Violent Rally for Peace

After my plans for this weekend fell through in a rather tragic manner, a friend of mine from camp politely asked me if I wanted to accompany her to a rally in Washington, DC.

Do I?

Of course I do!

I haven't done anything activist-y since high school. At my very first rally, a anti-war protest in DC, I dragged my father along. He was reluctant to go, but plodded along like a trooper. And thank goodness he came.

What I hadn't realized about this rally was that it was run by International ANSWER, which very liberal, very pacifist, very anti-Israel. We quickly figured this out when, instead of cries for peace and love from the podium, we heard a violent diatribe against Israel's policies and existence.

And the banners! The banners! Around us, people carried signs that advocated anti-Zionism, anti-Israel, and even straight-up anti-Semitic actions and ideas. This rally came soon after a comment made by Virginia Representative James P. Moran in March of 2003, effectively blaming the American Jewish community for the war in Iraq.

If it were not for the strong support of the Jewish community for this war in
Iraq, we would not be doing this... The leaders of the Jewish community are
influential enough that could change the direction of where this is going, and I
think they should." Rep. James P. Moran (D-VA), March 2003

Throughout the day, I saw signs with the words "Moran was right!" emblazoned in thick letters. With the cantankerous attitude that has come to describe all of my actions, I pulled the Star of David necklace out from beneath my shirt and threw a Hebrew T-shirt on over my clothing. I was lucky that I wasn't beaten up.

Speaking of being beaten up, the anarchists, common little vermin that infest any protest, were out in full force that day. Dad and I watched in horrified fascination as a masked mob surrounded on beleaguered Washington police officer, abusing him verbally. My father, the consummate cop, shoved me to the ground and pulled out his cell phone to call 911. He later said he was rather surprised that shots hadn't been fired that day. (Interesting enough, these anarchists attacked the World Bank later that day. Busy little people, no?)

My friend says that Sunday's rally should be an interfaith event, not run by ANSWER. Thank goodness. A rally for peace in Darfur should not be perverted by hateful people who confuse conflict for peace.

K.

A Bachelor's Degree in Campus Observation

Observation #1: A certain WCU department isn't doing its job.

Even though we here at WCU have a Holocaust Studies department, I don't think that anything was done for Yom HaShoah. If they did, they certainly didn't advertise. Shakespeare's birthday got more press (read: one flier).

Observation #2: The RAs are getting lazy.

Every Resident Assistant is expected to have several socials throughout the semester with the commendable intention to get this residence hall to act like a loving community. However, as the semester draws to a close, the RAs who haven't fulfilled their requirements are getting panicked. Instead of coming up this a creative and exciting way to get the residents together, these RAs are falling back on college student ambrosia: free food.

Let me set the scene...

Nine o'clock at night, Tuesday night. A loud click and the sound of someone manhandling the loud speaker's microphone.

"Attention Killinger Hall residents. Join RA So-And-So in the basement for FREE ice cream/pizza/cookies/hot dogs/Italian ices/cupcakes/fried chicken/soda/Mac n' Cheese/cake/baba ganoush right now!"

The announcement ends, leaving a palpable silence throughout the hall. In each room, the occupants raise their heads and sniff the air. The call to feed has been issued.

Like the undead rising from their dank crypts in some zombie movie, the college students stumble down the halls of Killinger, mouths slack and eyes vacant. Some will not survive the journey and will be left behind to be trod over by their fellow residents. The lucky few, most likely imbued with the inhuman powers of caffeine, crowd around RA So-And-So, who is blocking access to the reason for the trek, the ultimate goal.

"Before you eat," she smiles sweetly, holding out a sheet of paper, "could you sign this, please?"

The horde barely glances at the paper. Those in front quickly snatch the sheet from the RA's hand, scribbling their names with a blunt pencil. This task complete, the swarm descends upon the free food. The process takes only a few minutes.

Once the food supply is exhausted, the residents drag themselves back to their rooms, remnants of the ice cream/pizza/cookies/hot dogs/Italian ices/cupcakes/fried chicken/soda/Mac n' Cheese/cake/baba ganoush smeared on their faces. More enterprising individuals smuggle some illicit vittles back to their rooms and store them away for leaner times.

Meanwhile, RA So-And-So clears up the remains of her social, a smug expression on her face. A social that should have cost her time and effort (things more valuable than the pitiful amount of money spent on the food) has been completed in five minutes. Excellent.

