Things I Learned During NaBloPoMo

Save pictures on your hard drive; don't link.

Shouting "Dear G-d, why isn't this month over?!?" does not make the month end faster.

One day of the internet being gone can ruin a whole month of work.

A one sentence post is perfectly acceptable when in the throes of NaBloPoMo.

No topic is too stupid during NaBloPoMo.

No, seriously, shouting "Dear G-d, why isn't this month over?!?" really does not make the month go faster. If anything, it draws out the torture.

Have fruit flies in your apartment? There's today's post right there.

Commenting on other blogs is more fun when everybody's suffering.

Rely on memes. They are your friends.

Thirty day months are infinitely better than 31 day months.

K.

Blogs Are Fun... and International!

Geez, this month is almost over... Thank G-d.

Tomorrow, I have to do a presentation for Computers and Writing. I'm thinking that I'm going to concentrate on blogs and the international realm. All the information I've found is rather interesting. For instance, did you know that the Japanese are the biggest posters in the blogosphere? I suppose we in the English-speaking world have no idea because we can't venture into foreign language blogs and understand them.

It's pretty incredible that something as simple as this little blog here can bring something of literary freedom to countries that usually censor print media. There are so many countries that we in the United States consider third-world that can speak out via weblogs. I may be alone here in thinking it's amazing. Hmm.

K.

A Loss of Innocence With a Spider Bite

Last night, I sat up thinking about a girl I had in my bunk during my first year as a camp counselor. She was what we at camp refer to as "awkward"-- quiet, prone to odd conversations when she did open her mouth, and habits rather different from a typical 10-year old girl. She had a connection with bugs that none of us could understand. Spiders, daddy longlegs, and moths-- all would sneak into our bunk and swarm on the walls and bed legs. While the rest of us would end up stomping and swatting, she would shout at us to stop. She would then go about rescuing the insects and arachnids, cradling them in her palms as she carried them back into the great out doors.

I never really understood her. After all, I'm the girl with green bug splatters on the walls of her apartment. I don't handle bugs well. But I tried to work around her sensibilities, calling her into my counselor room whenever a spider dared to step foot on my walls. The way she cared for such insignificant lives made me feel guilty for all of the ants I squashed when I was younger, the centipedes that I directed my father to kill, and the spiders I smashed with blobs of tissues.

On the last day of the session, we were scrubbing down the bunk and packing all of our belongings. This is traditionally when the insects are flushed into the open. Well, our bug quota was met by a single gigantic spider. It looked like a bristle brush with eight hairy legs. Screams of 10 frantic girls echoed off the walls, the springs of the beds screeched as they all jumped up out of the way from the multi-eyed menace.

But not this girl. With her typical calmness and almost vacant smile, she advanced on the spider, bending down and reaching out her hand. The next thing I knew, she was screaming as loud as the rest of them, holding her hand tightly to her chest. The spider had bitten her. Hard.

As I raced her down to the infirmary, she told me tearily that it didn't hurt her so much as surprise her. I suppose she was feeling a little betrayed by an animal that she always tried to help.

I don't know why I still remember that-- it was four years ago. But whenever I watch those daytime trashy TV shows about child abuse and wild, out of control teens, I think of her. I suppose it's the loss of innocence that gets to me, how one event could change a child's outlook, even something very small.

I wish I could have smashed the spider before she had gotten to it, just so she could have avoided the disappointment.

K.

The Jewiest Christmas Ever

I'm going to have the Jewiest Christmas ever.

Some will cock their heads and ask, "Wait, wasn't the Jewiest Christmas ever the time when you had Chinese food and saw Munich in the theater?" No, that was the most depressing Christmas ever. This will be the Jewiest Christmas ever.

Because this Christmas, my friends, will be the Christmas my family and I drive down to Florida. Yes, we will snowbirds for a few days, just like my old-school aunt and uncle. Granted, we will be there for my brother's soccer tournament, but it's better than being incredibly lonely at home like most Christmases.

