Foot, Meet Mouth

Lunch was excruciating enough today, as is often the case when, though separated by generations, language, and culture, you are obligated to eat with people you have nothing in common with except a very thin familial tie. But Mother made it all the more painful by asking the ex-husband, and wife, in the presence of the man's parents no less, about how they first met.

Father: You knew that they were divorced. What possessed you to ask such a question?

Mother: What? I was genuinely curious!

Moi: Did you not see how uncomfortable they all looked?

Mother: It was a perfectly good question.

Name Game

What do you call your half cousin's stepchild? No, no, that seems too easy. What do you call your half cousin's husband's parents? Or your half cousin's husband's ex-wife?

Tell me that and I'll treat you to a beef patty. Or give you the monetary equivalent.

Half cousin's (second) husband and his parents are visiting today. From Chinar. Apparently, the ex lives close to us so it totally made sense to all of them to make the 40 minutes drive for all of us to get together. Lunch is going to be tons of fun.

Moi: I call the husband 'brother-in-law,' but what do I call his parents? Aunt and uncle? And what do I call the ex?

Mother: Just call her Sue.

Moi: Is that her name? Or is that the Chinese word?

20-20

Robert, I don't think that was a good stare coming from the girl...

Two favorite pictures from this year.

It's Tuesday and I am still cleaning my room. It's apparently a very large room. Summer is here and the bed and breakfast season has once again begun for our household. We have been home (parents included, they just came back from a loooong trip overseas) for less than a week and we've already had one overnight guest come and pass. We have another visit scheduled tomorrow and a big weekend ahead of us. The guest that came and left was a college friend of my dad's. We took her out for Brazilian barbeque. She wasn't impressed, but I almost always thoroughly enjoy a good Brazilian barbeque, especially the pudim at the end. I love it when Brazilian food reminds me of home in so many senses of the word. Spending the day with my parents and their friend, listening to them catch up and reminisce, made me feel ok about leaving the Bo'. Yes, it sucked that I spent the day away from my friends, going to the Christmas Tree Shop, tagging along with old people, and cleaning my room. I would have much rather spent it at the Bo'. But these old people gave me hope that my goodbyes last Saturday weren't final and that our promises really stand a chance of being kept. Sure, there will be moments when reality will strike and I will miss the Bo' terribly because the real world is hard and my far future is uncertain, but we are all growing up together and becoming our own people and that's pretty cool, too.

Living Lies

Some highlights from commencement, interspersed between pictures from senior week- pictures made black and white to add gravitas and make pictures seem better than they really are.

At the soc/anthro department open house, an hour that my family wishes I had never subjected them to, I introduced the folks to many professors because well, I knew all of them. I just didn't take all of their classes. When we got to Dickey and Mother saw me chatting, she assumed that I was tight with her and proceded to tell Dickey how I talk about her all the time. It seemed like a safe line to say, except that I had never had her and really would have absolutely no reason to write home about her, except to say that she's really nice, is good friends with Riles, and we chat when we see each other. It was thus incredibly obvious to all involved that Mother was lying. And suddenly, the open house got just a little bit more awkward and excruciating.

Arif is a name that is hard to pronounce. Thus, most people, I'm sure Arif included, expected it to be butchered during Commencement, when even the most obvious of names were mispronounced. Dean Foster may have had a steady voice, but he did not have much luck managing the letters. Yet no one could have expected how he pronounced Arif's name: He didn't. He called him Raiff (ray-fe) instead. And graduating with someone else's name? Sucks a lot more than having your name butchered.

The day before commencement, not wanting my middle name to be butchered or replaced, I, along with other 'hard to pronounce' kids went to see the dean after graduation rehearsal (before he switched Arif's name for Raiff). Dean Foster had a notebook with all of our names and a separate column for phonetics and pronunciation notes. Liberal name changes aside, I thought he had a system that worked for him and was hopeful that he wouldn't be too off when saying my name. After all, I was one of those select few who had to call a special voice mailbox and say my full name for him nine times. When I approached and asked how he was going to say my name, however, I could see that my optimism was misplaced. In the binder, he had no phonetics written next to my name, just a desperate note that said "read quickly."

