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I suck at keeping up with this thing. Therefore, I provide here a mostly-complete update before I have to once again retreat for the evil that is school. I spent a good deal of late July and early August simply taking time for myself. I made a to-do list, and I used it. I cleaned up my office (most of the way). I handled some obnoxious financial badness, and also took some positive steps to clean up our finances without requiring disaster conditions as impetus. I took wedding photos for a friend of my mother, did loads of Spanish, and prepared for the upcoming school franticness - I always know it's coming, and I'm never ready. Then, last week, I flew out east. I flew from Omaha to Chicago to Boston on Monday, and landed early Tuesday morning. (As in, a few minutes after midnight.) I was slated to be delayed on my first flight enough to make me late for the second, so United booked me on a couple American flights, then proceeded to try to dick me out of the miles. (I still have to mail them the boarding passes to get credit for the flights.) Well-kept Boston secret: the shuttle from the airport to the train station stops running long about midnight. P.S. so does the train. My original transport with Kara from plane-landing-place to bed-sleeping-place fell through, so the plan was to take the shuttle to the train (subway, I suppose: do not call it either of these things when you are there, for it is the T, and if you call it something other than this, you will get funny looks) and the <strike>train</strike> T to the MIT campus to chill until Live Entertainment became available (i.e., the person I was visiting made it back to town). So I hopped on the wrong shuttle, and I wound up at the Chelsea Employee Station. Yes, it seemed a touch odd that everyone on my shuttle seemed to be an airport employee, but I chalked it up to hopping on around midnight - shift change time, yeah? Anyway, the very nice shuttle driver - Alberto - chatted with me for awhile (my favorite bit was discussing the many ways Spanish has to tell a woman you love her) and took me back to the airport to wait for the 4:30am shuttle to the 5:00am T. The only food open was a Very Suspect Dunkin' Donuts With No Shortage of Ghetto But a Definite Shortage of Croissants; I bought a twisty glazed donut, then a few hours later, an everything bagel with cream cheese. (It is strange how different "everything" tastes, out that-a-way.) And copious amounts of coffee, of course. I read the rest of American Gods (which I started on the plane), finishing just in time to catch my shuttle. (Reading American Gods and other Gaiman-foo on the trip has made me itchy to write. I have story ideas. This always happens when I fly.) Shuttle to the T station, blue line to the green line to the red line to Kendall/MIT station. I got off there around six in the morning, then proceeded to wander aimlessly, no thanks to a couple of helpful folks who, when queried, told me that MIT was "all over [there]". I struggled until normal-ish business hours to find a restroom, eventually finding one at the Coop. And a wireless internet connection, courtesy MIT! I took an amusing video to highlight my toilet frustrations, then dorked around online for awhile until stuff started opening. After a couple hours, I grabbed a map and navigated my way on over to 14N to check out the Science Writing graduate program. The lady in the Science Writing department - Shannon Larkin, I believe (and I think she'll forgive me if I'm wrong, as she's aware of how sleep deprived I was when I met her) - was extremely genial and very thorough in describing the program. She didn't seem put off by my tangential train of thought, which might reflect well on her, the department, MIT, or some combination. She was effusive and competent and just nice to talk with. That's so underrated - all of it! As a result of my talk with her, I'm pondering the brutal stabbing of the voice in my head that says, "But I'm tired of school!" and possibly an application to the program. I had lunch at a nifty little (Greek?) place up near Central square, Brookline Lunch. They have an excellent idea for what should be in an omelette, which is to say, everything. Then I hopped back on the T (thanks to my handy week pass) and dashed up to Harvard. Harvard left me completely cold. Everything that felt like home at MIT felt like an overstuffed and still uncomfortable chair at Harvard. Which is not to say that it's a horrible school, or ugly, or even unpleasant - I'm sure people get a fantastic education there, the campus is pretty, and so on. I suppose it was just that: Harvard seemed so conventionally pretty, so uniform, that I was struck by the overwhelming sameness of everything I saw. I like surprises and disconcerting nooks and pockets of space for my many moods, and MIT seemed to play well to that (even if my predominate mood during my visit was tired). So pretty well immediately after arriving at Harvard, I took to the streets and the T tunnels on my tired feet and went back to MIT. I found a couch up in the Writing department, figured out what was up with Kara, and promptly attempted troubled naps. It should probably be noted that I packed light, carry-on only style, to avoid carting around five-piece Samsonite hell during all of this. I had my purse and my laptop backpack, which contained reading material, toiletries (all of the dry variety), clothing, and the laptop. It was really all I needed. So the wandering was not loaded down, but the sleep was hampered by my rampant paranoia; though I was tucked away in a very quiet corner, I was committing some sort of cardinal sin by Traveling With Many Valuable Possessions. Sleeping curled around a backpack is fitful. A few hours and some obnoxious traffic hassles later (5pm-ish, at this point), Kara rolled along my way, and we headed to her place. Recollections get fuzzy, here, but I believe there was showering and Red Bones for dinner, then we struck out on an ill-advised and ultimately failed attempt to find a drag show. Sometime around 11:00pm, I decided that the feet just could not take it anymore, and after nearly 36 hours of nearly-awake, I had to call it quits. Back to the T station, back to her place, and we retired to el bed-o. Wednesday (which, if you're keeping track, was both my second and third day there, sort of), we woke up late, had Indian food that apparently didn't agree with me (but tasted good!), then set off to LUSH for requisite stocking-up-on-bath-foo. We grabbed some henna for our hair while we were there, bought a couple books off a street seller, then pondered going on a duck tour. Given a combination of weather, cost, and lateness, we opted to check out The Garment District instead. It was kind of a bust - little to nothing in the XL+ range, so nothin' doing for me - but looking at obnoxious hats was fun; it was