Huzzah!

K.

Fruit Fly Fever

I came back to my apartment and immediately became the proud owner of a flock of fruit flies. I'm not sure how they got here and I'm not sure why they stay, but this is a pet-free apartment complex, so they must go.

I've set up fruit fly traps all over, using a tempting mix of honey and strawberry jam. While I'll be sad to kill them (they're kind of cute, in a irritating sort of way), they are making a habit of landing on my nose and shoulders. A few are even settling on my ear as I write this, offering some "helpful" suggestions in grammar and wording.

So, I must get back to real life and rid myself of these busybodies. I'll be back.

K.

Idiot Food

Ever eat something that you know you'll regret, but you scarf it down with gusto anyway? Ever find yourself curled up in a ball after eating said food, moaning in pain but smiling because it tasted so damn good?

That, my friends, is what we call idiot food. In other words, it's delectable bits of whatever that turns the most sensible of us into drooling numbskulls.

My idiot food is hush puppies.

Yes, I know that I have an extremely delicate gut and that eating fried corn is never a good idea on my best of days. And, yes, I know that my stomach hasn't been up to snuff lately, so my food tolerance is way down.

But, oh G-d, hush puppies! Those little fried bits of glory! Those sweet morsels of beauty! Oh! Put a hush puppy in front of me and I'm a goner.

So excuse me while I curl up in bed, riding out the cramps, with lovely bits of hush puppy still caught on the edges of my smile.

K.

I Read; Therefore, I Am

I'm going to confess a secret. A secret that will cement my nerd status for perhaps the next ten thousand years.

I have a reading journal. That I keep on my own accord. That I am not forced to do by any class. Ever.

It's not the type of journal where I write a wee report for each chapter. No, that would be going too far. But meticulously recording the start and finish date for each book, both school and pleasure-- yeah, I do that.

I'm not sure why I embarked on this project; I suppose that I always wondered how many books I was getting through during a set period of time. Sometimes they all run together, which kind of defeats the purpose of reading all together. So I went out and bought a small notebook which, rather fittingly, is covered in shelves of tiny books. Now write little blurbs about the books I read along with the dates.

So far I've been diligently keep track of my reading habits since August 11th, which is pretty exciting for someone as perpetually distracted as I am. In that time, I have read 21 books, which I find interesting. I'm pretty excited to see how long I can keep this up.

Oh, and this site hasn't helped. I keep checking up every other day to see if I've missed any. 6.22%, woot!

Anyone else do something completely unnecessary that seems a lot like work?

K.

Peace at Last

Though I sometimes wish that my family would just go away, I don't think that there is a better feeling than sitting with them on a small Virginian island, noshing on pizza, and watching "Hunt for Red October." Even my callous little brother sighs at the tragedy of Sam Neill's wish to see Montana and dying before he gets a chance. Real family togetherness time.

Granted, my brother is busy mocking my ignorance of the movie (it's been years since I've last seen it, and more since I've picked up the book) and my parents are making silly comments to each other. I'm busy asking dumb questions and wondering where I've seen all of these actors and showing my father Tim Curry's costume in "The Rocky Horror Picture Show." Yes, it's about the same as it is at home.

Still, I can poke my head out on the balcony and sniff the strangely beautiful scent of salt grass and sulfurous marsh mud, all while watching the lighthouse revolve. It's amazing how a change of location can resolve every conflict, real or otherwise.

So, from my little nest in the marsh, I wish you and your family a wonderful Thanksgiving vacation. I hope that you have some peace, even if only for a short period of time.

K.

Chevy Dreams

(Oh, wonderful, wonderful internet!)

I don't know why I was thinking about this last night, but I spent time before I went to sleep thinking about a kid I knew in elementary school. My grade school experience was unique-- I spent third through fifth grade with the same teacher and the same kids. We were "gifted," apparently. Anyway, I spent three years with this kid, but never really knew much about him other than he really liked Chevrolet.

I mean, really liked Chevrolet.

