Things That Will Be the Death of Me

• Netflix
• Sending out resumes
• Cleaning my room-- and my apartment
  
• Staying awake during NDS working hours
• Keeping up with my Bloglines list
• A possible membership of the Internet Writing Workshop (anyone want to join me?)
• The parakeet and her impossible demands
• Staying out of PSP business now that I am no longer an active member
• The red tape of graduating

K.

Scattered Thoughts: Reasons Why This Day Sucked

• I woke up at 4 AM. Enough said.

• I was driving along Rt 30 towards West Chester when I saw stuff animals scattered about the roadway. It looked like a plushie massacre. Normally I would be amused by this, but I kept wondering if these animals were meant for someone. Plus, there's something deep inside of me that says stuffed animals have feelings. I'm sentimental.

• After the stuffed animals, I was cruising down Rt 100 when I saw a turtle at the side of the road, holding his head high and lifting his leg to step into the busy highway. The next thing I knew I was pulled over about 200 yards away, speed-walking down the emergency shoulder of the road, eighteen-wheelers screaming by me, hurrying towards that little animal about the make a big mistake. Unfortunately, I got there too late. I suppose what really got me was how confident that turtle looked as he began his great adventure. The further I get from the event, the sadder I feel. I wouldn't be surprised if I cried myself to sleep over one naive animal. (One thing that made me laugh in spite of myself: I described how the turtle's blood looked on the pavement to my friend Jen-- thick, like scarlet acrylic paint. Ever the the sensitive type, she exclaimed: "So that's how they get red paint! They squeeze it out of turtles!" Evil.)

• I parked in the spot that Jen directed me to in her apartment's parking lot-- a spot that is actually hers. Yet, when I came out a few hours later, someone had left a note calling me a "shithead" with a rather elementary illustration on it. Sorry? I think the polite thing to do would have been to ask me to move, which I probably would have done, whether I had a right to the spot or not. I fear for the future if this is the level of discourse I have to deal with in the real world. I think I might laugh about this tomorrow.

Granted, it's not like someone physically hit me or I lost a family member or something. It's just that some days suck more than others. And this one suuuuuuuuuucked.

Here's hoping for better ones!

K.

Dear ANSWER,

We've had our ups and downs-- wait, no, only downs. I realized your crazy wacked-outness when I nearly got shot at one of your rallies. So, I really shouldn't be surprised at this latest weirdness, but, frankly, I am. You reached a new height of suckitude.

Let's talk Rachael Ray for a second. I don't like her. I find her annoying and ridiculous and am firmly in the Bourdain camp about her being a shill for Duckin' Donuts. On a normal day, you'll see that I have absolutely no sympathy for her.

Until this scarf incident. Seriously, are we still talking about this? The woman wears a scarf in a commercial that looks vaguely Arabic and suddenly she's branded a terrorist-sympathizer. Michelle Malkin, who is just below Ann Coulter in craziness, jumps all over the issue, which causes Duckin' Donuts to pull the ad. First, my comments on this.

Look at the scarf. I mean, look at it. This style of scarf is worn all over the world by people who want to see seem hip. I've seen them in the UK, in Europe, and even in China. They are Arab-style, yes, but have nothing to do with the checker board scarf that we often see on jihadists. Now, look at Ray again. Isn't that a paisley pattern? Ooh, beware of the Paisley Scourge!

Now, we could have let this nonsense fade away. But you, ANSWER, you self-righteous organization, you. YOU decide to call for a boycott on Duckin' Donuts for pulling the ad! Anti-Arab racism, my ass-- you're just looking for a fight! If this is the end-all of anti-Arabic propaganda by the Right in your eyes, then I would say that you have some real issues. Do something constructive, like create more Arab-American-friendly education for the public at large. Make some radio/TV/print ads. Do something that will make a difference!

I, for one, will make a difference right now. I'm going out for a Duckin' Donut. YUMMO!

K.

Running Without the Benefit

Last night, I had a dream where my family and I were staying on some island that was suddenly taken over by Nazis. I know that I spent most of my dream screaming at my family, trying to get them to escape, though they insisted on staying the rest of the night and fleeing in the morning. I believe that we did actually get out alive, which is nice, I guess.

My reason for posting this dream isn't really the dream itself, but the aftermath. I often have these strange, almost violent dreams where I'm running or screaming or getting out of breath in some way. When I wake up, the covers are on the floor and I'm usually missing a pillow or two. And very, very tired.