Mini Me

I have been cleaning out my room this past couple of days in order to make room for all the collegial stuff I have accumulated in the past four years. Right now, my college room sits in the garage as I try to clear enough junk out of my childhood room so that grown up me could fit in childhood me's room.

Three things I have rediscovered about myself:

1. Junior high me made poor fashion decisions. There was lots of plaid and flannel. But surprisingly, the manly shirts were easy to handle compared to others in my closet. Mother seems to be under the impression that if a lime green dress looked cute on me when I was thirteen, I should still be able to wear it to work in a few days. "Some pieces never go out of style." That's true, Mother, but the dress did a decade ago.

2. Little me horded lots of things. I have homework assignments and cards and toys from years and years ago. Other than not having room for those things in my room, I really don't mind though, because little me had really cool toys. And stamps. And a Ninja Turtles ruler I am totally going to start using again.

3. Young me was rich. Filthy rich. Especially for a kid with no steady job but two lucrative years of babysitting. I remember that on those rare occasions I got birthday or grandparents money (and believe me, they were rare), I always made a conscious decision to set some aside and man, did I do a good job. I discovered a lot of green in my secret drawer. Young me must have had great discipline. I love young me!

The Graduate

That's me! I graduated from college, y'all! Everyone thought I would do it and I did, I proved everyone right. Now I can say I'm well educated and I've got higher learning under my belt. Of course, the learning isn't so high that I can actually be an expert at anything, but we'll ignore that for the time being.

It seems like just yesterday when Jillian, Liz and I were at the Band Man's house for dinner. We were drawing on Band Kid's awesome chalkboard wall when the Band Man came in. He surveyed the wall, a masterpiece called "What Maine Would Look Like With Global Warming" and saw that among the scenery was a note that said to give me honors (I tried to explain that his four-year-old daughter had written it but he didn't believe me). The Band Man shook his head, sighed, and said, "You know, if you're that desperate for honors, you're probably not going to get it."

But no wait, that wasn't yesterday. Because the day before yesterday, I graduated with honors in sociology. (This is a pic of Sonia and me putting on our happy faces on the sunny quad, an hour after our defenses, after we received note that we passed.)

Thicker than Water

... but thinner than a five dollar bill.

Moi: ... yeah, she's having a graduation party. That's how you make money- throwing those parties.

Mother: Really? Should we throw one, too?

Moi: But our relatives are all on the west coast and our family friends...

Father: ... will not give you any money.

Moi: That's right. Do my aunts and uncles even know that I've graduated?

Mother: Probably not. That's too bad that no one will give you money.

It really is indeed.

Spelling Bo'

Not sure if the misspelling was meant as a jab or an honest mistake by the installation people (don't really know what these blocks are), but how is anyone in the real world going to know where I spent the last four years if people who do business with us (or vandals?) can't even spell the name right?

Torn Asunder

Up until Sunday afternoon, Roommate Amy (not to be confused with me) and I lived in the same apartment. Our bedrooms were next to each other and though we were both wicked busy with our schedules and wicked sleep deprived, we saw a lot of each other by virtue of sharing a wall and always made time to gossip, whine, and engage in intellectual discourse. This week, however, we had to move into interim housing for senior week (housing with windows! yay! but also housing with long hallways and shared bathrooms, boo). Keeping in touch has been much more difficult. I don't even know what room she lives in any more and it doesn't help that in our time of need, Alexander Graham Bell has apparently failed us.

Moi: Brunch tomorrow?

Amy: Yeah. Can we just meet there?

Moi: Ok, I'll call you.

Amy: I don't have any minutes left. Can you text me instead?

Moi: My plan doesn't cover texting. It's really expensive.

Amy: Calling is really expensive for me.

Perhaps I'll just find a new friend tomorrow morning. Anyone need a brunch date?

Post Modern Prometheus

I believe the title was a geek test. Shame on all those that were busted.

In the beginning, humankind had no light. There was sadness and darkness in all the lands.

Then came Prometheus. Out of his fingertips came sparks from the gods.

Prometheus shared his fire with the humans. At first, some were not used to sharing and cowered in the background.

But eventually, people accepted the fire and lived happily ever after. I. Love. Sparklers.