I've never seen someone so obsessed over a brand of car. His binder would be slathered with Chevy pickups and Chevy muscle cars with a sprinkling of the Chevy logo for a bit of spice. Ford, of course, was the archenemy.

There was only one way to get on this guy's nerves-- present him with a print ad for any Ford motor product and step back to watch the fireworks. Spittle would fly, dotting the brilliantly colored ad and spraying all with a fine mist. His eyes would burn with the feverish desperation of a man fighting for his life. In a strangled voice, he would begin enumerating the numerous faults of Ford and all products associated with the brand. Chevrolet would emerge as the messiah of motorized vehicles, deliverer of the American auto industry. Then he would turn back to his math book as the rest of us slunk away.

I wonder where that kid is now and I wonder how he's handling the current auto market. How can someone so dedicated to a failing American market survive the influx of reliable foreign cars? These days, if I had a choice between a Chevy and a Toyota, it would be Toyota all the way. I don't want to get into the economics of automobiles, but every time I see a commercial for Kias or Subarus or Hondas, I think about my former classmate.

I hope he owns a Chevy, waxes it daily, and kisses it goodnight. That would make me smile.

K.

Vacation, All I Ever Wanted

Vacation! Whoo!

This is just my post if I can't find internet when I get to Chincoteague. My previous experiences have told me that the web is very scarce on the island.

K.

FauxBloPoMo

So my internet went out yesterday and it was too cold and rainy to tramp over the library to use the wireless. Therefore, I guess I lose NaBloPoMo. It seems a little unfair that I have to wait a who other year until I can try again just because my internet provider decided to drop the ball, but I guess thems the breaks.

As it is, I'm very excited to be heading on vacation tomorrow. It's just the thing to cool my nerves. Apparently, this hotel has wireless, so I will try to continue posting as if I hadn't just failed at life. :)

K.

Ring, Ring

I need a vacation and I need it now.

I don't know how it happens, but everything seems to pile up-- which is mostly my fault, I know.

As much as it galls me to phone it in, that's what I have to do today. There is too much of a chance of me writing a post that isn't entirely thought out (see yesterday for a prime example). Stress and anxiety doesn't make for good reading anyway.

K.

See, Now I'm All Confused

Hey, to the anonymous person who posted on the Drunk post. It would be helpful if you let me know exactly which photo is yours. Because the one on that post came from another blog... one without copyright info at the bottom of the page.

In the future, before you go leveling accusations, please at least take the time to put the URL of your site in the comment so that I can actually do something about it. I respect that you spent 12 years and thousands of dollars on your site, but there is absolutely no way I can do anything about if you don't give me a bit of a clue.

And it's not my intention to start on internet war with you, so I am perfectly willing to fix a mistake out of internet-ignorance. Lend respect to me so I can lend respect to you.

kthankbye

K.

I See Drunk People

I was just sitting in the computer lab, minding my own business, when a swarm of freshmen swirled into the room. The hormones, the confusion, the undeserved sense of worth-- possibly my most frightening experience in recent memory.

But that's not what this post is about. I just find it funny how your opinions and outlook can change in four short years.

Anyway, while it wasn't the most frightening experience (see above), last night was indeed one of the strangest few hours I had ever spent on the streets of West Chester. In an attempt to garner more PR (and free tee-shirts) a seven of my brothers and I signed up to help the Off-Campus and Commuter Association hand out soft pretzels to the drunks in an attempt to get some food into their stomachs. We were to stand on the streets from 12 AM until 2:45 AM, act cheerful, and exhort the soberness-impaired to pleasepleaseplease be careful. The Bum Grabber had struck again that night and managed to score his first complete robbery (good for him, I guess. You shouldn't have to spend your entire criminal career as a loser.)

