All monotheism, all the time.

I'm a little bit comparative-religioned out. (Yes, it's a verb.) Every single one of my classes deals with Judaism or Christianity or how Christianity is mean to Judaism or...I don't even know, I don't keep track anymore. I just traipse from class to class without much distinction because they're all saying THE SAME DAMN THING.


(First century Palestine. I. Am. Over. It.)


(Except this morning when my professor was talking about mandatory celibacy and said, "Eh, it's one of those things that you can do. Or you can't handle it." And my lip is bleeding because I was biting it so hard to keep from laughing out loud. That was pretty interesting.)


And the thesis. Oh, my goodness, am I over Vatican II. Or, at least, I should be. But I'm not. And that frightens me. I'm kind of on a thesis roll, because I want to finish it pretty early this semester so I can turn it in as the final paper for most of my classes have more time to devote to the rest of my studies. I think about it constantly. I drag my computer and bag of sources around with me because hey! I could have a free fifteen minutes sometime today! An dammit, I could write a good paragraph about John XXIII in that time.

Fortunately, I'm almost finished with the Hi-I'm-Catholic-And-My-People-Have-Been-Horrible-In-The-Past Chapter. I'm not an angry Catholic. I'm really not. I understand that the Church is made up of human beings, and they have made some (astounding) mistakes in the past. And I do understand that, in many cases *cough*Pius XII*cough* things have been taken out of context and blown out of proportion. And none of it changes my belief in the resurrection of Christ or the doctrine of transubstantiation.

But it's still depressing to be all, oh, yeah, sorry about that. My bad. We'll try to keep a lid on the pogroms from now on. And we're almost totally over the whole plague thing.

Honestly. I had to read Martin Luther's On the Jews and Their Lies for a class and I was so excited because ha! The Lutherans aren't so nice either!

And we get Mary. So that's good.

I really must do copies.

I opened my laptop this morning and it did weird things. NOT constantly connecting to Facebook hahaha, Mom, but turning weird colors and freezing and doing all sorts of other things that made me almost scream out loud in the middle of the library coffee shop.

(You think I go to the library to study? Hahaha. No. They have muffins here!)

This was distressing. Because I can't totally afford the coffee I just bought a new computer right now and please, baby, just work until September for mommy, okay? Then my (hopeful) Grad PLUS loan will replace you! But shh! The federal government thinks I'm using it for tuition.

And...then I realized that it had the only copy of my thesis on it. Okay. My thesis is just a senior thesis, and I realize it's only about twenty pages long right now and it's not like losing a doctoral dissertation or something, but dammit, I do not want to write those twenty pages again. I get kind of lazy about backing it up because, ugh, so much extra work. And since I threw my flash drive in a bottle of water (don't ask) at the end of last semester, that hasn't exactly been an option.

I quickly began bargaining with God. Seriously, just let me e-mail it to myself and and I'll do Your work, I promise. Little AIDS babies in Africa? I am there. With clean water. Hell, I'll even go to South America or something, and You know how I feel about humidity.

Apparently I need to get my malaria shots, because I was able to back it up, and restart the computer, and the weird colors went away and I don't have to rewrite my withering critique of John Cornwell's Hitler's Pope.

Although that was fun. I do so enjoy railing on angry ex-seminarians.

Just FYI, I'm stopping at Target on the way home. I obviously need a flash drive.

There are advantages to being a stalker.

There's this one professor that I pretty much stalk. He teaches everything I like and he gives me A's. He's lucky I don't follow him home.

Anyway. I've taken probably four classes with him in which he discusses Palestine in the first century, and I've seen the series From Jesus to Christ, where I'm pretty sure he gets most of his ideas, so I could pretty much give the lecture that I'm listening to right now. This isn't a terribly bad thing- it frees me up to do very important things like contemplate the ceiling and balance my checkbook and pick at my nails. You know, academic stuff.

We're doing the four major groups of Jews in Palestine right now- Sadducees, Pharisees, Essenes, and zealots. (There used to be five, but we lost the scribes since last semester. Whatever, they were just hanging out in the temple, killing time.) I really like this part of the lecture. Because the Essenes are basically hippies and typing "Sadducees" or "Pharisees" just makes me want to finish, "they would not dance and they wouldn't follow me."