I sometimes wonder if I've been running in my sleep, much like a hyperactive dog does while he dreams. My father has told me that once, during a vacation, I sat up in bed and screeched, "No! Stop! STOP!" (I still remember that dream, incidentally. It involved George W. Bush shooting at a bunch of us executioner-style. I even recall shouting. I don't think that this dream has any symbolic meaning-- Bush was probably on the TV right before I went to sleep. It could just have easily have been Anderson Cooper taking aim at me, which would have been much sexier.) So it seems to me that if I could have used enough muscles to sit up and scream, then I very possibly be running while horizontal.

I find this really irritating. I dislike the idea of waking up more tired than when I went to sleep. It seems like a waste of time and, frankly, counterproductive. And how exactly can I tell my professors that I've been vigorously exercising in my dreams, therefore, I can't pay attention to the implications of propaganda on our society? Nobody's going to buy it.

If you have any ideas short of drugging me to help me get a restful night's sleep, please let me know. I would hate to have a dream about running the marathon, only to find myself unable to get out bed for days because my body has run 26 miles through the bed sheets.

K.

PS. Posts until 200: 5

My Lady Bits Hurt

Currently, I'm watching a program about a family who has 13 children and the 14th on the way (I'm not sure if it's that famous family with the 17 kids or not) and, frankly, I'm kind of sickened. If you really think that you're family is "incomplete," adopt some damn kids!

There are so many children out there on the streets in our own country. How can you possibly add to the world's population so drastically when there are kids that are starving or left to rot in orphanages?

Frankly, I think that having children is an addiction to this couple, as much as drugs and alcohol are addictions to other people. I'm not saying that they don't care for their kids, but come on! Fourteen times is really pushing it.

...

I don't know why I care so much about this. Honestly, these people can do what they want and it will never affect me. The kids seem healthy, polite, and very well-loved. But all I can think about are the kids who will never have parents-- and couples who can never have kids.

Burr.

K.

Happy De-Lurking Week!

Apparently, it's National De-Lurking Week! If there are any of you lurking out there, speak up!

K.

??????? in '08!

It seems that the only thing that NPR can talk about these days is the New Hampshire primary results, which results in a bad headache for me. All this does is rub in that my vote in Pennsylvania primaries might actually matter this time around and that I have to re-register.

Because PA can't have open primaries, oh no. No, they make us choose a party, guaranteeing another few years of propaganda and door-to-door visits from local candidates with that particular frozen perma-smile. I'm still getting slick campaign ads from the time I turned Republican for a primary, even though I was trying to make sure a candidate that I don't mind was going to get the nomination over a royal douchebag. The Santorum mail was unbelievable.

But it's not just that I have to pick a party-- I have to pick a candidate. My uterus is telling me to vote for Clinton, my heart for Obama, and my brain for McCain. It's unfortunate that to have my body parts take sides, especially since my crush John Edwards is trying to elbow in on Obama territory. Obama/Edwards-- what a delicious ticket that would be.

Sometimes it's hard to be more moderately inclined. Here I am, the pro-choice, anti-war, pro-gay marriage feminist liberal, awkwardly trying to balance my hawkish pro-Israel stance, plus the uneasy feeling about pulling out of Iraq too soon and leaving a vacuum of power. When I travel, I easily express my disappointment in the current government, but fly into a quiet and private rage when a non-American puts down my country too vigorously. All I want to do is to fit in somewhere-- and the proposed visions of American coming from the candidates don't seem to come complete with a Kate-shaped hole.

As much as I'm tired of hearing about the New Hampshire primaries, I am gratified to hear that McCain won the on the Republican side; his victory knocks Huckabee from the top-runner slot. If the GOP nominates Huckabee, then I will be forced to vote for whoever the Democrats put up, even if it's someone who I'm not particularly comfortable with. A salted slug for president would be better than an uber-religious politician.

The primaries would be so much easier if someone put out a version of the Star Wars Guide to the Candidates, which would be language I can understand. Oh, wait. Somebody has. The Ron Paul entry is particularly apt.

K.

PS. Well, at least The Daily Show and The Colbert Report are back. Sort of.

Snail Mail Sunday (Done on a Monday... again) #3

Dear blog,

I know that after NaBloPoMo you thought our relationship was going to be different. You felt loved and warm while I was posting everyday and there were occasional comments to snuggle into. And I guess it was a rough awakening into to the cruel, cold world when I promptly resumed my old habits of maybe one post per week... on good weeks. It must have hurt.