Just a note: OCCA, in a moment of outrageous naivete, begged us to wear our flimsy green tee-shirts under open jackets, either for easy identification or sex appeal, I'm not so sure. But you can bet your little yellow booties that few--if any-- people did. What OCCA failed to take into account was that it was the middle of November. Sure, I wore my shirt, but it was under two sweatshirts, a scarf, and a pea coat. I looked like bowling ball balancing on two skinny legs.

We set off at about 11:30 and settled in front of the local Baptist church on the high street, the main migratory route for all breeds of drunk. We were given a rickety table, a sign (which read "WCU Free Pretzles"-- spot the error there), and about 50 rock-hard, frozen pretzels. Two Pi Kap boys joined us, one who was the president of IGC, the organization we had been trying to get into. So we female brothers used our undeniable charms to woo this young man, though I believe we were slightly hampered by 20 layers of clothing and a sheen of newly-frozen sweat. Then, we waited.

It took a while, but college students began to appear. Most of them were already stuffing their mouths with pretzels, so OCCA had seen fit to place a pretzel table on every other block. we managed to stuff pretzels into the hands of a few, less vigilant souls, but most caught on to our plan. Not that we could blame them-- why would you want to pay to go the bars if free pretzels kept you from being nice and slobbering. One girl, who had obviously gotten an early start on the festivities, took a pretzel, broke it in half, then told us to save it for her return. She became hysterical when we insisted that she just take it with her and come back for more. More on her later.

Over the next few ours, we watched as a bewildered man in a nice suit got arrested (our bet is on public urination), meatheads proved their manhood by throwing our pretzels on the ground, and girls in short skirts and little tops trotted by. Several littles came to visit us (including one of mine) and one of the Pi Kaps bought us all coffee.

I would be lying if I didn't say that the main reason for volunteering was to watch my normally serious brothers acting giddy with exhaustion and frostbite. We danced, sang, touched each other inappropriately-- the normal things girls do when out of our minds. I got to know people that I had only seen in meeting settings and showed them that I wasn't the goody-goody people think I am. It was the best bonding experience that I had ever participated in since I joined PSP and I wouldn't give it up-- even if I do end up losing my frozen toes.

Towards the end of the night, the girl who refused the other half of her pretzel came back, this time towing a friend with her.

"Where's my pretzel?"

"Seriously?"

"Yeah, I told you that I was coming back! I want my half of pretzel!"

For her sheer chutpah, we gave her a whole new pretzel and offered one to her friend. It should be noted that this girl was absolutely hammered and staggering. At the sight of the pretzel, she shrieked.

"Nooooooo! I have a date party on Friday and I can't have any carbs!" She ruffled her hair and staggered off.

I would like to find her sometime and show her the carb content of whatever she had been swilling that night. I don't think one pretzel was going to tip the scales.

I only managed to get home around 2:30 AM, nursing frozen toes and fingertips.

Yay for college!

K.

1001 Books You Must Read Before You Die

Here's a great site where you can download an Excel sheet of 1001 books that you should probably read.

It's actually really fun to play with!

K.

Rapists, Robbers, and Bum-Grabbers, Oh My!

I walked into town today to see if I couldn't find some gifts for my littles, who will be inducted into the fraternity at the end of the week. My college town is close to Philadelphia, so it has several little unique boutiques that are rather charming, if not a little expensive. I had to speedwalk, though, in order to get back to my apartment before the sun set.

For when the sun sets here, the wolves come out.

I'm not sure whether there has always been this much crime near my university or if the university just neglected to report it, but this much is clear: things around here are getting bad.

There have been assaults, attempted rapes, robberies, armed muggings-- you name, it's happened here in the last two months. We've even had a bum-grabber whose description matches on one my friends at The Quad, who we are tormenting to within an inch of his life.

Jokes aside, it's gotten kind of dangerous to be a small girl (aka me) in this neighborhood. Tonight I have to walk to my little's house in the dark. She only lives a few blocks away, but it doesn't matter-- I'm frightened. I've planned to only take my keys and my phone. I might get away with it if it looks like I'm not carrying anything of value.