But my favorites are the zealots. Because they're basically the Irish of first-century Palestine. Honestly. They're all crazy and dude, the British Romans are totally jealous of our awesome potatoes Temple. They're SCARED of us. Please to have home rule independence?

Ah. I also kind of love it when Britain Rome gets fed up and puts the smackdown on the Irish Jews. I know I shouldn't. But I do.

Ooh, we're on to Holy Week now. I should probably pay attention. Pilate the Roman Thug is about to get all philosophical and what is truth? in John's gospel. Exciting.

I don't need a platypus.

Note: I had to Google "platypus" to find out how to spell it. Shh. Don't tell any graduate schools.

I know that God likes to laugh because during horrible weeks when you'd really prefer to just crawl back into bed, preferably with a very large bottle of Maker's Mark (Or whatever turns your crank; I'm fond of the very unladylike bourbon myself.), and completely ignore stuff going on around you like school and your thesis and the fact that you don't know where you'll be in September and why hello there, PET scan, you haven't made me nauseous with fear in a few months, good to see you again! you get pimples the likes of which you haven't seen since high school when Ugly Betty premiered.

(Okay. So it wasn't that long ago. The young can be stressed, too.)

Note the Second: That was one sentence. Shh. Don't tell any graduate schools.

I suppose you could think that God is cruel. But I'm an optimist. (Stop laughing.)

Now, if you'll excuse me. I need to go steal my little brother's Proactiv.

Reality

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 are self-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.

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.)

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.

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 Court Whore 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.

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!"

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.

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 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.

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.

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.

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 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.

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.

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.

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.

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 here for 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

*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.

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. And no 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. Crazy good 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.

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.

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!

You could have single-handedly redeemed 2009, Northwestern.

Believe me, I would have loved to have ended this with, Oh, and I got into graduate school. But of course, I still know nothing. More waiting.

That's kind of how I feel about 2009. Waiting. I watched people I loved suffer. I suffered. But it was also the year that I started senior year of college. The first year I really felt like an adult. The year I started to deal with Grandpa dying. The year I started to deal with what happened after Grandpa died. The year I spent entirely too much money on clothes.

(Oh. Are we not being superficial now?)

This is the first decade I remember completely. I remember New Year's Eve of 1999. The last ten years have been...well, it's ridiculous to say I've changed because, um, I was twelve, of course I've changed. But when you remember changing? That's pretty important. So I feel kind of badly that the end of the decade for me was kind of like purgatory. I don't know what's going to happen next, but hopefully I'm being prepared for something much better.

(Although the theology student in me refuses to let that metaphor go. Doctrinally, if you're in purgatory, you're definitely going to heaven. At some point. Whatever. It still kind of works.)

2008 was horrible. So horrible I can't refer to it as anything other than a sucking black hole of evil. It rivaled 2002, and that, my friends, is really hard to do here at Chez Morena. I think the whole house thing ends up associated with 2008 in my mind, even though that's not completely true. Please, you can read tearful posts here and here.

2009 was less dramatic in terms of all . There were fewer meltdowns. I was able to get through holiday dinners without...well. (I think a lot of it was the counter top.) Today, we met with the woman who will be moving in tomorrow. She's great, turns out she's a former friend, we knew her kids, awesome. It's horrible that she's living there for no reason except that she's not me.

But I realized this afternoon (as I was standing in the bedroom crying because hey! I painted this! With my friend! And there's my blood on the walls! Literally. Who the hell do you think you are living here with your monthly check crazy woman?) that it's not the end.

Because the next decade? Will be the decade that I move in.

(In fact, if I find anyone who doesn't have access to yesterday's post, it may even being the decade that there are kids there again.)

As Bill (another rather awesome part of 2009- hi, Bill!) just posted on my Facebook wall, it's a beginning.

I will be the worst pregnant woman. Ever.

I'm only having one child. Not for any personal reasons. Please. I'm Irish Catholic.