determined I should wear pimp hats, and Kara should wear top hats, particularly ones with Hideous Numbers of Sequins. We then walked home, primped briefly, and drove to the wrong Melting Pot for the gift certificate I had for a Fondue Experience. They honored the certificate, and we had the promised Experience, though I believe I will go ingredient shopping and have the same Experience at home for about a quarter of the cost (perhaps with less capital E). Particularly if I am eating with a vegetarian-or-something-like-it again; there wasn't a veggie in the main course that couldn't have been suitably sauce'd up for five bucks. We went home and henna'd Kara's hair - we were going to both do it, but I think I erred on the thick side with the henna and we ran out almost before we were done with hers alone. Alas. But she smelled yummy and herbal for days after, which was more pleasant Experience (at about a fifth the cost of the Fondue sort, and just as gooey). Then there was more sleeping. I was apparently catching a cold, but I wouldn't be certain about that for a day or so. Thursday, we milled about, showered, packed up, and headed north to Portland to pick up Will. There was much rejoicing and hugging, and then driving in the direction of his new place. We were greeted by the arrival of his bed, and also baby kittens nesting just outside his door, because apparently someone shorted him on his damned cute quota, or wanted to see me convulse and revert to the vocabulary of my babyhood. We proceeded to shop for all manner of home stuffs for him, as his moving strategy apparently involved throwing away anything that appeared to have possible uses in a new apartment. (Tongue firmly in cheek.) Friday was a good deal more of that, plus poking at the Chamber of Commerce for Answers About The Community. This all culminated in sangria-making and some hardcore chillaxing at Casa William. Saturday, we went to Scarborough Downs for lunch and pony-watching. My chaotic influence must have been working overtime, as one of the horses broke free and tried to jet out the service entrance. After lunch and a credit card kerfuffle, we picked up a rental car. We took Kara back down to Cambridge so she could prep for further traveling fun, then proceeded to get hopelessly lost in the death spiral that is driving in the Boston Metropolitan Area. Sam, to the rescue! He helped us avoid driving past Harvard for a fifth time, and to find the evil sign for the right turn we'd repeatedly failed to make - the sign which, against all logic, is located on the far left of a large intersection, through a thicket of trees and several lanes of traffic. I liked Boston. And then I drove in Boston. We fell into bed in the wee hours of Sunday morning. Sunday was a day for relaxing in the most complete way possible. Except that part where there was life stuff that needed sorting, still. We took a little evening drive up to a suburb of Portland to check out a car - one that seemed like a killer deal, but wound up not being it because the seller seemed bent on not allowing a prospective buyer to do diligence, obnoxiously. We looked at another car Monday morning, which wound up being the winner instead. And then we bought me a new bag for my return trip, as my laptop backpack was staying with Will, along with the laptop and such, which he bought. The return trip was a minor nightmare. We packed after we bought the new bag, then drove down to Boston in the rental and dropped it off at Logan, as agreed, then found my gate with plenty of time, so I chatted with Will about the laptop a bit - showed him the essential programs, set up a user account and all that. (This is not the nightmare part, of course.) Then it was onto the flight. For whatever reason, it would only let me check in through my first stop, at New York's LaGuardia International Airport. When I landed, therefore, I had no boarding pass for my next flight. I exited the secure area, hopped on a bus to the other terminal (brilliance) since my second flight (to Chicago) was on United itself, rather than a United affiliate (US Airways). When I got there, I couldn't check in at the carry-on only kiosk - it told me it couldn't process the itinerary change. Itinerary change? I thought. What itinerary change? Turns out my New York -> Chicago flight was delayed by a couple hours - enough to kill my Chicago -> Omaha connecting flight. So, rather than getting me to Chicago and then dealing with it, they stuck me at the end of a long line of similarly delayed folks so as to delay me the maximum amount possible. When I got to the counter, I explained my situation. "Can you get me home by 8:30am? I start a new job." "No," the nice lady told me. And I must have looked sufficiently crestfallen, for that got changed to a, "Well... let me see." She wound up putting me on a flight that was scheduled to be leaving an hour and a half earlier, but was actually leaving ten minutes later than the scheduled time for my originally scheduled flight, which made silly forty minute connection at O'Hare a ridiculous thirty minute connection. A ten-minute-late takeoff made it a stone-stupid twenty minute connection. And so when I landed at terminal C at O'Hare, nineteen minutes before the scheduled takeoff of my final flight (gate F12), three terminals away from said flight and at an hour that the shuttle to the other terminal was no longer running, I hoofed it. I shoved off my plane, I ran down moving walkways and stupid halls that stupidly lacked them, up the up-escalators in defiance of gravity, around corners and passengers. I ignored my burning fucking lungs for my fifteen minute sprint-jog-powerwalk-sprint-jog-powerwalk, only to arrive at the gate and find the door closed. "I'm sorry," the lady behind the counter there was saying to a similarly beleaguered couple. "We have to close the doors ten minutes before takeoff." We had seven minutes left. In the only good news from the entire debacle, the flight crew was negotiated with, we were escorted out onto the plane, and I did, in fact, make it home shortly after midnight, Tuesday morning. I hadn't eaten in about twelve hours, and the Boston -> Chicago leg of my trip had introduced me to the joy of sitting adjacent Boys Gone Wild, a screaming child and his non-English-speaking mother, a woman with the plague, a deaf woman who was apparently surly about said impairment and anyone who noticed it, and a chatty businessman brandishing college Spanish skills with bravado. Taco Bueno soothed my hunger and the immediate sleep once I was fed soothed my surliness. And I made it to my internship on time. So there. </Travelogue> Still vaguely sick with this cold. My internship started this week. Next week: UNO classes, eight credits. Teaching at UNO, two credits. The week after: Metro classes, three credits. I'll be busy, but it's actually a decently happy busy. Ciao, kittens. I'm off to bed.