I've thought about what I would do if I did get in trouble out there. I have a wee spray can of mace and I'm not afraid to use it. I have a plan for rapists (it's disgusting, so don't ask), armed muggings (just give up the money), and gun-toting bullies (run like hell). Oh, and screaming. I have no shame when it comes to self-preservation.

Wish me luck.

K.

Meme Attack!

I was tagged by Moonshadow to do this meme, which I don't often do. However, I am really hurting for ideas at the moment and it seems like a nice, calm thing to do.

So, here are 7 Things About Me That You Might Not Know

1) My great-grandfather was an one-armed American Lawn Bowls champion from Scotland. He's in this Time magazine article.

2) I'm a closet romantic.

3) I'm allergic to Vicodin/Codeine. Therefore, I can never take heroin. Boo.

4) I sometimes have trouble focusing on the big picture. Little things will niggle at me and distract me from way to fix the problem.

5) Sometimes I wish I could be more stylish, but I don't have the time, money, or effort to put into it.

6) Jonathan Rys Meyer creeps the hell out of me. Something about how his eyes are spaced just makes me want to cry.

7) I laugh when I hear a really strong Southern accent. It's awful, I know, but I feel like it's something that culture has created-- often funny characters have these accents that become ludicrous by association. I'm sorry. :(

So now I get to tag some people. I think these might be the last few people on the planet who haven't been tagged.

Irina from The IgNoble Experiment

abzdragon from A G33k Tragedy

nyjlm from So Love is Hard and Love is Tough

Adena from MotherThoughts

Whee!

K.

This Does Not Bode Well for My Writing Career...

K.

Dry Season

I hate this time of year. I've always been very sensitive to the change of moisture in the air-- or at least my throat and lips are. The back of my throat feels like I've been chugging a sandpaper cocktail and it kept me away most of the night. I swallowed several spoonfuls of honey and two cups of milk, but no luck. It was about 3 am until I was able to get to sleep.

Lips... the lips I can handle most of the time. During the day, I swear by Chapstick Moisture (or, as I call it, "the blue one"). At night I slather on the Vaseline maybe three or four times.

Boo on fall/winter.

K.

A Broom-Burning Feminist

I am a feminist.

No, I'm not ashamed to say it. Feminism, at its core, is the concept that men and women are equal beings. Neither one is smarter than the other, but there are some physical differences. I accept that-- but I don't accept that men are better than women because they are stronger. Perhaps, at one time, there were jobs that only they could accomplish through brute strength, but the technological advances of the last few decades have made it easier for women to participate in traditionally males jobs. And I think that's wonderful.

It bothers me that feminism has such a bad rep these days, that I have to punctuate my declaration of feminism to explain that I am not a bra-burner or a man-hater. To be honest, it is both sexes's faults for this negative casting. There are men out there who, uncomfortable with being challenged, throw aspersions at feminism and cause it to seem unnatural. Equally, there are women who lack a sense of humor and can't seem to smile at themselves-- they cast feminism in a bad light as well.

And would you believe that the above paragraphs were just an explanation for what I am now going to say? Isn't that sad?

Anyway, I've been watching television lately and have begun to notice just how many cleaning commercials there are that solely feature women. Women vacuuming, women scrubbing, women cleaning toilets-- all while smiling cheerfully at the camera. Where are the men? Why isn't there a man with his arm half-way in a toilet, a man unloading the dishwasher, a man scrubbing the soap scum from the bathtub? Just one measly man, that's all I ask!

Don't get me wrong, there are some commercials that seem a little more enlightened. One broom/vac commercial shows a whole party of people rocking out while cleaning up messes, which is awesome. There is even a carpet scrubber that shows an entire family cleaning spots off the rug.

When I have a house of my own, I will do housework as long as I live alone and can't afford a once-every-two-weeks cleaner. If I get married, honey, you know I am not going to be scouring pots and pans. If there are things to be cleaned, we are both cleaning it. I hate housework. I hate the way my knees ache when I clean the tub. I hate that I am all itchy from the bleach. I. hate. washing. dishes.