Bad RAs for praying on the weaknesses on college students for their own gain.

Observation #3: Sometimes, integration fails miserably here.

The Black Student Union was having a BBQ on the residential quad today, which was open to students of all races. Does that prevent a color divide? Well, the volleyball game was made of exclusively of whites while the basketball game featured only blacks. You decide.

Those are all the observations for today.

K.

Ax Murderers and the SWAT Team: Isn't Childhood Fun?

You know when I said nothing interesting happens around here? I forgot to mention the attempted murder.

Yep, attempted murder. A student woke up Saturday morning to find a man standing over her with a butcher knife.* Her roommates, the observant people that they are, assumed that the screams heard coming from the girl's room were a result of a horror movie. The man, an employee with the university food service, was arrested and later confessed to the murder of man in West Chester a few days earlier.

This, coupled with the strange stories of random people ending up in random rooms on campus, does little to make me feel safe. In fact, it brings back some disturbing memories.

My father was a police officer for a good portion of my life. Early on, I was aware that his job put him at great physical risk. I also knew that, because of his job, our family was listed under my mother's maiden name in the phone booth. With the implacable logic of childhood, I figured the reason for this subterfuge was that I, personally, was in danger.

I don't know when it first started, but at some point, I began taking precautions against the ax murderers that had it in for me. I always slept on my side, figuring that such a position presented a smaller target. My stuffed animals were carefully arranged on my bed in hopes that their lumpiness would distract an inept psychopath in the dark. Finally, I never, ever slept with my back to the door. If I was going to be chopped into little bits, by G-d, I was going to see it coming.

Sometimes, however, all the precautions in the world couldn't allay my fears. At that point, I would gather up my blankets and shuffle into my parents' room. Did I feel safer in the presence of my mother and father? Sure, but the instinct to prevent my own death by hacking was still quite strong. I would set up camp on my father's side of the bed, secure in the knowledge that I was close to the family protector and as far from the door as possible. If a serial killer were to tramp up the stairs, I would be the last person in his path. He would have to contend with the rest of my family first. And while the carnage was taking place, I could simply roll under my parents' bed (Yes, I fit-- one of the first things I checked).

Based on my memories, I can conclude that most of my fears didn't focus on malevolent, but imaginary, monsters (although there was that vampire skeleton on the other side of my bed, but that's another story entirely). My monsters were quite real. I'm happy to say that I have grown out of this fear, but the vestiges still remain. I only recently began sleeping on my stomach and facing away from the door. Also, the first thing I'm going to do upon moving into my own place is get a very large dog, preferably a drop-out from the K-9 program. Better safe than sorry.

I recently wondered aloud to my brother about whether other people had such strong and realistic fears in their childhoods. To my surprise, he shrugged.

"I used to think that the SWAT team was hiding in my closet."

"SWAT team? In your closet?"

"Why do you think I put all my weights in front of my closet door?"

Well, then.

Ewww, even writing this little entry is giving me the willies. Looks like before I sleep, I'll be locking the door several times and peering out of my window to the two-story drop below to make sure no one is out there. Just in case.

Better safe than sorry.

K.

*She received only minor stab wounds, in case you were wondering.

Yom HaShoah

I don't think I'll even try to write something reflective about Yom HaShoah. None of my words could ever do it justice. I will, however, include two links that I feel appropriately set the moods for this day of observance: sorrow and, most importantly, hope.

The first is the true story of Rose Silberburg Skier, a Holocaust survivor who managed to escape death time and again. This is told in her own words in the form of an interview.

Second, I offer to you another story of faith and survival as told by David Bogner of Treppenwitz.

Much like the tale of Passover, the stories of the Holocaust need to be told over and over so that we never, ever forget.

K.

Sometimes Life Feels Like "Groundhog Day"

I really need out of this place.

I've been in a rut for several weeks now. Everyday, I walk the same paths, go to the same classes, talk to the same people. I even wash my face in the same sink in the dorm bathroom every morning and shower in the same stall every night. The only time things seem to spice up is dinner, when I can never depend on edible food being served in the school cafeteria.

The classes and the organizational meetings I attend don't get me excited anymore. I can't work up any interest for the monetary woes of the English Club, the graduating seniors in Phi Sigma Pi, or the books in Jewish American Novel class.

Luckily for me, I only have one more full week of school left, leaving me with a four day weekend before finals. After finals, who knows? Maybe I'll take up my former position as lifeguard at my home JCC or do research for my father. Whatever I do, it will be much more rewarding than what I'm doing now.