I'm sorry for my absence, but you knew what this relationship was from the beginning. Sometimes I'm too busy/tired/lazy to post anything for days at a time, leaving you so alone. You're probably wondering if I have more than one blog, little topic-specific hoochies on the side. Well, I did, for a little. Honestly, they meant nothing to me. I haven't even posted in them since the semester ended. I only did it because people (ie. my class) expected me to have something of a trophy blog, something to present in social situations. I'm afraid that you just weren't up to par for that sort of thing.

The worst part for you is that I only seem to come back when I need comfort or to vent. I never buy you new things; I rarely update you sidebar widgets. But when I don't have anyone else to talk to, you're there. And I appreciate that. You don't hear about the good things, my triumphs, but you always listen and I guess that's what makes you such a good blog.

All I can ask is that you stick with me for a little while longer... at least until I get my life in order. I'll try my best to be the best poster you ever did see and to treat you with the respect you deserve. You know I love you, baby.

Hugs and kisses,

K.

I Hate Finals

I'm currently in the midst of working on a 15-page paper, the longest educationally-related document I've ever written. Dear G-d, I want to die.

That is all.

K.

I Did It?

Well, we all know that I had to miss a day because of my internet outage, but, judging by this badge, "doing it" means that I had to post thirty times in thirty days. And I did. One day I posted twice. Count 'em. Thus, through thorough rationalizing, I've come to realize that I deserve this badge, dammit. I worked my butt off.

So there.

K.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Proving My Point From the Last Post

While I'm a real fan of this video, the some 1,000 comments to it make me seethe. And really, it is from both sides. Read them, if you have the stomach for it.

The only way to have peace is to listen, which I don't think has been done on a large scale. If listening doesn't work, then I don't know what will.

Damn, now I need a hug.

K.

clipped from www.youtube.com

My Demonic Quarterly Review

[It's been a couple of weeks since I was on the receiving end of two anti-Jewish slurs, targeted at my aversion to spend from my dwindling coffers. From friends, I'll take it; from nearly-complete strangers, expect a quite rage. And thus I began to formulate a satire based on what some people must think my life is like. Here it is. Enjoy.]

I arrived home from class the other day just in time for my quarterly progress review. This was made clear by the whiff of sulfur that charged out of my apartment when I opened the door, the eerie music dominated by minor chords thundering out of my stereo, and the small demon perched on my kitchen counter, fussing with my toaster.

"Oh, is it that time already?" I asked, dropping my bookbag and flipping off the radio (66.6 YHELL FM, if you're inclined to listen). The demon looked up.

"It will be if this toast ever makes an appearance." He determinedly jammed a knife into the slits, absorbing the corresponding electric shock with a frisson of pleasure.

I peered over his thin shoulders. "You people made the thing."

"Doesn't mean that we can figure it out, though, does it?" The demon threw the knife down with a sigh and sprang from the countertop. "Look, I have very little time and quite a bit of paperwork, so I think we should get started." With that, he clamored on to my futon, poofing a pair of reading glasses on to his crooked nose and a legal pad into his claws.

"Sure."

"And take off that ridiculous disguise." He glanced down over his glasses with distaste. "It gives me the creeps."

"Alright." Shrugging, I slid my thumbs beneath my blonde wig, letting my springy locks jut forth, giving me that surprised, wind-tunnel look. The demon watched as I carefully pulled my blue contacts from my eyes, the cute nose prosthetic from my own hooked proboscis, and set them both in their corresponding cases.

"Is all that absolutely necessary?"

"To blend in, sure." I fluffed up my mousy hair then went to stand in front of him. "Well."

"Well," he repeated. "Well, I suppose we should start this off officially." He stood up on the couch, bring him up about to my clavicle. We performed the traditional salute: a few hip-swivels, some lyrics from a death metal song, that sort of thing. Then we both sat and got down to work.

"Look, I must be frank, here," the demon began. "My lord Satan (blessed be He) has been very displeased by the work you people have been doing up here."

"Has He?"

"Indeed. He figures that with so many of you infiltrating high levels of government and economics and entertainment, something must be happening." He consulted his notes. "And, to a certain extent, it has. Those of you in the White House have been doing a marvelous job. And He does have an entire Middle Eastern nation doing His bidding as we speak. But there are some of you who just aren't pulling your weight." The demon gave me a pointed look.

"I've been doing some things."

"'Some things.' 'Some things' is not enough to keep you on the payroll."

"I've always defended Israel."