And if I'm made to do housework for the rest of my breathing days, someone is going to die. Die slowly and painfully.

Because why should I do it just because I'm a XX? I'd rather be slaving away at a desk than don the rubber gloves and dally in the fumes of cleaning solution.

And that's what I have to say about that.

K.

Norman Mailer
1923-2007

K.

Rage is a Lack of Sleep

Just a note.

To the girls who live in the apartment below me: Seriously, what makes you think that slamming the doors and screeching at three o'clock in the morning is a good idea? It may not occur to you, living on the first floor as you do, that every time you fling the door backwards, it shakes everything above you, i.e. my apartment. And you know what happens when you shake the cage of a tired animal?

It. Gets. Pissed.

I have no doubt that you all are nice girls in principle, but I've called the cops on you before.

Don't think that I won't do it again.

K.

All Hail the Internet

I've been researching writing and the internet for one of my classes and it seems to me that the internet is the best thing that ever happened to academic types. It's my thinking that, at some point, academia would have run out of topics to write papers about. Then journals would fail, professors would be lost, and the world would implode on itself in a flurry scattered research papers.

But the internet. Ah, the internet...

Suddenly, scholars can study how well stutterers deal with communication on-line, how suicide letters are affected by internet language, and a new international writing standard (all real papers).

So, carry on, academia! Continue on with your interesting, but vaguely useless research! It should last you about another 50 years.

K.

I Feel Old

I was sitting in my Psych 101 class today when a gaggle of freshmen girls flopped down beside me and began an conversation that made me feel ancient.

"Oh my G-d," one of the trilled, "what was wrong with me that night?"

"Yeah, I had to take off the tags on those Facebook pictures from the party." Giggle giggle.

"Why can't Kristy find her own date?" A third muttered disgustedly.

"Because," replied the first sagely. "She's not friends with the lesbians."

"Uh!" grunted the third.

The conversation continued on like that, punctuated by high-pitched noises of irritation and exclamations about parties and alcohol.

Maybe it was my fault for taking a gen ed requirement that is usually populated by first-year students. But seriously, what?!

I don't understand kids these days. Now, excuse me, I have to pick up my walker from the cleaners. I hope that they put a new set of wheels on the old girl. The squeaking has been irritating my hearing aid recently.

K.

Madonna del Libro

I get tons of questioning looks when I mention to people that I'm extremely interested in Catholicism. The confusion comes from one of three things: (1) Catholics can't find interesting in their own religion, so they can't see why I can; (2) Protestants don't have interest in Catholicism, so don't see why I do; and (3) I'm a Jew, so I should (apparently) keep to my own sphere. It doesn't help that I shun the two Jewish congregations in my college community, choosing instead to attend Sunday morning mass at St. Agnes when the spirit takes me.

Deep down, I think my family is concerned about all of this. My Dad, the life-long Jew, can't understand when I do my best to explain the concept of the Trinity; my Mom, formerly a Protestant, holds a teeny-weeny grudge against Catholics for telling her that she was going to Hell when she was younger. My brother... well, my brother is oblivious when it comes to anything that doesn't involve a soccer ball.

I've done my best to assure them that I have interest in converting (indeed, I really don't), but I find the similarities between Judaism and Catholicism fun to analyze. Eternal lights, bread and wine, ark-like structures-- we share quite a bit. The stuff we don't have in common is just as cool. I grew up in a religion that frowns on depicting the human form in art, so I just love to stare at the marble Madonnas so sheer that I can see a candle's glow behind them. The hierarchy of the Catholic Church is so foreign to me that it takes me forever to understand how a deacon relates to a cardinal relates to a pope and so on.

Going to Rome during my semester abroad, obviously, was like dying and going to Heaven. Nuns, monks, and priest everywhere! Even priest pin-up posters-- imagine that! Almost as cool as the rabbi trading cards I found in Sfat.