Monkey Around

Was downtown with Megan, enjoying my supermarket sushi in the town gazebo (I know, so idyllic) when we spotted a man walking his monkey.

No joke. Nothing crude. The man had a little monkey on a leash and was walking it as if it was the most normal thing in the world. The children playing in the field did not squeal, the ladies sitting on their picnic blankets didn't stare, the teenage skaters did not point and laugh, everyone acted as if there was nothing to see. But there was! Megan and I saw it! There was a man with a monkey on a leash and harness! Later, they sat down on a park bench and ate some snacks. Best trip into town ever.

Proud to BE

Ah... senior week.

Pints with Poof

I love my class officers, I do. I understand how busy they are and how hard it is to please an entire class. I went through all that on a small scale in high school, way back when, and I get that planning for senior week is a huge responsibility and they're doing the best that they can.

With all that said, however, I still find it hilarious that our afternoon reception professor had quite a poor faculty turnout today because it just happened to coincide with the last of the monthly campus-wide faculty meetings of the school year, which will conclude with its own special reception. It really takes a rare breed of perfect planning for the two events to overlap so completely and for one to affect the other so much: essentially little to no professors (I think I saw 3 or 4) could attend our senior reception because all the faculty members still on campus (as well as any relevant staff members) were in the same meeting together. Kudos, officers.

Richard/Richardina

Because all good things happen at Richard's, we headed over the Richard's authentic German fare restaurant last weekend to celebrate Karina's birthday and for some of us at least, the beginning of senior week. Top: Ted and Sam putting on their happy faces. Middle: Evan the only one to act happy or to pay any attention to the camera on his side of the table. Bottom: The Asian Trio (two legit and one aspiring).

Some of us are visual learners, some of us have learned to read...

Jenny: Guys, the signs here are so confusing that I just accidentaly went to the wrong bathroom.

One of Us: Doesn't it say 'Ladies' and 'Gentlemen' on it in English?

Jenny: Yeah, I know. I read it. But the pictures were so weird that I got confused and I went into the wrong one.

Measure of an Office

The Community Service office is moving out of old Adams and bidding goodbye to its lung-burning staircases. In anticipation of the move, everyone in the office is signing their name on the wall on a height chart. Somehow, I ended up being the shortest of the bunch. Probably because the office is freakishly tall and not because I am embarassingly short.

Would You Like Leg Room With That?

Went to my first drive-in movie last night for a double feature of Shrek 3 and Blades of Glory. We had everything we needed for the windy and rainy night- blankets, junk food and friends. Oh, except for space. See how just barely comfortable all three of us were in Jenny's trunk? Well, yeah, that was before Jenny got into the backseat with us. Damn the tall boys and their stupid long legs and wide shoulders. Sometimes, boys and girls, it is worth it to hurt the planet a little and drive an extra car. Sometimes, boys and girls, it's also very important to dress in many, many layers, even when the calendar says May, because you never know just how cold and windy a night at the drive-in will get and how useless blankets can be. Mostly, though, Jenny was an incredibly thoughtful planner and however sore my butt and back are this morning, and despite the fact that I went to sleep in Smart Wool socks and long pajama bottoms and my thumb-loop shirt to raise my body temperature back to normal, I had a beautiful night. Boom!

The Good Fight

This game that Tim just passed along is pretty much everything I loved about my childhood pieced together. Among the many things I loved, two of them were: Bible stories and Street Fighter. Soon to become an all-consuming obsession, especially since I'm not very good quite yet (we never had fighting games on our own video game systems), I just had to share it with you.

It Is Finished

(Envelopes waiting for us in the department office two weeks ago, when our drafts were due to the department. Each honors candidate had their own envelope and once we filled our envelope, we could pick up a jar of Miracle Bubbles with our initials on it and blow them to our heart's delight.)

The idea first came in my sophomore year. Before I even met Riles, I started toying with the idea of getting a Freeman and going to Chinar. I met her in the spring, in her course on research methods. And so we plotted and planned and I read up on Chinar. The rest, they say, is history. I came back from Chinar this summer, weary, but ready to write, write, write. And read, read, read. And struggle, struggle, struggle. Somehow, all the pieces fell together. The department has read it, I have given my defense, the recommendations have been made, the pages formatted then reformatted then reformatted again (never have I been so full of rage toward a librarian until the past two days) and I have officially turned in my copy of my honors thesis to the college library.