At the end of this summer, I will re-remember the goals that this university will help me reach and I will go back to work willingly. But, until then...

K.

Questionable Mitzvah

I had a very nice post planned out, but my friend needed to be taken to hospital, so it went on the back burner.

While waiting for Liz to fill out her insurance papers, I was approached by an elderly man and his wheelchair-bound wife. The woman's eyes were downcast, but the man stared directly at me.

"Excuse me," he said, a little apologetic, "my wife hurt her hip earlier and she needs to use the restroom. I was wondering if you could go in with her. To make sure she doesn't fall down."

I glanced down at the woman, then up at the man. Dead serious. Quietly, I handed over my coffee and newspaper to one of my companions.

"Sure," I whispered. I couldn't seem to get my voice to a normal conversational level. This, after all, was not something most people have an in-depth discussion about. He nodded and turned his wife's chair around, beginning to walk towards the bathrooms. I followed, trying to look more confident than I was feeling.

The restrooms turned out to be a single-person room, small and sterile. I looked up at the man.

"In in?"

"Yes, please. If you don't mind."

"No... no." My gaze fell on the woman. "You don't mind, do you?"

For the first time, she raised her face. Her eyes were alert, clear.

She shook her head. "No." Gingerly, she began to pull herself up from the wheelchair, her husband rushing to put a hand beneath her frail elbow. As soon as she was fully erect, he removed his hand and I filled the touch vacuum with my own fingers. We entered the cramped bathroom together.

As she began to disrobe, I shut the door, locked it. She sat, leaving me to stare at an uninteresting poster on the back of the door. Silence.

"I'm sorry about this." Her voice sounded strangled and embarrassed.

"No, it's fine," I glanced over enough to smile at her, then looked away. The awkwardness continued.

She paused. "Sometimes, I think I need to go, but then I really don't. A false alarm."

"It's better to be safe than sorry."

"Yes," she paused, then struggled to stand up. "A false alarm."

"Okay."

"I think I hurt my hip in bed today. I'm not sure what I did to it."

"Yeah, I hate when that happens." She washed her hands daintily. As her back was turned, I noticed her mode of dress. Stylish, modern, yet modest. A lady like this wasn't used to having strangers watch her while she performed her basic bodily functions. I felt like I was denying her one of the essential privileges of being human: privacy. Vaguely, I could feel shame rising from my belly to coil firmly in my chest cavity.

I opened the door for her, helped her sit back into her wheelchair.

"Thank you," her husband said.

"It's okay. No problem."

"If I had known that it was a single bathroom, I would have gone in with her."

"It's okay." I smiled at the woman in what I hoped was a carefree way. She smiled back, faintly.

I walked back to my companion, who had been holding my things.

"I give you a lot of credit for that," she told me, handing me my newspaper.

"Mitzvah," I muttered, pulling the collar of my peacoat up around my ears.

But I really didn't feel that way. Sure, on the outside, I was helping a little old lady get around safely, a noble pursuit. In reality, though, I was taking away something valuable from her: her independence. I was a thief, not a hero.

Maybe it was also a glimpse of the future, a future in which I will need to be escorted around a bathroom by some young pup who has her whole life ahead of her. Depressing.

I don't know if this story was really worth posting, but it's been on my mind for several hours now. I guess that's what happens when you write after your bedtime.

K.

Sunny Days

This is going to be a shorter post, as I hope to get to bed earlier today.

The last few days have been absolutely fabulous-- bright sun, toasty weather, light breeze. I rarely ever get outside due to my work schedule, but I've been making a special effort recently. Like most people, I find that I'm more content with life when I've gotten my fair share of sunlight.

I decided to take a walk into town with my camera today in order to get some supplies. There were too many people for me to get any spectacular photos, but just seeing my favorite architecture and trees shining in the sun made me happy.

It's good to be happy sometimes.

K.

Sometimes Blondes Don't Have All the Fun

A common occurrence for me:

I was lounging about before a meeting, shmoozing with several of the members. People around me were eating crackers, a no-no on Passover. Unfortunately, I hadn't eaten that evening and was feeling peckish. This, of course, led to my favorite pastime: complaining about Passover.

One wag asks, "Are you Jewish?"

"Ah-yep," I reply.

"Oh. Definitely wouldn't be able to tell by the blonde hair."

Typical.

