette's application page now.
Wednesday, January 06, 2010
Twilight Zone
This morning I met with the professor whom I'm assisting with National History Day. I got there early, because I live unbelievably far away and one usually needs to factor in everything from freak thunderstorms to alien invasions because do you have any idea how many things can make you late between Grafton and the East Side? A LOT THAT'S HOW MANY.
I did have to pick up my honors certificate from some professor's mailbox, I thought, that would kill a few minutes.
Okay. Well, that had the potential to be awkward. I really hate hanging around the third floor of Holton. It's tiny and everyone leaves their doors open. My thesis advisor (Given name: Neal. This will be important later on.) is always in his office. Right next to the mailboxes. With his door open. Just waiting to notice me and yeah, I didn't feel like I could come up with a better reason than, "Um...that Doctor Who special, The End of Time? Was like two hours long." for why I hadn't sent him a draft of my thesis yet.
See? Awkward. Still, I really wanted that certificate. So I trekked up the stairs. On the second floor, another woman joined me. A woman I've spent two years avoiding the gaze of. She was my professor for the ridiculously entitled Women and Gender in Western Europe Post-1750 class a few years ago. I had a complicated relationship with her. She was acrimonious and liberal and annoying but she gave me an A. So...yeah. I just kept my head down and pretended to be texting.
(This, incidentally, is how I handle most awkward hallway situations. So if you see me in the hallway and I'm "texting"? Feel free to call me on it.)
Whew. She left. Okay. I clawed through the guy's mailbox and got my certificate (Really? $40 for a single sheet of paper? Ooh, but I get to save a whole 15% on the honors cord for graduation- way to be frugal there, Phi Alpha Theta.), and scurried past my advisor's office without looking up from the carpeting.
Awesome. Crisis averted. I made my way down to the hallway where my boss's office is. She wasn't in. Okay. I'll just stand out here for a few minutes. This time actually texting. And oh! Great. Scary Religious Studies Advisor is in her office. RIGHT NEXT TO ME. Shitshitshitshit.
Okay. Remember that I was a Religious Studies major before I switched to Jewish Studies. I'm not saying that I'm important enough for her to remember me. But I kind of dropped her class, the major she chairs, and refused to take her husband's intensive summer Latin program (I'm sorry- it was $1,900 for two weeks.) even though she told me I'd probably never get into graduate school otherwise. And also? SHE'S THE SCARIEST WOMAN ON CAMPUS. Or so I've heard. Like I said, I ran screaming from anything related to her.
Okay. More staring down. Please don't turn around, please don't turn around, please don't turn around. She seems to be pretty engrossed in her computer. Great. I'll just stare at the wall. Oh, look. My boss shares an office with four other people. It must be nice to be independently wealthy and not care that you're treated like crap by this fine academic institution. And wow, one of them is my Women and Gender professor. Gosh, that's a coincidence...
AHHHH! Women and Gender professor! YOU'RE RIGHT HERE. AGAIN. NEXT TO ME. TALKING TO ME. I HAVE NO CHOICE BUT TO RESPOND.
Women and Gender Professor: Are you waiting for Ellen?
Kathleen: Y...yes.
Women and Gender Professor: You're going to have to wait a little longer. We're still cleaning out here.
Kathleen: Oh! Oh, not a problem at all. Nope. I'm fine. I've got lots of texting to do! Ha! Have a nice day! You're obviously just as pleasant as you were a few years ago.
So there's more hall waiting. Now, I don't know if you've ever been in a school hallway from c. 1900, but they're tiny. And when you're trying to avoid people on two of the three walls- that's fun.
Wait. It gets better. All of a sudden, Hot Latin Guy shows up.
Let me explain Hot Latin Guy. But "Latin" I don't mean "-o". I mean "Adoramus te Christe." He sat in front of me in art history last semester, and I spent most of the class not paying any attention to what the hell kind of significance that damn Minoan octopus jar had but staring at the back of his head and naming our babies.