Anyway, in poetry class, we were told to pick a piece of art and write a poem about it. Of course, I chose "Madonna del Libro" (above), a beautiful painting by Botticelli.

So, after all of the exposition, here is the poem, in a supremely rough draft.

The woman and the babe debate religion,
their whispered thoughts hushed in the fading sunlight.

The child, his mind clear
from nine months of solitary contemplation,

cranes his neck, curious to catch the glint
of understanding in his mother’s eyes.

She inclines her head in an effort to grasp his words,
but really she is inspecting her child’s unstained brow,

searching for the future. She considers
wrestling the golden thorns from his forearm

but to do so would be like pulling the dead from Fate’s iron fingertips
or turning water into wine.

So she wraps her cloak like the folds of Heaven
around her son, silently urging him

to keep his stubby legs in firm contact with the dirt
and his sticky fingers entwined in her hair.

But his eyes already point towards the
stars and his future amongst them.

The professor says that I should send it to one of the Christian poetry journals. That makes me pee myself a little.

As if my last name wouldn't give it all away.

K.

Success!

Well, I finally grew a backbone and decided to go to the student health center to deal with my on-going illness. I had been missing too many classes. Last thing I need is to fail out courses during my senior year.

The nurse practitioner decided that it might be a mix of my medications, which made all of the heavy breathing I did on rude people's food at the Eagles game useless. They took blood, gave me some meds, and sent me home.

So now I don't have any energy because the nausea medication produces fatigue. Phoning it in again.

K.

Wet Woollen Wonders

I normally don't put up pictures of myself and referring to my Halloween costume so late after the actual event borders on attention-whoredom, but I hadn't had a chance to comment yet. And as I need to post today and I haven't totally worked out what happened yesterday in my head, I figured today would be as good as any.

See, most of this costume is not mine. The socks, Aberdeen shirt, and Aye, Jimmy hat all belong to my brother. But the kilt... well, the kilt's all mine.

Why I spent $80 on a kilt that I'll rarely be able to wear is hard for even me to explain. That is my tartan (albeit of the hunting family) and that is my clan pin on the lower left-hand side, but the chances of me finding a reason to go to class in this are very far in between. And, dammit, wool is itchy. The last wool scarf I bought is still hanging-- unused-- in my closet because I can't bring myself to put it around my sensitive neck.

Although, wool does smell nice when wet. Kind of like a clean barnyard animal. But that's besides the point.

I think the reason I spent so much money was because I was coming to the end of my stay in Scotland. It was my last day in Edinburgh. For the year. And I stood in the midst of the Edinburgh Woolen Mill, cash on my debit card, and the soon-to-be-mine kilt.

Oh, the temptation was too much. I usually don't get too into retail therapy, but leaving the place I had called my home for five months sort of pushed my reserve out of the window.

I miss the rain that was never too cold or too warm. I miss all those damn sheep. I miss Hamish the Hairy Coo. I miss the unintelligible accents. I miss the lochs. I miss those damn hard assignments. I miss my little room. I miss the amazing highland water. I miss the wonderful public transportation. I miss the year-round, preternatural green. I miss Scotland.

My only recourse: spritz some water on my woollen kilt and breathe in deeply, then dream of my adopted home.

K.

Sky High

In reality, I probably should be in bed, healing before I have to work at the Eagles game later today, but such is my determination to do this NaBloPoMo thing right that I am dizzily sitting up typing this post.

Because my brain cells are currently firing at a very low level, I decided that I needed to find a prompt. So, here it is:

If I Had a Super Power-- from 55 More Blog Posts I Hope You Write

Okay, so mine is a pretty common one: I'd like to fly.

I think one of the reasons that I took up swimming when I was a kid was because it was the closest thing I thought I would ever get to actually soaring through the air. When you sink to about a foot off the bottom of the pool and just glide, it's easy to pretend that you're looking down at the ground. The lane markers become remarkably straight rivers, the tiles city grid maps. You can hang on to this fantasy for as long as you hold your breath. Then you need to surrender to your burning lungs and burst through the surface. The freezing air on your skin and the shouts of a public pool remind you that you aren't flying after all.