I know that this is small and certainly hope that this will not be the most significant thing I will ever write, but it was still a great moment today, when the librarian finally shook my hand and congratulated me on finishing the nearly three-year journey. Thanks for everything, Riles.

Sloppy Seconds

After four years and literally hundreds of thousands of dollars, I am now inches away from a second-tier education. Thank you, NY Times article. I knew that the Bo' was never the best school in the country, and it used to be where all the rich Ivy rejects went, but we kept rocking those rankings and being said in the same breath (though with some hesitations) as Amherst and Williams. Apparently though, that was all in vain. Once a second-tier, always a second-tier. Gosh, I hope we don't have to start respecting Colby students because of this.

The Namesake

I just saw that movie tonight. After a lovely Indian meal. It was a very white thing to do but a very good night.

I was in the restroom of the theatre when I overheard an adorable little girl (~4 years old) with big sunglasses talking to her mom while her older sister Maggie (~5 years old) was in the restroom.

Little Girl: Mommy, what's Maggie's name?

Mommy: (laughs) Sylvia. (after a moment) Of course it's Maggie, what do you mean?

Little Girl: (very serious voice) I mean her last name!

Mommy: It's the same as yours.

Little Girl: Oh. Really?

I love little kids. Their worlds expand every day.

Grander than Gettysburg, Bloodier than Antietam

I am waging an epic battle against the computer right now, the slowest, most stubborn, I have ever seen.  And I have seen slow ones.  I have one myself.  The ones in the soc lab always take a good five minutes to warm up.  But this one here, it took two conversations, a walk about the basement lab, and reading through two poems and half of a short story, and me faking out the computer and pretending I'm going to leave, for me just to log on.  And now it is taking minutes to save my document.  I could try for another computer, but that is not how I operate.  I am not one to walk from battles, especially from slow computers.  Also, it is too late in the morning for me to grab one now.  It's finals week and getting a computer in the library is tricky business, business that I am too old and weary for.  Instead, I will sit here until the bloody end and wait this thing out.  Time in on my side.

Rainy Days CORRECTION

I would be delighted to spend most of my free time next year with one wonderful MARIA whose presence in the Bay State is pretty much the only reason why I ever even considered moving back home. No, seriously, she's quite awesome and smiley and I'd be lucky to spend my lunch time with her. Not that she made me say any of this or anything...

Rainy Days

In the coming days, nostalgia for this place will set in and soon it will probably hit me that next year, work will be hard. Chaotic. Maybe even boring. The commute will be tiring. Living at home perhaps frustrating. And I would wish I was as socially conscious as I am now. There will probably be times when I feel very isolated from my friends. But there's pretty much a Bo' alum whichever way you turn in Boston. So I'm making a list of cats and dogs who will be in the area that I can look forward to hanging out with next year, when the going gets rough:

Cambridge/Medford:
BCF Alumnus Crew and Alex/Mayra/Alejandra or whatever she fancies calling herself

Boston:
Mac, BP Vets-including Dusty for a few hours or days (will you be my friend, Sarah Chang?), Roommate Amy (not to be confused with me), former roommate Lisa, Becca, and Timmy Cakes

495 'Burbs:
Jenny and Punty

People I Wish Were There:
Vita-K. Gak. Sesame. Brunmier. and Creeps.

Did I just make a list of my friends to show off the fact that I have friends? Maybe. And let me tell you, this is only the tip of the iceberg. I have many more glorious Commonwealth friends than this and most of these people are not made up. How do you like them apples, Band Man?

River of Dreams

I must have drooled an ocean during my nap. I've been drinking non-stop since I've woken up and still I cannot quench my thirst.

Merry Mothers

I've always thought that Mother's Day was a day on which you only wish happiness to mothers. Apparently, I was wrong.