What? He was a classics major, a year older than me, and taking fourth-semester Latin. You find me a guy who can speak Latin and is neither a seminarian nor the father of a kid in my sister's class (like my Latin professor- I'd like to be very clear that I never found him hot)? I'll give you my firstborn. With that guy.
Sadly, the class ended and we had never actually spoken because well, we probably had nothing in common except student debt. But whatever. He still smiles at me if I pass him in the hallway.
So. He's there. For some reason. I don't know why. But this hallway in Holton? Is getting downright freaky. I'm quickly running out of texts on my monthly plan and dear God, it's like 11:45 where is this woman?
Oh, thank goodness! There she is. Okay. We're exchanging small talk about Christmas, and she's inviting me into the office...oooh, I don't want to go in there with Women and Gender lady. But let's face it, she scares me less than Scary Religious Studies Woman. Okay, just go in and smile.
Now my boss is talking to Women and Gender Lady.
Ellen: Where are you going?
Women and Gender Lady: Oh, Neal and Margo have been trying to get rid of me forever. I finally got a letter telling me to vacate the office permanently. *goes off on a long, way-too-much-information ramble about being fired*
Kathleen: OH MY GOD I AM NOT LISTENING TO THIS CONVERSATION IN WHICH MY THESIS ADVISOR FIRED YOU IN A HORRIBLE WAY. AND YOU'RE ABOUT SIX SECONDS AWAY FROM FIGURING OUT WHO I AM. *ducks head, stares out window, wishes desperately that she had someone to text*
Ellen: This is Kathleen, by the way.
Kathleen: Shitshitshitshitshit. Okay. Breathe. You had long, curly hair and weighed about fifty pounds more the last time she saw you. She'll never recog...
Women and Gender Lady: You look familiar.
Kathleen: Of course I'm familiar, you just poured out your humiliating job loss story in front of your former student who is REALLY UNCOMFORTABLE WITH THIS. Um, yeah, actually, you were my Women and Gender professor a few semesters ago.
Women and Gender Lady: Oh, right. I taught that during my divorce. I lost it a few times.
Kathleen: I know. You told such horrible stories that I made my mom change her will. Now whatever loser (Hot Latin Guy?) I marry won't be able to get his grubby cheating hands on my inheritance. Um...yeah...I didn't...I really enjoyed the class. *cough* My apologies, by the way.
Women and Gender Lady: *huff*
ANYWAY. Finally she and her boyfriend (!!!) left and we were able to continue with our meeting. And I don't even totally remember what was said because I was so exhausted from the craziness of the previous twenty minutes.
I had to come home and take a nap.
Neal can fire whomever he wants, he still isn't getting a draft from me anytime soon.
I did have to pick up my honors certificate from some professor's mailbox, I thought, that would kill a few minutes.
Okay. Well, that had the potential to be awkward. I really hate hanging around the third floor of Holton. It's tiny and everyone leaves their doors open. My thesis advisor (Given name: Neal. This will be important later on.) is always in his office. Right next to the mailboxes. With his door open. Just waiting to notice me and yeah, I didn't feel like I could come up with a better reason than, "Um...that Doctor Who special, The End of Time? Was like two hours long." for why I hadn't sent him a draft of my thesis yet.
See? Awkward. Still, I really wanted that certificate. So I trekked up the stairs. On the second floor, another woman joined me. A woman I've spent two years avoiding the gaze of. She was my professor for the ridiculously entitled Women and Gender in Western Europe Post-1750 class a few years ago. I had a complicated relationship with her. She was acrimonious and liberal and annoying but she gave me an A. So...yeah. I just kept my head down and pretended to be texting.
(This, incidentally, is how I handle most awkward hallway situations. So if you see me in the hallway and I'm "texting"? Feel free to call me on it.)
Whew. She left. Okay. I clawed through the guy's mailbox and got my certificate (Really? $40 for a single sheet of paper? Ooh, but I get to save a whole 15% on the honors cord for graduation- way to be frugal there, Phi Alpha Theta.), and scurried past my advisor's office without looking up from the carpeting.