Oh, I'll admit it, I don't fit the stereotypical image Americans have of a Jew. My hair is straight and blonde, my eyes are some odd shade of blue-gray, my nose is petite, and my skin is preternaturally white. It's a curse, I know.

It's not that I mind not looking "Jewish" (whatever that is). What I detest is being subjected to the ignorance I hear when people think there are no Jews around. Conspiracy theories about 9/11, the threat of Zionism, the Jewish business acumen-- you name it, I hear it. There's only so much that one Jew can do to educate every moron she comes across.

There are amusing aspects to this, however. People with preconceived ideas about physical Jew-iness tend to suffer from the dreaded Foot-in-Mouth Disease. Take, for example, this little encounter:

During my senior year of high school, I was badgering a Chinese friend of mine to stop referring to herself as a "chink" because it made me feel uncomfortable (which is exactly why she did it... I have great friends). We stood arguing for several minutes when this freshman came up to us. With a bright smile, she shouted to me, "So, what do you have to complain about? You're a Nazi!"

My friend and I just stared at her, aghast. Slowly, I pulled out my Star of David/Chai necklace from underneath my shirt and held it out to her. The freshman's face flushed several delightful shades of red and her lips flapped soundlessly, much like those of a beached fish. Oh, dear.

I wasn't incredibly offended by this, just stunned. I realized that she was just trying to fit in with us and she must have thought the comment pretty clever before she uttered it. It also didn't help that I look like I've taken a flying leap out of the Aryan handbook. Her apologies didn't make me feel any better about the statement, just more embarrassed.

"Just watch what you say next time, alright? Most people wouldn't like to be called a Nazi, even non-Jews."

Poor kid. But I bet she'll never say something like that again!

Another interesting reaction that I get is when I tell people that my mother is a convert to Judaism. "Oh," they say, laughing, "so that's why you don't look Jewish." Hmm, yes. What people fail to take into account is that both blonde hair and blue eyes have recessive alleles. This means that both parents need to have the genetic disposition towards blondeness/blue eyed-ness. So let's stop blaming my mother for my supposed physical anomaly, alright?

Despite the trouble I get for them, I have no intention of changing my looks. When I look in the mirror, I see a mix of my mother and my long-dead paternal grandfather, which is never bad. There are so many other things to worry about.

So, to all those other Jews who don't fit the "mold," I salute you! Keep fighting the good fight.

K.

Elections and Passover: The Kvetch Begins

Trying to figure out how to pimp my banner is giving me a headache and keeping me from studying for my biology test tomorrow.

However, as I am who I am, I cannot resist a chance to complain. There are just so many things to kvetch about, but I'll limit myself to two.

1. WCU SGA Elections

For several weeks, the Student Government Association has been gearing up for its executive board elections. While it's exciting to see democracy in action on one's own campus, having to deal with self-righteous student politicians (which I would argue are almost more evil than professional politicians, but that's another post for another time) shoving their platforms in one's face every day.

Things have been picking up more steam now that the actual election week is upon us, so the sucking-up to the student body has been increasing steadily. Both tickets have taken to stopping people on the way to classes in order to sell their spiel on how they are so different from the other ticket and blah blah blah.

Candidate: HI THERE! HAVE YOU THOUGHT ABOUT WHO YOU'RE GOING TO VOTE FOR IN THE SGA ELECTIONS?!

Student: Uhmmm, no. Can this wait? I have class.

Candidate: WAIT? WAIT?! THIS IS YOUR FUTURE WE'RE TALKING ABOUT! DON'T YOU WANT TO DECIDE WHO WILL BE REPRESENTING YOU NEXT YEAR?!

Student: But... I'm graduating at the end of the semester...

Candidate: I'M THE BEST CHOICE FOR THIS STUDENT BODY! I KNOW WHAT YOU WANT!

Student: What I want is to get to class so the professor doesn't lock me out.

Candidate: BUT YOU'RE GOING TO VOTE TODAY, RIGHT?! AND FOR ME, RIGHT?! I'M THE ONLY ONE WHO UNDERSTANDS YOOOOOOOOOOU!

Student: Please stop touching me.

I'm only exaggerating a tad.

2. Passover

Some people dislike Yom Kippur, some despise Purim, others shudder at the thought of Simchat Torah.

I hate Passover.

I hate the length of the seder. I hate the endless chicken dinners. I hate "Kosher for Passover" cookies.