After church today, we went to Grand City (aka Old People Central) for a post-service brunch and as I was settling into my seat, this old lady in the booth behind me looked up and said "Happy Mother's Day!" I didn't quite know what to do and wished her a happy mother's day also. Then I sat down and turned my back against her. It was jus the slightest bit awkward yet sad.

I grew up going to churches where it was customary for women to give the mother's day sermon. I use to think that the practice was borderline cheesy and silly, especially at churches when women only get to preach once a year. But today, with Pastor Dan preaching, I suddenly understood the practice. All throughout the sermon, he kept trying to relate to mothers, but after each one of his attempts and "Am I right, ladies?" there would be a sickly silence. And most often, he wasn't right. (Also didn't help that he was a little off of his game today, referring to Ishmael's mother Hagar as a man and saying that they were studying the Koran at Bible study.) Mother's day is about celebrating mamas and nobody understands mamas and can tell them how they are valued in the Bible, better than a mama herself.

Global Grilling

Had a wonderful little BBQ at Creeps's apartment today. Nothing was seasoned; everything tasted wonderfully smoky. There were shrimp, peppers, asparagus, and of course, sausages. Gloriously burnt and plump sausages. I started a delicious trend of having a bun with half a hot Italian sausage and half of a 'Genoa Chinese' sausage.

Kate: I think I'll have a bi-racial sausage as well.

Creeps: Bi-racial? I'd like to call it polyethnic. The mustard was from Germany.

Liz: Polyethnic sounds so pretty, I think I'll name a kid that. Isn't that the best name for a daughter?

Moi: Instead of calling her Polly for short, you could call her Ethnic.

Goofs

I actually still have a paper to write, a thesis to reformat, and perhaps a chapter to majorly edit and find an outlet for publication. There's also cleaning, packing, thank you notes, presents, brunch, and endless dinner dates to organize. But instead of doing all that now, let's look at the last day of classes.

Jenny and her egg foo young. "Hey, what's in the egg foo young?" I asked. "Egg, foo, and young." Thank you, Jenny and Vita-K.

Vita-K, always classy. This is Vita-K's new face. I had just snapped a picture of her when Jenny turned and said, "I thought we agreed you weren't going to do that face anymore." And so she put on a brand new face f

Machael wasn't given toys growing up. Instead, he played with socks. Even today, socks bring him great joy.

Gak and EB not being goofy, but being very classy as we strutted toward Honors Day in a way only smarty pants seniors (or, if you're like me, a not-that-smart-senior with a heart of gold) on their last day of class could strut.

My Room and My Life as of Late

It's a mess. People think I have grace under pressure, but really, I just rock at lying about how I'm feeling. (I had great professors to learn from.) I can manage control of either my room or life, but not both at once. You should all be grateful that I choose life (hear that, folks? I am pro-life, now stop trying to convert me). I mean, I don't see you keeping your desk any better after snagging a job and finishing a 100-page thesis in the same week. Oh, that's right, I can't see you at all over this computer screen.

Today, Tomorrow, and the Rest of Our Lives

Attention Friends:

Let us hang out. Between now and June 18th, the day that commemorates both the birth of my mother and the end of my four-year-vacation (as the Band Man likes to call it), I have boat loads of free time. If I know you and don't hate you, we should probably hang out. Schedule is filling up quick, though, so please remember to plan and call ahead.

During our honors defense this morning, Riles was uncharacteristically punchy. Normally, I would've found it hilarious, but it was my nerve-wracking defense, so no jokes seemed funny. In retrospect, some highlights:

(Professors Dickey and Riles are discussing where the pastries are from)

Riles: I think those are from Humble Gourmet.

Moi: The Dunkin' Donuts coffee is probably from Dunkin' Donuts.

Riles: Yes, see, you're not completely stupid!


(At the close of the defenses, right before the professors judge us. Standing around and talking about our four presentations...)

Moi: (to the Band Man) And you kept smirking and snickering the whole time, what were you laughing at?

Band Man: I was trying to throw you off.

Moi: Thank you.

Riles: And it worked.


The greatest highlight, however, came in the afternoon, when Riles informed me that indeed, I got my honors. There will be an 'H' next to my name and the world will know that I am not stupid.