Awesome. Crisis averted. I made my way down to the hallway where my boss's office is. She wasn't in. Okay. I'll just stand out here for a few minutes. This time actually texting. And oh! Great. Scary Religious Studies Advisor is in her office. RIGHT NEXT TO ME. Shitshitshitshit.
Okay. Remember that I was a Religious Studies major before I switched to Jewish Studies. I'm not saying that I'm important enough for her to remember me. But I kind of dropped her class, the major she chairs, and refused to take her husband's intensive summer Latin program (I'm sorry- it was $1,900 for two weeks.) even though she told me I'd probably never get into graduate school otherwise. And also? SHE'S THE SCARIEST WOMAN ON CAMPUS. Or so I've heard. Like I said, I ran screaming from anything related to her.
Okay. More staring down. Please don't turn around, please don't turn around, please don't turn around. She seems to be pretty engrossed in her computer. Great. I'll just stare at the wall. Oh, look. My boss shares an office with four other people. It must be nice to be independently wealthy and not care that you're treated like crap by this fine academic institution. And wow, one of them is my Women and Gender professor. Gosh, that's a coincidence...
AHHHH! Women and Gender professor! YOU'RE RIGHT HERE. AGAIN. NEXT TO ME. TALKING TO ME. I HAVE NO CHOICE BUT TO RESPOND.
Women and Gender Professor: Are you waiting for Ellen?
Kathleen: Y...yes.
Women and Gender Professor: You're going to have to wait a little longer. We're still cleaning out here.
Kathleen: Oh! Oh, not a problem at all. Nope. I'm fine. I've got lots of texting to do! Ha! Have a nice day! You're obviously just as pleasant as you were a few years ago.
So there's more hall waiting. Now, I don't know if you've ever been in a school hallway from c. 1900, but they're tiny. And when you're trying to avoid people on two of the three walls- that's fun.
Wait. It gets better. All of a sudden, Hot Latin Guy shows up.
Let me explain Hot Latin Guy. But "Latin" I don't mean "-o". I mean "Adoramus te Christe." He sat in front of me in art history last semester, and I spent most of the class not paying any attention to what the hell kind of significance that damn Minoan octopus jar had but staring at the back of his head and naming our babies.
What? He was a classics major, a year older than me, and taking fourth-semester Latin. You find me a guy who can speak Latin and is neither a seminarian nor the father of a kid in my sister's class (like my Latin professor- I'd like to be very clear that I never found him hot)? I'll give you my firstborn. With that guy.
Sadly, the class ended and we had never actually spoken because well, we probably had nothing in common except student debt. But whatever. He still smiles at me if I pass him in the hallway.
So. He's there. For some reason. I don't know why. But this hallway in Holton? Is getting downright freaky. I'm quickly running out of texts on my monthly plan and dear God, it's like 11:45 where is this woman?
Oh, thank goodness! There she is. Okay. We're exchanging small talk about Christmas, and she's inviting me into the office...oooh, I don't want to go in there with Women and Gender lady. But let's face it, she scares me less than Scary Religious Studies Woman. Okay, just go in and smile.
Now my boss is talking to Women and Gender Lady.
Ellen: Where are you going?
Women and Gender Lady: Oh, Neal and Margo have been trying to get rid of me forever. I finally got a letter telling me to vacate the office permanently. *goes off on a long, way-too-much-information ramble about being fired*
Kathleen: OH MY GOD I AM NOT LISTENING TO THIS CONVERSATION IN WHICH MY THESIS ADVISOR FIRED YOU IN A HORRIBLE WAY. AND YOU'RE ABOUT SIX SECONDS AWAY FROM FIGURING OUT WHO I AM. *ducks head, stares out window, wishes desperately that she had someone to text*
Ellen: This is Kathleen, by the way.
Kathleen: Shitshitshitshitshit. Okay. Breathe. You had long, curly hair and weighed about fifty pounds more the last time she saw you. She'll never recog...
Women and Gender Lady: You look familiar.
Kathleen: Of course I'm familiar, you just poured out your humiliating job loss story in front of your former student who is REALLY UNCOMFORTABLE WITH THIS. Um, yeah, actually, you were my Women and Gender professor a few semesters ago.