Sometimes I dream of flying. It's fun for a while, but then I suffer from what I call the Hitchhiker's Guide Syndrome-- namely, if you think about it too much, you start to plummet. I glide for a while, but then I begin wondering exactly how I am moving. Do I have some sort of jet propulsion in the soles of my feet? Am I being pushed by air currents? If I move my arms breaststroke-style, can I go faster? All the while I am steadily losing altitude.

It bothers me sometimes. Why can't I just enjoy flight and give up on the science of the whole thing?

Maybe next time I have this dream, I will concentrate on how fluffy the clouds look from this angle or count the number of bald heads I see from above. Anything to keep flying.

K.

In a Burst of Uncreativity...

One of the reasons I get so cranky at school is because I'm without my cranky little featherball, Tookie. My apartment doesn't allow pets and I think a parakeet would be very difficult to hide.

So, in honor of the little guy who chews on my hands makes and me smile even when I feel like I'm going to throw up, this post is for him.

(Apologies for phoning it in today-- still not feeling well.)









K.

Oh, For the Love of G-D!

Seriously, I don't know what's wrong with my body this week. Wednesday night was spent heaving over a toilet bowl; last night I managed to sleep for about half an hour sideways on my twin bed, feet dangling off one end and head hanging in a trashcan off the other. I got to see the sun rise, a privilege I would have immediately given up for just three more hours of sleep.

There used to be a time when my sick days were often spent like those Victorian ladies with the vapors-- in bed with toast and plenty of parental sympathy. As I get older, I get sick in far more disgusting ways. To top it off, I'm alone.

While it's no fun revisiting your dinner, it's even less fun to do it when there is no one to stroke your back and keep your hair from a horrible fate. It just makes you feel worse.

Luckily for me, I do have a chance to go home this weekend, but I'm a little scared to do it in my condition. The last time I was on a train while ill, an entire carriage-load of Glasgow-bound commuters thought that I was an irresponsible drunk with a hangover. I sacrificed my favorite sweatshirt to hide the evidence. So it's fair to say that I'm slightly worried.

So now, to sleep-- hopefully. We'll see if my poor body can handle the train ride later.

K.

PS. Oh, that picture that I put up is disgusting, but strangely apt.

When Stupid Trivia is Awesome

(Ooh, bad language ahead.)

During Poetry Workshop today, our professor assigned our fourth and final poem. The goal was to adopt another persona and write from that point of view. For an example, she gave us the story of Medusa and Athena and instructed us to write from Medusa's point of view.

For those who don't know the story, Medusa was once one of the most beautiful women in the land and soon attracted the attentions of Poseidon, god of the seas. The two did some naughty things in Athena's temple, sending the goddess into a rage. In revenge, she turned Medusa into the monster we all know today.

Here's what I wrote:

"The Mistress of the Western Gates," they call me.
A term of appeasement used only when my eyes are open
and my hair is alive.
Asleep, I am the monster, the horror,
the hated of the Lady of Wisdom.
Athena, that gray-eyed bitch, who guards her virtue
with lance and shield, must surely have gazed in jealousy
as I was loved by the King of Tides.
The thought that she chokes down her ambrosia alone,
with only her flea-bitten owl for company,
keeps my vitals pulsing and my teeth sharp.

Hard for you to believe, I'm sure, but I was quite a dork back in the day. I used to spend quite a bit of time reading Greek myths and studying up on Greek gods. Athena, for her interesting patronage of both wisdom and war, was my absolute favorite. So when it came time to write this, I had a ton of trivia to pull out. I felt a little bad about it-- it takes a lot of studying to know that Athena was gray-eyed or one of the three goddesses who didn't procreate with freakin' everything around them.

One of those few times dumb knowledge comes in handy.

K.

PS. Happy NaBloPoMo to y'all. And happy NaNoWriMo as well!