"Not good enough," the demon said.

"Just the other week, two people accused me of being cheap. I'm keeping up the stereotype."

"Are you?" He lifted an eyebrow. "I know you've been passing pennies on the street, yet you haven't picked them up. Do you call that 'keeping up the stereotype?'"

"I suppose not."

"And," his reedy voice rose an octave, "are you aware that there are currently two dimes just sitting on your bathroom floor?"

"Yes." I frowned. "But I thought that if it were in my bathroom, it would--"

"No! Invest them in high interest accounts! Did you learn nothing during orientation?" I cast my gaze downward. He continued. "Look, I have a list here of what your ancestors used to do in His great name. Have you poisoned a well recently?"

"No."

"Kidnapped any Christian babies?"

"No."

"But you've had chances, haven't you"

"Yeah."

"Hmm." His skin tone darkened to a deep scarlet. "Used the blood of the righteous to make Passover matzahs?"

"No. I went to Israel for Passover, though? Doesn't that count for anything?"

"Fine, I'll put a check there. Have you desecrated any holy water?"

"No."

"Spat on communion wafers?"

"No."

"Given the middle finger to any sort of Christian establishment?"

I started. "My ancestors used to do that?"

"No, but I thought I would throw you a bone." The demon raised his eyebrow again. "Well, have you?"

"Not strictly Christian institutions, no."

"Lent any money and charged a outrageous interest on it?"

"No." The demon threw down his pad in disgust.

"Do you see what I'm talking about? People like you are mooching off the Demonic Funds Department and sending Hell into a recessionary spiral! You should be out there, doing what you all were bred for, instead of spending our hard-earned money on trinkets like fake noses." He waved a claw in the direction of my discarded disguise. "Plenty of your people use their actual noses and still manage to do their jobs!"

I could feel the tears welling up and knew that my nose was being to run. I sniffed hard.

"Oh, by Lucifer's leathery wings, don't cry! Crying never helps!" The demon glared impotently as I began to sob in great, mucousy bursts. "Look, just stop-- I'll give you a satisfactory mark for this quarter if you'll just quit it." He scribbled something down on his pad, then poofed it out of existence. "Just try to do better. Kick a kid wearing a cross, trip a nun, steal money from a church's tithing basket. Anything! I don't want to have to fire you. You'll not find a better gig than this and the health benefits are just awful when you start playing for the other team."

I gave him a watery smile, nodded, and wiped my eyes with the back of my hands. The demon sighed with relief.

"There, that's better." He stood up, struggling for balance as his hooves sunk into my futon. "I'll see you next quarter. And I'll probably not be so lenient. I'm going to have Him on my tail as it is." He gave me an abbreviated salute, then, in a puff of sulfur, disappeared.

I sat for a moment, then got up, grabbing my industrial-strength Febreeze. A great grin broke out over my face, banishing my tears back into their ducts to be used for labor. Good ol' demons and their weakness for crying women.

Who said I wasn't evil?

Just Say No to Braveheart

Lost Worlds - The History Channel - History.com

Instead of watching my usual brain-rotting shows, I flipped to the always awesome History Channel. A flash of the familiar Stirling Castle, the sound of melodic Scottish accents, and I'm suddenly sitting flush to the TV, happily identifying landmarks of the city I lived in for five months. It would be harder to find a happier person at that point.

Until I saw the title of the episode...

"The Scotland of Braveheart"

"Oooooh, no," I breathed, pressing the heels of my hands to my mouth. "No, History Channel, no!"

But yes. Braveheart. Referring to William Wallace. Dear G-d.

For anyone that has ever spent time in Scotland, you know that only peddlers of tourist trinkets relate the Mel Gibson William Wallace to the true William Wallace. You'll find shot glasses with a be-kilted and be-woaded Wallace, which only those who came to Scotland after seeing "Braveheart" buy. As any tour guide or historian will tell you, Wallace was actually a lowland Scot (represent, woot!)-- an aristocrat, in fact-- who probably never wore a kilt a day in his life.

And he was not called Braveheart.

In fact, it's said that the term arose in reference to Robert the Bruce. It was Bruce's dream to go on crusade, but he never got the chance. Instead, after his death, his heart was cut out of his body and taken on the next trip south to the Holy Lady. It is said that during one pitched battle, the man carrying Bruce's heart threw it into the midst of the fight, inspiring the men to victory. It was then that Robert the Bruce was referred to as "Braveheart."

Not Wallace. Bruce.