Women and Gender Lady: Oh, right. I taught that during my divorce. I lost it a few times.
Kathleen: I know. You told such horrible stories that I made my mom change her will. Now whatever loser (Hot Latin Guy?) I marry won't be able to get his grubby cheating hands on my inheritance. Um...yeah...I didn't...I really enjoyed the class. *cough* My apologies, by the way.
Women and Gender Lady: *huff*
ANYWAY. Finally she and her boyfriend (!!!) left and we were able to continue with our meeting. And I don't even totally remember what was said because I was so exhausted from the craziness of the previous twenty minutes.
I had to come home and take a nap.
Neal can fire whomever he wants, he still isn't getting a draft from me anytime soon.
Tuesday, January 05, 2010
*And* my skin is breaking out. Thank you, universe.
Things I Do Have:
1.) A job as a "research assistant" at UWM. Even though it involves more ordering sandwiches and less research. I think.
2.) An unnatural fondness for chocolate.
3.) Self-loathing because the last statement. It makes me sound like a wall plaque aimed at menopausal women.
4.) An ulcer. Probably.
5.) A sister who's brilliant.
6.) An art history professor who is not. Please explain to me how a 93.67% is not an A.
7.) Pimples.
8.) A thesis on Vatican II to almost finish before the 25th.
Things I Do Not Have:
1.) Any guidance on how, when, or where to do this job of research assistant/overpaid sandwich girl.
2.) A paycheck from my job at research assistant/overpaid sandwich girl.
3.) Any indication that my application was received by the one school that I'm pretty sure will accept me.
4.) Any response from any graduate school department. In the world.
5.) My graded Moses Montefiore paper. That I worked so hard on. Obviously.
6.) An appropriate moisturizer to deal with the pimples.
7.) An almost finished thesis on Vatican II.
Things I Will Hopefully Have Tomorrow:
1.) Information about the research assistant/overpaid sandwich girl.
2.) Better skin.
3.) Some sort of decision from SOMEONE. Look, I don't care if it's the University of Phoenix website at this point. JUST SOMEONE ANSWER ME.
4.) My graded Moses Montefiore paper. Eagle is connected to Milwaukee through the USPS. Not the Pony Express. It's been weeks, dude.
5.) A finished thesis on Vatican II? HAHAHAHAHAHAHA. I kill me.
1.) A job as a "research assistant" at UWM. Even though it involves more ordering sandwiches and less research. I think.
2.) An unnatural fondness for chocolate.
3.) Self-loathing because the last statement. It makes me sound like a wall plaque aimed at menopausal women.
4.) An ulcer. Probably.
5.) A sister who's brilliant.
6.) An art history professor who is not. Please explain to me how a 93.67% is not an A.
7.) Pimples.
8.) A thesis on Vatican II to almost finish before the 25th.
Things I Do Not Have:
1.) Any guidance on how, when, or where to do this job of research assistant/overpaid sandwich girl.
2.) A paycheck from my job at research assistant/overpaid sandwich girl.
3.) Any indication that my application was received by the one school that I'm pretty sure will accept me.
4.) Any response from any graduate school department. In the world.
5.) My graded Moses Montefiore paper. That I worked so hard on. Obviously.
6.) An appropriate moisturizer to deal with the pimples.
7.) An almost finished thesis on Vatican II.
Things I Will Hopefully Have Tomorrow:
1.) Information about the research assistant/overpaid sandwich girl.
2.) Better skin.
3.) Some sort of decision from SOMEONE. Look, I don't care if it's the University of Phoenix website at this point. JUST SOMEONE ANSWER ME.
4.) My graded Moses Montefiore paper. Eagle is connected to Milwaukee through the USPS. Not the Pony Express. It's been weeks, dude.
5.) A finished thesis on Vatican II? HAHAHAHAHAHAHA. I kill me.
Monday, January 04, 2010
You mean you didn't spend three hours watching Mass on television today?
(I apologize in advance if you're a.) not Catholic, b.) not in Milwaukee, or c.) possessing of actual things to fill up your day. Feel free to stop reading and have a lovely day.)