(Although to be honest, we kind of failed at the whole have-a-soccer-team-without-leaving-your-house thing. There are only five grandchildren in my mom's family. My dad's Polish relatives thoroughly beat us- there are like thirteen or something. Even the ex-seminarian has six! Probably a good thing he's ex.)

No, it's because I will be the most unpleasant pregnant woman ever, and no man is ever going to want to have sex with me again after nine months of having to exist with me, the most unpleasant pregnant woman ever.

This occurred to me on Monday as I was stress-eating my way through whatever was left from Christmas and obsessively checking for my grades. It's not even just the wait, there's no coffee or NyQuil in pregnancy? What??? And the fact that I know my body and wow, I'm going to be epic. I don't put on weight prettily. I'm not going to be prime-time-sitcom-pretty-little-baby-bump pregnant, I'm going to be TLC-reality-harsh-lighting pregnant. No. Not just that.

I don't do well waiting for results. It's not necessarily that I'm impatient like a child, it's just that I...well...am impatient like a child. The whole grade thing? I'm pretty sure I have an ulcer. Waiting for acceptance or rejection from grad schools? I'm ready to go to Northwestern and hold the head of admissions' child hostage until he renders a decision.

(Also? My maternal instincts have only thus far been activated by the iPhone.)

Imagine nine months of major waiting. What if I don't like the baby? What if the baby doesn't like me and I love the baby? What if it's a boy? What if it's sick? Are you still in there? It's been like five months. What if his father murders me in my sleep? That happens a lot you know. Oh my God, he's going to kill me. What if the baby is ugly? What if it's a girl? Still in there? WHY? What if the epidural doesn't work? What if my mom doesn't like it? What if she's stupid? Am I going to annoy my own baby with my academic snobbery? What if someone cuts it out of me like that one CSI episode? Are you coming out yet? What if I have an episiotomy? That's really gross. SERIOUSLY BE BORN ALREADY.

Oh. It's not going to be pretty.

Maybe that's why I'm single right now- no one could go through the waiting for acceptance into a graduate program and having a baby with me. It's not human.

Screw you and your little dog, too.

Dear UWM,

It's Monday, December 28th. This is the final date for grades to be posted. Do you know how many grades I have? NONE. Nada. Zip. Zero. THAT'S HOW MANY. So. I highly suggest that you have a discussion with at least the four faculty members who are withholding grades from me. One also still has my final paper that he said he'd e-mail to me two weeks ago, but to be perfectly honest I'm not holding my breath for that one.

The only two who have even made warlike moves towards final grades have fallen seriously short. One messed up my grade and I still have no idea whether or not I have an A or and A- (How is a 93.5% NOT an A? What scale are you using?), and the other one revised my paper grade saying it was awesome and my final grade would be "an A/A-".

Um. Excuse me. You have a doctorate from Yale. PICK ONE, WOMAN. You certainly weren't too busy celebrating Christmas this weekend and Hanukkah's been over for like a week.

So. If you could impose some sort of penalty on them.

Also, I recently checked out the Spring 2010 graduation page. And, um, you have me graduating at 9 a.m.? NINE O'CLOCK ON A SUNDAY MORNING? Are you kidding me? I've paid $35,000 for the degree, another $80 for the double major graduation fee, and God knows how much the gap and gown are going to cost. And you still make me show up at 8:15?

That is really not cool, guys. The business majors get to go to the 1:30 one. I get that they are going to be a far more lucrative alumni group than us lowly Letters and Sciences idiots, but IT'S STILL NOT NICE!

Sincerely,
Kathleen

P.S. You all are invited to my graduation breakfast. Because that's what time of day we'll be finished. Please bring donuts.

One of these things is not like the other.

Went to see the new Sherlock Holmes movie today. Loved it. Loved the unabashed sequel set-up. Loved the jokes. Loved everything about it. I even loved it so much that I forgive Jude Law for being a skeez. (Kind of.)

Robert Downey, Jr. is clearly way hotter on the wagon. Obviously.