And the matzah! THE MATZAH! I can scramble it in eggs, drench it in olive oil, smother it in cream cheese and jelly, assemble mini-matzah pizzas, and fry little toasted cheese sandwiches, but it still tastes like a dry wad of disgusting.

I'm sure if the Israelites had realized that they were going to be subjected to a week of matzah for years on end, they would have stayed in Egypt.

Conclusion

Writing teachers always say that you need to tie everything together at the end of an essay in order to finish a work. It seems real life has already done it for me. Ready for this?

SGA candidates were serving cupcakes today.

Hatred for elections and Passover solidified. Can't make this stuff up, folks.

K.

Education, For Better or Worse

When I sat down this morning, I had meant to write a quirky, yet sincere apology for the recent lack of entries. A wise man once said:

"The best laid schemes o' mice an' men

Gang aft agley,

An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain

For promised joy."

Robert Burns, "To A Mouse"

My daily glance at the Jerusalem Post's webpage proved that quote to be quite correct. An event that caused the deaths of nine innocents and the injuries of nearly 70 others shouldn't be ignored.

It's amazing what a year will do to a person's outlook on life. At this time in 2005, I was a college freshman, eager to finish my first year at university. I was also undergoing the final preparations for my Taglit/Birthright trip.

I believe that it's fair to say that I was well-informed about the goings-on in Israel. I read the Jerusalem Post, studied the various conflicts in school and religious classes, and listened to the political analysis that would occasionally spout from my father, who was given to such things. When acts of violence occurred, I would become frustrated, irritated with both sides of the Israeli-Palestinian divide.

Then came my Birthright trip. I don't know why, but this relatively small event in history sparked off a revolution in my mind. A revolution that every Israeli that I met seemed actively involved in perpetuating.

And now... And now I see every event in Israeli in relation to individuals. I stared at the pictures of today's violence, seeing "I,"* a young make-up artist who finds nothing funnier than the knowledge that her country engineered a breed of featherless chicken.

I see a Moroccan mother of three, "N," who communicates her feelings through tight, expressive hugs.

I see "O," a friend of my father's from Kibbutz Ga'aton, fix-it man, and avid lover of the American squirrel.

I see nineteen year old "H," who gave me a broken IDF pin in exchange for a worn Livestrong bracelet.

I see "D," a bomb technician for the National Police with a dry sense of humor and a baby daughter.

I see "T," my tour guide in Israel, who survived a suicide bombing in Tel Aviv only because she had her leather jacket completely zippered.

I see "A" and "E," parents to three adorable children, who may soon be moving back to Ashdod.

Israelis aren't just people anymore; they are individuals. Now, instead of frustration at the violence, I feel anger, fear, and sadness. In short, I am more educated now than I ever was a year ago. Not in facts, but in emotions.

G-d help me.

K.

*Initials to protect privacy.

The Brokeback Blues

This year, I committed the sin of watching the Oscars without having a clue about the movies involved. Out of all the movies nominated for "Best Picture," I had seen one (Munich, which contributed to possibly the most depressing Christmas of my life). Therefore, I was unable to participate in the shock and awe that was created when Crash beat out Brokeback Mountain for the prestigious award.

So when WCU presented a free showing of Brokeback Mountain (coupled with a panel discussion, which I avoided), I jumped at the chance. Perhaps I would experience the magic that all the critics were raving over.

Hmmm.

There might have been magic, sure, but I was too distracted by Heath Ledger's inability to enunciate, I must have missed it. Seriously, I couldn't understand him. Between the strong Western accent and what sounded like a mouthful of crackers, any important information that the Ennis character might have imparted upon the audience was completely lost.

Here's what I did understand: Ennis, a wandering cowboy, teams up with Jack, a dreamer, to herd some sheep through the mountains of Wyoming. While out there in the wilderness, Ennis and Jack fall hopelessly in love with each other, which is demonstrated by either manly fighting or manly sex. But, alas, they cannot reveal their true feelings to the bigoted outside world. Le sigh. So they continue on with their lives, get married, have children, and meet each other every so often out on Brokeback Mountain.

Aside from Ennis's "oral surgery patient" dialect, I found the story entertaining. I enjoyed marking the passing of cinematic time by mentally measuring the length of Jake Gyllenhaal's sideburns and mustache. I also found the dilemma of the film's female characters interesting, but dreadfully underdeveloped (storytelling device, I know). So overall, while I don't think this film was "Best Picture"-caliber, it was a thoughtful and meaningful story.