So, I'm 22. I'm on winter break. So how do I spend the vast majority of a day of my vacation?
Watching coverage of Archbishop Listecki's installation Mass. Obviously.
Oh, internets. It was awesome.
First of all, I like him. I really, really do. He's folksy enough to be endearing and kind of has an adorable little look on his face when he talks. But he's also smart enough that the snob in me is placated as well. And he mentioned Dancing with the Stars in his closing remarks. While most nights I'd rather open a vein than actually watch Dancing with the Stars, I respect a man who can bring up an ABC reality show during Mass.
Second, former Archbishop Weakland totally gave Listecki the stink eye during the "and let's all give *blank* a hand..." part. And, oh, it made my day. I mean first of all, why was he there? I don't mean why was he invited, because I get that. He was our archbishop for a long time. Andno one nothing he did can erase that. And I swear, I am not even beginning to comment on the actual scandal because it's none of my business (Well, except for that preceding sentence. That's mostly just because I'm incapable of not being sarcastic.). You can break whatever vows you like, my only problem comes when you use archdiocesan funds to cover it up. Then it becomes my business.
But why would you actually show up? I mean, how awkward. Not only was it this huge part of your life that is over and that's just kind of depressing but also, you left under close to the most embarrassing circumstances. Ever. Why the hell would you come back to this?
Because you run the risk of the incredibly awkward moment when Listecki thanked Weakland for being there in three words and then spent ten minutes drooling over Dolan and might as well have finished with, "And thanks for cleaning up the mess that that one over there left us with," and Weakland just glares at him? Yeah. Crazygood awkward.
Third, did I mention that I really love incense? Like, a lot?
Also virtually saw several people I know, which was pretty cool. One was pretty cool because I haven't actually seen him in about eighteen months and the other was pretty cool because hey! I saw him this morning! And now he's with the archbishop! Wow. A lot. Like, a lot a lot. If it had been a drinking game, I would have had alcohol poisoning by the second reading.
Finally, they played my absolute favorite song ever during the communion procession.
So. That was fun.
So, I'm 22. I'm on winter break. So how do I spend the vast majority of a day of my vacation?
Watching coverage of Archbishop Listecki's installation Mass. Obviously.
Oh, internets. It was awesome.
First of all, I like him. I really, really do. He's folksy enough to be endearing and kind of has an adorable little look on his face when he talks. But he's also smart enough that the snob in me is placated as well. And he mentioned Dancing with the Stars in his closing remarks. While most nights I'd rather open a vein than actually watch Dancing with the Stars, I respect a man who can bring up an ABC reality show during Mass.
Second, former Archbishop Weakland totally gave Listecki the stink eye during the "and let's all give *blank* a hand..." part. And, oh, it made my day. I mean first of all, why was he there? I don't mean why was he invited, because I get that. He was our archbishop for a long time. And
But why would you actually show up? I mean, how awkward. Not only was it this huge part of your life that is over and that's just kind of depressing but also, you left under close to the most embarrassing circumstances. Ever. Why the hell would you come back to this?
Because you run the risk of the incredibly awkward moment when Listecki thanked Weakland for being there in three words and then spent ten minutes drooling over Dolan and might as well have finished with, "And thanks for cleaning up the mess that that one over there left us with," and Weakland just glares at him? Yeah. Crazy
Third, did I mention that I really love incense? Like, a lot?
Also virtually saw several people I know, which was pretty cool. One was pretty cool because I haven't actually seen him in about eighteen months and the other was pretty cool because hey! I saw him this morning! And now he's with the archbishop! Wow. A lot. Like, a lot a lot. If it had been a drinking game, I would have had alcohol poisoning by the second reading.
Finally, they played my absolute favorite song ever during the communion procession.
So. That was fun.
Sunday, January 03, 2010
Maybe by the time Cardinal Stritch gets around to looking at my application...
This evening.
Colleen: I think you're in the wrong career path. You should work for the Church.
Me: I'm planning on getting a graduate degree in theology.