Shut Up and Sing

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This is not a post about the Dixie Chicks.

* * *

I bought a pair of earrings yesterday - little cubic zirconia studs. I've been wearing them since I got home from that shopping trip. I've been feeling a lot girlier than I have in the past - doing a lot of the lace and lipstick and yes, even the long-resisted jewelry. I'd say that it's almost annoying that feeling feminine is something that can be put on with a few pieces of metal and stone and a swipe of gloss, but that would be disingenuous. It's not as simple or immediate as all that - it's the gradual process, watching daily dress-up sessions change how I perceive myself and how I am most attractive. This is not a post about narcissism.

* * *

It's summer, and I'm through the month or so I had off between the end of spring classes and teaching, plus the first two weeks of the four weeks of physics I'm teaching. I managed to pull decent grades last semester, in spite of succumbing to the temptation to take Way Too Many Credits - again. I think I've learned some valuable study skills in the process. I didn't manage to finish doing my lab write-ups, so I have an incomplete in my lab. I'll finish them over the summer, probably during one of the remaining couple free weeks I have. I'm limiting myself to twelve credits in the fall, because I'm simply not willing to put myself through that kind of unnecessary stress again.

Teaching is going well; I'm pleased with my students, a diligent bunch this semester. I'm also taking a couple of online classes through the community college - black history and human geography. They're both ridiculously non-rigorous and completely insipid, but they both fulfill requirements for graduation, and I save about two thirds off university tuition by taking them at the community college, plus driving money by taking them online.

This is not a post about academics.

* * *

This post is actually about me being really, severely happy. I haven't been posting much, but for once, it's not because I'm stressed out and miserable; it's because life is simply so good that I find myself not wanting to blog much. Hell, I've actually been getting away from the computer altogether. I know, right?

Some of the absolute killer happiness is brought on by the time off. I really needed that month. This makes consecutive semester number seven with me taking at least half-time classes; this summer actually marks my lightest load, as I'm only taking 6 credits, teaching 1.5, and counseling at summer camp for two weeks.

Some of it is love. I'm at various stages of falling-in-love with a few people; Sam and Jess have spoken about this at length, and better than I can (I'm more private about these things than they are, I think; I don't mind them publishing details, but I just don't feel like it), so read them if you want to know what's going on. (The other two people involved may be more private about things than even me, so I'll just leave it at that.) Also in the love genre, Kolya, the youngest of our cats, is finally maturing out of his most kittenish stage, and is given to cuddling much more than usual.

Some of my happiness is coming from a feeling I have of progress and success - those sorts of things. I've been riding a creative wave for the last few months, and I've been doing well in things that I've tried, and that, more than anything, makes me feel fantastic.