Also read Rome Sweet Home, and aww! That's adorable, you guys. No, for reals. Aside from the part where Kimberley talks about how she should be under Scott's spiritual guidance (Uh. No.), I totally loved it. And I'm not going to lie, when I finished it I googled them. Because I really wanted to know what they looked like without the late-80s glasses covering most of their faces.

For unto us...

(I don't know, I really could have picked any line from the infancy narratives. Or even gone totally off the wall with John's "In the beginning there was the Word," which I guess would have been okay, because it was one of the gospels for today, but whatever. I'm lazy. And that's the first one that popped into my head.)

Merry Christmas, blog groupies!!! I hope you all have a wonderful day, and a great Friday if you don't technically believe in the Christ part. (Why?)

I, personally, am a little bit tired. I was awoken at some ungodly hour by "Santa". Who apparently felt the need to put the presents under the tree this morning. The past few years, Santa has been a little under the weather, and usually we get home from Christmas Eve and, um, Santa is all, "You don't need to go to bed, but you need to get out of the living room. I am TIRED." Apparently Santa was too tired to do even that last night, and remedied the situation EARLY THIS MORNING. REALLY EARLY. FREAKING EARLY.

I maintain that life could have gone on if she had put them out when we got home from Mass, but whatever- the mystery, it remains.

Anyway- I didn't trip or throw up or anything during Mass, so yay! That's exciting. My mom tok inappropriate pictures- thank God she waited until after Mass was finished. I've gotten a ton of conflict studies books (Northern Ireland and the Middle East- whee!!!) and DVDs, most of which I've licked or made out with (Public Enemies. Next year I want Johnny Depp.)

And this afternoon there will be family and food and lots of booze because I'm the only one who drinks anymore! Whoo? Stupid medication.

So have a wonderful day and I'll see you tomorrow.

I don't really care about decking, but if you could vacuum the hall that would be great.

I'm finished with the semester. I've e-mailed my thesis advisor with this brilliant-yes-please-let-me-into-grad-school note- "I hope you had a wonderful time in Poland. I'm taking finals and Christmas week off. I'll send you a draft sometime after that. Merry Christmas! Love, your loser student." (I'm kidding about that last part. I don't write "love" to my professors. Most of them.) I baked cookies on Monday after my finals disappeared into thin air. I don't even have to make the Happy Birthday Baby Jesus cake.

(Which I still maintain is a three-year-old tradition at best. We NEVER had one when I was little. NEVER. If my mom is so in love with her photo scanner, why can't she find any pictures of this alleged OMG WE HAD IT EVERY YEAR cake? Because it doesn't exist. Hah. That's what I thought.)

I have nothing do do until Christmas except clean the house, wrap gifts, deal with my unruly eyebrows (I'm a frickin' redhead, how is it that my eyebrows are so terrible?), make a single pumpkin pie because honestly? WE DO NOT NEED TWO, oh, and try to get through the reading from Isaiah for Friday morning. At least I think it's Isaiah. Nine o'clock Mass is the day reading, right? Don't you think? I mean, it's hardly dawn. And they're both Isaiah. Whatever. No one pays attention anyway. They're all dealing with their toddlers who have never been inside a church before.

Um. Actually. That's a lot.

But my point was that I don't have any real responsibilities, and yet I'm still procrastinating on ALL OF THIS. Because I have coffee? And Lifetime? Did you know they show crappy programming ALL DAY LONG? I know, right?

Way more fun than cleaning the shower that people will just insist on using again despite my protestations that I don't care if you're dirty, I don't have to scrub you down with Comet just stay out of the damn shower!

Ooh! Two completely random things before I get back to the Falalala Lifetime movie marathon where there's lots of infidelity and redemption and angsty yet wholesome holiday sex between two vaguely-familiar-looking-but-they-certainly-aren't-famous actors.

I logged on to my UWM e-mail account this morning. It's connected to the calendar now, for reasons that elude me. But a notification popped up telling me that I had an event. Winter Break. Yes. The university had taken the time to add Winter Break as an event, even equipped with an alarm. So if I wanted to hit snooze on my vacation, I totally could.