Colleen: No, I mean actually work for the Church. You could be a really powerful lay person. You're very churchy.
Me: Well, I can't go to Catholic Theological Union- they require entirely too many letters of recommendation.
Colleen: How many?
Me: Five, and they have to be from people "familiar with my service record".
Colleen: Pssh. Service. Just let them listen to you go off on Humanae Vitae. They'll take you in a second.
It's true. I do so enjoy encylicals.
Colleen: I think you're in the wrong career path. You should work for the Church.
Me: I'm planning on getting a graduate degree in theology.
Colleen: No, I mean actually work for the Church. You could be a really powerful lay person. You're very churchy.
Me: Well, I can't go to Catholic Theological Union- they require entirely too many letters of recommendation.
Colleen: How many?
Me: Five, and they have to be from people "familiar with my service record".
Colleen: Pssh. Service. Just let them listen to you go off on Humanae Vitae. They'll take you in a second.
It's true. I do so enjoy encylicals.
Friday, January 01, 2010
Resolutions
Yesterday I was being all melancholy, and so I did not get a chance to tell you what I plan on doing this year. I know, right? You were devastated.
I should begin by telling you that I don't do actual serious resolutions. There's nothing majorly wrong in my life. I don't smoke, I don't drink to excess, I have a perfectly normal body size. And frankly it's just depressing when you fail. And if there's anything we don't need here at my house it's more depression, okay?!? So no resolutions!
That being said, I will attempt to...
- Blog better. Not necessarily more. But more posts that aren't about...oh...my hair. Or...how I think my hair looks. Or Johnny Depp. Or graduate school. Or whywon'tnorthwesterngivemeananswerdjkldfkjlfdkljdfs.
-In fact, less blogging about school in general.
- Because you probably don't care, right? I mean, it's not your stomach lining the doesn't exist anymore. A lot of those thoughts are inside thoughts.
- Like my obsession with Angels and Demons. Which you (except Mary) are probably tired of hearing about.
- I'll try to keep the lid on that, too.
- You're welcome.
- Buy fewer clothes. Honestly. It's just a disease now.
- Take fewer pictures of my shoes.
- Put fewer pictures of my shoes on Facebook.
- You probably don't care that I have insanely cute pumps, do you?
- I didn't think so.
- Attempt to figure out why any of the Kardashian sisters are famous.
- Also why there can't be peace in the Middle East.
- Screw that, I have that one all figured out. Because crazy people got involved and screwed the normal people over.
- The Kardashian sisters still perplex me though.
- Blog more in list form!
- This is fun!
- I'm going to a party now.
- Bye!
I should begin by telling you that I don't do actual serious resolutions. There's nothing majorly wrong in my life. I don't smoke, I don't drink to excess, I have a perfectly normal body size. And frankly it's just depressing when you fail. And if there's anything we don't need here at my house it's more depression, okay?!? So no resolutions!
That being said, I will attempt to...
- Blog better. Not necessarily more. But more posts that aren't about...oh...my hair. Or...how I think my hair looks. Or Johnny Depp. Or graduate school. Or whywon'tnorthwesterngivemeananswerdjkldfkjlfdkljdfs.
-In fact, less blogging about school in general.
- Because you probably don't care, right? I mean, it's not your stomach lining the doesn't exist anymore. A lot of those thoughts are inside thoughts.
- Like my obsession with Angels and Demons. Which you (except Mary) are probably tired of hearing about.
- I'll try to keep the lid on that, too.
- You're welcome.
- Buy fewer clothes. Honestly. It's just a disease now.
- Take fewer pictures of my shoes.
- Put fewer pictures of my shoes on Facebook.
- You probably don't care that I have insanely cute pumps, do you?
- I didn't think so.
- Attempt to figure out why any of the Kardashian sisters are famous.
- Also why there can't be peace in the Middle East.
- Screw that, I have that one all figured out. Because crazy people got involved and screwed the normal people over.
- The Kardashian sisters still perplex me though.
- Blog more in list form!
- This is fun!
- I'm going to a party now.
- Bye!
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