So it's really getting on my nerves that this show constantly refers to Wallace by that erroneous name. Not only that, they showed the wooden sculpture that sits in front of the Wallace Memorial. The artist gave Wallace the face of Mel Gibson and the kilt and mace that appeared in the movie. Stirling residents were not pleased and someone even went so far as to knock off the statue's nose. The statue now sits behind a ten-foot high fence. "Frrrrreedom" indeed.

All of this rage is not to say that I have a lack of respect for Wallace. I actually am rather impressed by his fighting prowess and height (judging by his sword, people believe that he must have been about 6 foot something, huge for that time period... Gibson is a wee person compared to him). However, I am realistic. I know that he was no highland hero, I know that he wasn't that much of a strategist (Andrew Murray, anyone?), and I certainly know that "Braveheart" is merely entertainment and nothing more.

But seriously, History Channel? Stop calling him Braveheart. I mean it.

K.

Accidentally X-posted to The Write Links.

Trying Not to Have a Cow (, Dude)

"Campus Speak"- New York Times

I found this article off of the always amusing Best Week Ever blog. The entry featuring it was so ridiculous that I just had to follow the link, which shows how interested I was, as my computer has been running very slowly lately.

Just like trying to explain humor, analyzing slang is a futile practice. Many people have tried to put both subjects into erudite academic articles and come out sounding like complete idiots. When it comes to slang, describing the college lingo casts university students in a light that is not very flattering. Not to sound arrogant, but take me for example. I'm a fourth-year English major who has studied literature from Chaucer to Roth and everything in between. I'm able to communicate with some scions of academia, perhaps not at the same level, but with some degree of proficiency. Yet, you'll find me using words like "chillax," "fauxhawk," and "sketchy/shady."

This is just a reminder to those that would take this article as another sign of my generation's sad future, remember your own slang, yes? I'm sure that your parents were appalled when you came home with an unorthodox vocabulary, whether you said "the bee's knees" or "far out" or "yuppie."

See ya, wouldn't wanna be ya.

K.

Seeing Things Through New Eyes

As someone who has written 100 posts, I should have realized that saving a day's piece as a draft within the Blogger Dashboard is a bad idea. It becomes obsolete way too easily and then the credit you've built up from writing that particular post has been absolutely lost.

See, I had been complaining that I couldn't find the shoes I needed, my passport hadn't arrived, I couldn't find a nice travel map widget that suited my country-hopping future, and blah blah blah. An hour later, the passport had arrived, I'd ordered my shoes through 2-Day airmail (let's hope they fit), and I'd settled on the fact that I'm going to have to set up a whole new and aesthetically displeasing travel blog on a site that specializes in such things. The other things I had whined about in that unpublished entry haven't necessarily been fixed or even confronted yet, but the damage had been done. I'll just have to delete the damn thing even before it had a chance to breathe the free air of the Internet. Kind of sad in a way.

I still have other things to worry about. For instance, I'm going to my eye doctor tomorrow to see about getting contact lenses. The last time I tried that I was in ninth grade, a significantly more easily frustrated and less medicated person. I drove myself to tears trying to wrestle with the contacts, only to abandon them to grow dusty in my medicine cabinet. Now, I must get over my adversion to touching my slimy eyeballs if I ever want to see something in the distance and take a picture of it. And, in a rainy country like Scotland, it would probably be easier to wander around and take in the sights without raindrops on my lenses. Plus, interestingly enough, I always find my time at the optomistrist's office entertaining. My doctor has never worn a pair of socks on his be-loafered feet (not that I have seen, anyway) and he looks oddly like Mel Gibson (but without the crazed glint in his eyes). He also has called me "Kaitlyn" for 21 years, which is not and has never been my name. At my last appointment, some synapses must have connected for the first time in two decades as he stared at my record sheet because he began calling me "Kathryn," which in fact is my name, but not one I would prefer. But he messes with my vision, so I'm not going to call him on it.

It does make me feel good to get some of these unpleasant things over with, though. It almost makes me think that I'm gradually becoming a new person and shedding off the worries and impediments in my way to enjoying stuff. Hell, I might even be cheerful a week before I leave. But, as my marathon session of watching House episodes while avoiding getting ready for four months away from home tell me, people just don't change. And I know that right before I board my plane on the Air India flight to Paris, I'm going to be sobbing my tear ducts dry and the flight attendents are going to have to drag me through the terminal. Sigh.

Oh yeah, you heard me right: Air INDIA!!!! To PARIS!!

K.