You know, perhaps Heath Ledger is more talented than I give him credit for. After all, the talented Marlon Brando had to stuff his cheeks with cotton balls to produce the sort of voice Ledger seems deliver naturally.

Good on ya, mate!

K.

Over-Worked and Under-Paid

"I love deadlines. I like the whooshing sound they make as they fly by." -Douglas Adams

Wednesday- Stayed up late trying to finish a presentation.

Thursday- Stayed up late trying to finish the same presentation.

Friday- Gave said presentation.

Saturday- Began research on a ten-page literature paper.

Sunday- Began writing ten-page literature paper (on top of work and a meeting)

Monday- Got sick.

Good job, Kate.

K.

PS. On the upside, I did get 100% on the presentation. Too bad grades don't kill viruses.

An Observation a Little Late in Coming

Does the US government ever kick themselves for going after Iraq when the country next door is/was conducting the "Holy Prophet War Games?"

Just wondering.

K.

Questionable Decisions

Sometimes I think that my university would be better off without an administration. The choices they're making these days blow my mind.

For example, the brass intends to raise our tuitions in order to erect a giant statue of a ram, our school's mascot, in front of a building called Old Library. Here's a picture:



One of the things that drew me to this campus was the quantity of old, antique buildings. There is nothing that suggests "academia" more to me than structures that housed the scholars of old. Besides the campus's gorgeous castle/auditorium, Old Library is possibly the most beautiful building on campus. Complete with pillars and greenish stone, the Old Library proclaims what college should be in the words emblazoned on its facade: "The True University is a Collection of Books."

So what is this tacky statue doing in front of this bastion of education? Your guess is as good as mine. If the administration simple had to spend our money, could this not go in front of, say, our football stadium? The ram as a mascot represents strength, not intellectual aptitude, making it a perfect athletics mascot. It has no place standing in front of an educational building.

This also makes me wonder if the administration realizes that a college is full of students. Such a statue is practically inviting drunk kids to vandalize it. I just hope that the president of the university isn't surprised to wake up in the morning and see condoms stretched over the ram's horns.

Speaking of making "improvements" without considering the ram(haha)ifications, consider the current desecration of the academic quad. Recently, the university ripped out all of the bushes in the area, leaving dirt piles in places where students usually sprawled during sunny days. Walking by the dirt piles today, I noticed that the grounds people were planting little purple flowers where the bushes used to stand. Don't get me wrong, they are very pretty and do beautify the area. However, I think the university failed to realize that the flowers are directly in the path of the same inebriated students mentioned above as they return from the off-campus bars. What makes the administration think that these dainty little plants can survive after several hundred drunks, uh, relieve themselves on them? Anyone who thinks that students won't do such a thing has never been to college.

I think the state really needs to include a sanity test on the applications for administrative positions.

K.

I'm Like a Little Kid with a New Toy

Anyone else agree that this is pretty cool? Will have to do this again when, I don't know, I have more words in my blog?

K.

Where Does the Time Go?

Times seems to pass so quickly these days. Sometimes I glance out the window, then jerk to attention when I realize that I've been staring at something meaningless for hours. I don't know whether I can attribute this to my innate ability to get distracted for incredibly long periods, or if it's because time actually is going faster.

I've read of the phenomenon where those of advanced age comment that the years have become lightening fast. For them, decades seem to pass in a matter of days! However, is it possible that I truly have become "youth deficient" (the new PC term for "old as hell")?

Well, here's a list of things that make me feel old:

• Teenagers having babies.
• Mahal2000- because apparently joining the IDF at 22 makes one ancient.
• "New" songs being played on the oldies station.
• Finding out that kids I used to baby-sit for are graduating high school.
• Thinking, "Wow, I am two decades old!"
• Finding out that there are, like, 37 generations of Power Rangers.
• Remembering the '90s.
• Seeing shows that I used to watch as a kid on "classic" TV stations.
• My little brother getting his driver's license.
• The constant fatigue.
• Realizing that I'm already excited for retirement.
• Finding more gray hairs on my parents' heads.
• Feeling nostalgic about everything.
• Seeing the wedding announcements for friends that I knew in high school.
• Getting together and grousing with my friends about the "disrespectful" freshmen.

Oh, and I know there are more. However, would I want to waste more of my precious time on it?

K.

Here's a Challenge for You

During my daily surfing of blogs, I came across this on David Bogner's treppenwitz. Read through it. You're bound to learn something about yourself.

K.