The Smallest Shall Be Smallest

I don't know if you know this. You probably should. But I'm a good person. Some might venture to say great, but my humility refrains me from saying so. I am a good person. So good, in fact, that I have been blessed to have been showered with a few awards lately, mostly emphasizing the fact that I am good and not great, so that I win things like 'honorable mention' or awards without cash prizes. But I'm not complaining. I'm very grateful to be recognized.

I was troubled, however, by how the sociology department will forever immortalize me. You see, the soc and anthro department has a plaque, started in 2004, that has on it the names of each student that wins the service award. For years, now, it has been populated by very long names, like Countmastle and Dutchinson. This year, however, was my time to shine. But shine I will not. There was apparently a "printing error" (cough, they hate, cough, me). My name, short as it already is, is about 12 font sizes smaller than previous years, so that you honestly cannot read it at arm's length, though you could probably spot the other names a good dozen feet away. The Department Chair said she "didn't know what happened," but it seems pretty clear what's going on. They're playing the old 'first shall be last' trick, and I, the most good student they've ever had, have the smallest amount of space on the plaque, but take up the most room in their heart. And probably Jesus' heart, too. Yes, that's the story I'm sticking with.

Proud to Be

Sesame gave me a present today. A very thoughtful belated citizenship present in the form of a flag. Not a little desktop flag, but a full on flag, about as big as 2 pieces of A4 paper, with a long pole and everything. She thought it'd be funny to force me to carry that around all day long.

She was right. It would have been funny had I been a bystander, but no, I had to go through the pains of being the one to actually carry the flag throughout campus (too big to hide in the backpack), endure the stares and snickers, and even go to, of all places, the soc department, and then finally, walk through town during noon traffic.

I was almost safely home when, in the Hannaford parking lot, I bumped into the financial aid director. Unfortunately, he recognized me and I was cornered into awkward chitchat and explaining why I was carrying a flag around. ("Are you protesting something?" "Ah, no. Just carrying around a flag.") Oh, the prices I pay for my 7 freedoms*.

(On my gainful employment)
Band Man: I'd say I'm proud of you if only I didn't have to lie so much as a reference.

*According to Vita-K, Awkward Andy, Jamil, myself, and other Freedomtarians in the world, it is the 7 freedoms we are entitled to that makes America great. What are the 7 freedoms? We don't remember. We tried to think of what those 7 were on Friday night could only come up with these: freedom to not wear socks, freedom to wear Jamil's hat, and freedom to only name 3 out of the 7 freedoms.

Bran New Day

Dear Neighboring Boys:

Your music taste still sucks. I don't get to be judgmental about a lot of people's music taste because I'm generally 4.7 years behind whatever is hip, but honestly, you choose to blast the worst music.

But I am not writing because I am concerned for your musical soul. No, I'm concerned for your physical bodies. There has been a lot of grunting in your room as of late and I worry perhaps all three of you are constipated. You sure sound like you are. Might I suggest a bowl of granola as you listen to Michelle Branch with the bass turned up high, or washing down those pizza slices you throw all over our staircase with a cool one of metamucil? Celery is also great. Just anything with fibre. They're all better than smashing your furniture around.

Sincerely,

Your Regular Neighbor

Ai-Yeah, Paella!

There's some old Chinese adage that says something about staring at the wall and waiting for death. I'm pretty sure that was not the best translation, and I might even be missing the point, but staring at the wall and waiting for death was what the past five hours felted like. To illustrate how painful it was, I present a very long rant-- so reading this will feel as excruciating for you as tonight was for me.

Tonight, I had dinner with my pre-orientation host parents from four years ago, along with the girl who was my roommate on the trip. I have hardly said two sentences to these people in four years, but thought, yeah, whatever. It was a very nice gesture on their part, and the dinner was lovely. The orange sherbet for dessert was a bit scary. But there was paella. Paella was pretty much the only high point of the night. Though, as my stomach has just groaned to me, it wasn't that high of a point.