Also, I've stopped obsessively checking my application at Northwestern. Because I'm completely convinced now that they'll reject me on Christmas Eve and the notification will go something like, "We regret to inform you that you are too stupid to attend Northwestern University. Please have a lovely holiday and maybe Jesus still loves you because God knows we don't."

I changed my mind.

You all can come and take my cookies for all I care. Because I am really sick of existing on refined sugar. Between the fact that I haven't had any protein since, oooh, last week, and the fact that finals have COMPLETELY messed me up because my schedule- it is gone and I'm pretty dumb I need to know where I'm supposed to be, dammit, I don't really even know what day it is.

Tuesday? Maybe?

I was kidding about the protein thing, by the way. I'm eating perfectly normally, it's just THE COOKIES I CAN HEAR THEM IN THE FRIDGE BEING ALL TASTY.

I had important thoughts on the psychology of the Edwardian era, I promise.

Um...so I was going to talk about this amazing miniseries that I just watched, even though it's like eight years old at this point but whatever, it's British, they've pretty much been the same since 1066. (Colleen: London burned. Once.) But then my dad made these amazing chocolate truffles? I don't know, they're little chocolate balls rolled in coconut and I WANT TO HAVE THEIR BABIES.

It's a family recipe. One that he refuses to write down, despite my constant shouting, "You're not going to live forever and once I get through being mad at your for not throwing out all your stuff before you selfishly died I'm going to be mad at you BECAUSE I HAVE NO CHOCOLATE," at him.

He makes them every Christmas. I don't know if it's that I tend to eat healthier or what, but this year I have made a dent in them with embarrassing swiftness. (Like, they're not even fully hardened yet.) I didn't even waste time with a plate- just the Tupperware container they were in was fine. He kind of looked at me and went, um, maybe we could have some left for Christmas? And I replied that he could either make another batch or go to Trader Joe's and buy new candy for all I care because THESE ARE MINE DO YOU HEAR ME?

Or at least I would have. If my mouth hadn't have been full.

Whatever. I'm thin now; it's not that sad.

(Okay. It is. A little.)

Retail Hell

Oh, internets. I'm off to the Major Bookstore Chain that No One Ever Thinks About for eight hours. Where people will be mad that I don't stock a large-enough variety of holiday/Hanukkah paper (Look! I know we're in Fox Point, okay? I GET IT. But just because I'm a Jewish Studies major doesn't mean I care. It just means I'm obsessed (in a good way) with 1/4th of the faculty and in a bad way with the other 3/4ths. SO LEAVE ME ALONE WITH MY CRUCIFIX.), can't get things delivered by Christmas (I'm sorry, but if you order on a date that begins with a 2? You're screwed and it's not my fault anymore.), and oh, I don't know, my hair offends them or something (People. Are weird.)

Although, come to think of it, my hair is filthy. That was going to be remedied tonight (Do I know how to have a good time or what?), but turns out I have plans. To go to one of those Little Town of Bethlehem thingies (I don't think the big one at Elmbrook, unless I leave work like six hours early. And that seems irresponsible.) and White Christmas. Huh. I totally forgot about both of those! And my hair is still filthy!

Not totally my fault- it was on my list of things to accomplish this morning when my alarm went off at four. However, there was an alternative list that went something like Ha! Are you fricking kidding me four o'clock? I was up until midnight playing on eBay (Whee! Really cheap perfume! Whee!!!) and going over the Letter to the Hebrews for tomorrow morning and that is a very confusing reading, let me tell you what.

Not theologically. In fact, it kind of makes my little Jewish Studies heart warm with the whole implication of a new covenant thing, but do you know how difficult it is to say "holocausts and sin offerings" slowly and clearly when you tend to mumble? VERY THAT'S HOW SO YOU KNOW WHAT MY HAIR IS A LITTLE LANK, OKAY? DON'T JUDGE.

Yeah. I'm going to work now. Have a good Saturday. Please don't come to Borders. If there's no one there, maybe they'll send me home early.

Whatever, I'll take it.

Hah! So remember when I was whining? Which time, you ask. Well, good point. About finals. Still going to need more, you say. Again, true. About my having to take two finals on Tuesday a mere number of hours before Christmas?