That's what this post is about.

* * *

Ok, so this post is going to be a little bit about the Dixie Chicks. They have a relatively new track out called "Not Ready To Make Nice". Let's take a look at it, quick.

Forgive, sounds good Forget, I’m not sure I could They say time heals everything But I’m still waiting I’m through with doubt There’s nothing left for me to figure out I’ve paid a price And I’ll keep paying I’m not ready to make nice I’m not ready to back down I’m still mad as hell and I don’t have time to go round and round and round It’s too late to make it right I probably wouldn’t if I could ‘Cause I’m mad as hell Can’t bring myself to do what it is you think I should I know you said Can’t you just get over it It turned my whole world around And I kind of like it I made my bed and I sleep like a baby With no regrets and I don’t mind sayin’ It’s a sad sad story when a mother will teach her Daughter that she ought to hate a perfect stranger And how in the world can the words that I said Send somebody so over the edge That they’d write me a letter Sayin’ that I better shut up and sing Or my life will be over
...Jesus Christ, where do I start? Here, the beginning. "Forgive - sounds good." Apparently this song is about how the Dixie Chicks want to be forgiven - I'd guess for the whole debacle in which they said on stage that they were ashamed that George W. Bush was from Texas. You know, Dixie* - can I call you Dixie? - I honestly wasn't all that sore about it. I thought it was a little immature and short-sighted of you to say something like that while abroad, and that's in large measure because I recognize the power of celebrity in the world today. When people go to your concerts, they go to listen to you. You have a platform. Having been abroad, I see how people view Americans when one speaks: as a whole. Saying that you're ashamed that the president is from Texas is fine. Saying it in front of someone from another country could well suggest to them that this is an attitude shared by the majority of Americans. I don't care what you think of the president; I'm mature enough to understand that in a country with 295,734,134 people, you're going to have 295,734,134 subtly different opinions. But not everyone gets that, and if I was upset at all, I was upset that you might have given the impression, intentionally or not, that I agreed with you. But your ridiculous attempt at begging for forgiveness, lamenting how awful people have been to you - it just sounds lame. Forgiveness is for when you've done something wrong, and you're sorry, and you want someone to recognize that you're sorry. It's not for when you're mad as hell, for when you don't have time for apologies, for when you can't bring yourself to apologize, or for when you think that all of the wrong that was done, was done to you. Stop asking for forgiveness if you haven't done anything wrong. Stop telling everyone how you refuse to apologize if you want forgiveness. If you'd like some help, here it is:
Dear American who may have been bothered by my statements abroad, I apologize. The sentiment I expressed while overseas was my own, and while the words are no less true than they were when I said them, I understand that not everyone in the U.S.A. feels the same way, and the nature of celebrity is such that I might have given that impression. Whether you agree with what I said or not, I have enough respect for you as a person to not use my stage to speak for you. I hope that you can forgive me, and I hope that the people out there who heard what I said will understand that I am only one of the 295,734,134 citizens of my country. Though I suspect there are others who feel similarly, it is only fair to let them voice such for themselves. Sincerely, Dixie
That I can get behind. I forgive you! See how easy that was? But if you're really not ready to make nice, I bet you'll find that no-one else is, either.

* Yes, I am completely aware that the group known as the Dixie Chicks is comprised of three separate people; I know the history of apologies and retracted apologies and all. This is meant to be a tongue-in-cheek way of respectfully requesting that Maines, Robison and Maguire make up their freakin' minds.

Update, October 29, 2006: I've disabled comments on this post, as I was getting several spam comments per day on just this one. Thanks for understanding.

The internet is for porn, they say, and blogs exist solely for the dissemination of information about the adorablee things cats do. Well, this is different. See, one of my cats is doing something that is decidedly not cute or adorable in any way. He's recently reached maturity, and we hadn't taken him to get neutered yet, so he's been spraying. Everywhere. I can tell this isn't just what they call inappropriate elimination (indicating displeasure with litter box arrangements, though in fairness we could probably clean their box a bit more frequently) because it just started with spring, approximately when the kitten (Kolya or Nikola, depending what he peed on) reached maturity, and he only sprays on vertical surfaces. It's a territorial marking behavior. So we've been having to keep him down in the basement where the litter box and the food is, which means we've also had to keep Neal and Five down there as well. We had an appointment set up for March 29 to have Kolya neutered. But see, this also isn't just a rant. I miss my kitties. They're all downstairs, and I hear them at the door, scratching and head-butting it and meowing. I checked all their necessaries - food, water, litter - and it's all there. But they still want to come upstairs, and when I let them out, they might explore for a minute or two, but then they're all over me again, headbutting me and demanding attention. It's why it's so hard to leave them down there. I feel like they love me.
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