The rest of the night was spent talking. And talking. And talking. Or rather, they did the talking and we did the listening, listening, and listening. Who knew old people could stay up so late? Or have so much to say? I thought all this time that they wanted to have us over after all these years so I could boost my ego and talk about my past four years. But no. We heard about their parents and great uncles and children and grandchildren (Rory does lacrosse, Nora does soccer, there's another one that's lame and plays guitar) and children's friends who were like their own children and doing yoga and the lovely ladies that paint and wallpaper their new house and other students they've hosted and what it's like to have Parkinson's and dear Lord, I was so bored that three hours into the slow grind of the evening I realized that I had to entertain myself somehow as they talked so I started counting. Just counting with the hope that eventually, the evening would somehow end --I would either count until I reach infinity or Christ would return-- whatever happened, I just faithfully counted and smiled at their stories. I counted until 28,963. It would have been a lot higher but I lost count a few when I spoke up for my obligatory sentence every fifteen minutes.

I know geriatrics is a growing medical field and it's going to be mad lucrative, but as I've realized tonight, it's not a field for me. It's not that I'm cold hearted and hate old people. I love them, I really do, especially the ones that aren't racist. (That's another thing, other than my parents' counseling professor in seminary, Dr. Frieder, every non-racist old white person I've met has been patronizing, which isn't that much better.) The evening was so painful that, to borrow a phrase from Creegan, I would have rather eaten my foot with a hot knife than sat through another ten minutes of their talking.

Head of the Class

Told you I looked like a clansman. Let it never be said that my recent success has given me a big head. Head is so tiny that it still fails to fill the hood, even after the hood's been shrunk.

Reference Point

This week has been a mad focus on honors work and nothing else. I did not go to work. I did not hang out. I wrote and edited. Then wrote and edited. Most of it done in the soc department lab. On Tuesday, I arrived in the soc department so early in the morning that the lights weren't even on yet. Professors weren't even there, except Riles and J-Lo. It wasn't until I was wrapping up yet another help-me-fix-my-thesis-crisis meetings with Riles that we saw another professor come in. It was the Band Man. I had listed him as a reference for a job I was applying for.

Band Man: Hey, I got a call about you yesterday.

Moi: Oh yeah? Did you say outrageous lies about how good I am?

Band Man: I haven't talked to them yet, but I plan on lying profusely.

Riles: Oh, we all lie. (She was my other reference.)

Moi: Yay! Thank you. Wait, yay...? You all say good lies?

Band Man: You walk on water, right?

Moi: Yes. I think I'll make you some wine from water.

Well. Riles and Band Man must have been great liars and that must've been good wine, because all of it paid off. I got an offer today.

World Vegetarian Watch

Important Anti-Meat'ers On Watch:

Lenny: Vegetarian. 4+ years. (What? So I called to check today)

Roommate Amy: Pesco-vegetarian since last year. (Vegetarian for 4 years prior)

Schlotterama: Vegetarian (She's abroad in Senegal, so I don't really know her current status. Just wanted to put her here because I miss my Schlotty. If anyone has updates, let me know.)

Ira Glass: Vegetarian. Since 1999 (As far as I know.)

Band Man: After years (decade plus?) of meatless days, recently scaled back to being a pesco-pollo vegetarian. Which means not a vegetarian at all!

Over Exposed

How was your weekend? Did you black out? Stand in front of any buildings without any clothes?- Band Man

My day today can be split in half. Pathetic 1 and Pathetic 2. For most of the working day, I was in the soc department, furiously hammering out some sort of conclusion to my thesis whilst garnering the pity of all the professors that walked by. I thought I was cultivating some image of the studious honors student, but that apparently didn't happen...

Band Man (talking to 2nd Reader): Is that her again? God, why is she always here?

Prof. Dickey (let's first make like it's third grade and pause for a moment to giggle at her name): Are you yawning? You don't have time to yawn! Keep those fingers typing.

Riles: ...two references from the soc department is fine. It's where you spend all your time.

The second half of my day was spent here, in the computer lab, where I was still furiously hammering out some sort of conclusion to my thesis (by the by, suggestions, anyone?), though this time, away from professor mockery. My only consolation here is that it is half an hour past midnight and the lab is full, with plenty of other sleep deprived nerds squeezing words out onto the page, one painful letter at a time.

(On Anthropology's version of the Sociological Imagination...)

Karina: Oh, we don't have that. We just have the regular kind.