Of course. That time.

Well, I was at on of my myriad of finals with this professor yesteray and when I turned in my blue book he was all, "Oh! Kathleen, yeah, your grade for [Tuesday's final] is going to be an A. You're exempt from taking it." Um. Okay. That makes no sense.

But it does mean that I get to take the online exam in the morning, and then bake cookies and otherwise be irresponsible on Tuesday! Because I don't, like, work or anything. That would be crazy.

It also means that after my 12:30 final today in the class that I REALLY DON'T WANT TO TAKE is my last real you-can't-look-at-the-notes-open-on-your-lap final. Like, ugh, the Holocaust? Bummer. And Zionism- I am SO OVER Zionism. Like, for reals. I want to the multiple choice to be "Who was Theodor Herzl?" and the essay to be, "Talk about the formation of Israel that you learned in a lecture that was ten times as good as any I was able to give you this semester, even when I did that weird little, "Ha! We won." laugh that one time."

Okay. I don't think she's going to phrase it like that.

It would be awesome though.

Things that are bugging me today.

1.) My disturbing Pavlovian response to the words "Israel" and "Zion" that is due entirely to my Arab-Israeli Conflict final that I have to take in about three hours.

(I maintain the class is misnamed- it should be the Palestinian-Israeli Conflict. The Arab states never really loved the Palestinians anyway and after 1967 they dumped them completely. So it's hardly fair that they end up in the title of the conflict.)

Every time I hear those words, I'm like, "Ooh, I know about that! I know how much aid they received from the US in 1967 as opposed to 1968 ($12 million and $77 million, btw)." And opinions- do I have opinions. But you're not going to hear them. Because I'm too white and Christian to spout off my beliefs without looking like an anti-semite. Which I'm not. But I'm pretty sure it may come off that way in print.

And let me tell you, Advent is a bad time to be obsessed with Israel. Because it's in, like, every song and reading. During the homily last weekend I made myself space out because I was getting tired of reciting details in my head.

So. I'm really hoping that the test goes well. I was driving my brother to school this morning and he asked which exam I had today. I replied, "Arab/Israeli conflict. *pause* But I don't think I'll be able to solve it." He smiled and said, "You'd definitely get an A."

Personally, I think if I'm able to bring about a lasting peace in Gaza and the West Bank, I deserve extra credit.

2.) Northwestern University and Marquette University, and their seriously lazy graduate application departments.

Okay. I'll give Marquette a free pass for this one. Not only do I really want to go there, but the deadline hasn't even arrived yet. So. You guys are okay. For another week or two.

But Northwestern? Your deadline was, like, two whole weeks ago. And you don't even send out letters to the losers you don't admit. WHAT IS TAKING YOU SO LONG? Would it kill you to put a little "Denied" button on my application page so I can go back to banging my head into the wall and drinking heavily? I THINK NOT.

Shut up. I'm not crazy.

3.) I don't really have a three. Except that I think only two items looks lazy. Hmmm. I'm sure there's something. Oh- got it. My professor won't e-mail me back and tell me if he's finished grading my paper yet. Because I worked really, really hard on it and I really, really want it back so I can enjoy all the glowing comments during the winter break, after Northwestern rejects me.

I'm not being conceited. Even if it was a crappy paper, I'd get glowing comments. That's just the nature of our relationship. I sign up for all of his hideously underfunded classes about Jews in 1970s Ohio or other ridiculous bordering-on-hilarious classes, and he spews loveliness that affirms my self-worth all over my work. I love him.

Okay. I think that's all.

They should just call it "get absolutely nothing accomplished day"

But no. "Study Day" looks better on the university calendar.

You know what doesn't look good on the calendar? The fact that "Final Exams" runs through the 22nd. And I have two exams on the 22nd. And I'm not one of those people who can do anything other than exams during exams. So there will be no cleaning, no cookies, and no Christmas joy until the morning of the 23rd. Because during exam week I am so preoccupied with the fact that I am once again thisclose to a 4.0, and there's another end of a semester, and God, I'm crying a lot. Which I think is a little bit cruel, UWM. For the thousands I will be paying off until I die pay you, you'd think you could give me longer that 48 hours to prepare for the birth of the Lord.

So. I figured I'd try this whole updating thing earlier in the day. Because the whole nighttime thing? Not working. I fell asleep at nine o'clock last night. It was pretty embarrassing. Anyway, it's 10 o'clock right now, I've been subsisting on coffee for a few days, and I have nowhere to be. This is a strange feeling for ten o'clock on a Tuesday morning. I should be in class. What class would I be in...oh, Jewish Wisconsin. Aww. I loved that class. I want to be in that class right now.

Which brings us to our real point. That I'm a crazy person.

It may not be in the same flamboyant way that other people are. I don't need medication, and I don't go to therapy (Although I a huge supporter of counseling. Seriously. The more the better. I've seen what happens when you don't go, and I've seen how much it can help somebody when you do.), but I tend to have quiet little nervous breakdowns when I get stressed. Again- quiet. Very self-contained. I don't mean to say that what I go through is anywhere near what people who have major nervous breakdowns or panic attacks do, but it's there.

Like the end of last semester. The post I wrote about it is one of my favorites, possibly because I manage to foreshadow my future Jewish Studies degree (I literally did not have any idea I was going to do that) and get a virgin birth quip in there. And it's true- I didn't handle the end of last semester well. I was very upset- more upset than I should have been. And I know that it's related to stress and exhaustion, because I had similar feelings during the whole Grandpa's house thing last year.

Like when I found out my mom probably had cancer again and I completely lost it in front of an electrician and my cousin's roommate.

I know what you're thinking- um, you just found out your mom had cancer. That's probably a good reason to be upset.

And yeah, it is. Except, and I don't want to seem callous, but I've done this before. I've gotten that phone call, several times, and I've never lost it like I did that day. I was just at the end of my rope.

(Incidentally, that was also finals week. Yeah. Good times.)

So this whole post really had a point, I promise. And it was to serve as an early warning system- watch out for next semester. Because it's not going to be pretty?

I can't really tell you how not-pretty it's going to be. Because I can't think about it. Like, I'm in complete denial. I think about graduation in some kind of abstract quality, but never like it's actually going to happen. That would require acknowledging that in approximately 22 weeks I won't be an undergraduate at UWM anymore. And I can't deal with that. The though crosses my mind, I want to cry, and then I ignore it.

So. Denial and the crazy. Not good.

Marital property state.

Background: My parents have a fantastic marriage. So fantastic I'm pretty sure my brother and sister and I will die alone because we'll never have what they have. They do annoying things like want to hang out with each other. All the time.

Today, my dad got a portable digital TV. It gets all those digital stations, and he is enamored with it. So much so that his first reaction was, "We could cancel cable now that I have this!"

My mother, his devoted wife of 26 years who doesn't even have a good engagement story because according to her, "We always knew we wanted to get married!", replies, "You cancel cable, and I'll cancel you."

The woman loves her QVC.

I was going to get all emotional...

...but it turns out being emotionally exhausted is physically exhausting, and I don't totally feel like waxing poetic about my denial of the coming semester and how there may not be any more coming after it and yes, I started to cry this morning so what I'm normal, dammit.

Okay.

Instead I'm going to write about how Facebook thinks I'm Jewish. And looking for a husband. At Jwed.com. Or perhaps jewishsingles.net. (Find your mensch today! I'm not even kidding. I don't know what that means, but I'm guessing he won't come to the Easter Vigil with me.) Jwed in particular has quite the track record- five weddings a week! My goodness.

Anyway, Facebook apparently only picks up on the keywords in my statuses, and not on the "Religion" section. Because mine is very clearly "Roman Catholic." If it could say "Roman Catholic and Like Hell I'm Raising My Kids Anything Else I Respect Your Ancient Religion But You Can Go To Temple All By Yourself Mister", it would. The box wasn't that long.

(Incidentally, that's pretty much how my notes on intermarriage and the impact on the Jewish society in the United States from Jewish WI look. Yeah. It was an interesting class.)

Not a snow...oh wait! There *is* a snow day!

I literally had started typing this when my Facebook exploded with ZOMG SNOW DAY!!!1!!. So I had to retype it. Whatever. I don't have to drive an hour in the snow!

I hate having afternoon classes. When they come at the end of a day filled with classes, that's fine. I mean, I still crash around 3:30, which is not terribly surprising because I've been awake for about eleven hours at the point. (Except yesterday. Yesterday was the best 3:30-4:45 I think I've EVER HAD. I could get married at 4:00 and I'd still be like, honey, this is awesome, but there was this one Jewish Studies class...) But when they're just alone in the afternoon? Not cool. Because I feel like I should spend all day on campus because I'm really a morning person but then I don't want to and it's just not a good idea. Bad idea. Next semester? That's not happening.

However, there is one very huge benefit to having a 2:00 class. When UWM pussy-foots around for the better part of the morning about closing campus, you will still be at home when they wake up and realize HEY WE'RE A COMMUTER SCHOOL. Which means like 24,000 of our 26,000 students have to DRIVE HERE. From FAR AWAY. And NOTHING WE HAVE TO SAY ABOUT ITALIAN RENAISSANCE LANDSCAPE ARCHITECTURE IS WORTH THAT.

(I'm sorry. It's not Dr. Hubbard's fault that there was snow and I live far away.)

So. There's that.

And now I have bunches more hours to accomplish everything I was supposed to do this morning. And didn't. Because Facebook was more interesting.

Have a good Holy Day of Obligation!

While I was sitting in a Jewish archive researching this semester, I was eavesdropping on the office. It was a Friday, and the person in the office (not surprising, considering it was a Jewish archive) was obviously Jewish. She mentioned what was probably a service, and then concluded by saying, "Have a good shabbos!" The girl I was researching with (another Catholic) and I were all, aww, how cute! Catholics don't do that. You don't call you friends on Sunday morning and go, "have a good Mass!" But anyway, I figured that the only place it could work was on a holy day. So I hope everybody had a good Immaculate Conception.

Which is not Christ's conception, but Mary's. It's elitist and annoying but it really bugs me when people mix those up.

So. There.

I'm not in Galena anymore, which is troubling. More so because this means I have to, like, get to school and stuff in the Worstest Blizzard Ever OMG that's apparently coming...now! Look at that. By the time I got to my car after Mass there was an inch on the ground. Hmmm. Yeah. So...I think tomorrow is going to be a snow day. Because I only have one class, and it's not terribly important, and you know what? Grafton is frickin' far away from the East Side, y'all.

Now. Maybe UWM will agree with me and life will be much happier.

I'm in Galena!

Which means I'm not actually here, writing this. Because I'm too lazy to drag my computer along with me. And also our family kind of resembles a circus pulling into town and I prefer to stay as inconspicuous as possible. So. This is a fake entry.

In which I do nothing except tell you that in my Jewish Wisconsin class? There are a lot of old Jewish doctors? And one of them was Father Groppi's personal physician? Even though he was an OB/GYN?

Yeah. I think that should have been kind of telling, but whatever.

Father Groppi is quite the topic around our house, mostly because my dad grew up on the south side and I think he's torn between being disturbed by his liberalness (is that a word?) and finding him fascinating. So these last few lectures have been interested.

Next week we're doing the synagogues. Woot. Which means the entire class will be, "Well, Tim, when we moved to Brown Deer with Emanu-El...*twenty minutes of rambling while I pick at my nails and picture the professor in vestments (it's a thing)*". And I'll have nothing to add because I'm a poor little shiksa. *sigh*

Cleaning the garage.

I'm not sure if it's too early still to say that we're going to Galena (we're leaving in like half an hour). Colleen hasn't wanted to jinx it, so we've been saying "cleaning the garage". Which makes no sense. But whatever.

So yay! It shall be fun. And I'm fairly certain that the hour and a half I spent working out this morning was a ridiculous waste of time, as I tend to consume my weight in food during these weekends in Galena. Oh, well.