Snail Mail Sunday #1

(The United States Postal Service may be off on Sundays, but that doesn't mean that I can't still write a letter.)

Dear Christmas shoppers (specifically those on Rt. 30 within Lancaster proper),

First, let me wish you a felicitous holiday season. Normally, I'm incredibly annoyed by this point in the year. The Christmas muzak all over the radio and in drugstore has a tendency to wear on my nerves. I honestly don't know how you all can stand it. Is there a gene that makes a constant repetition of "Little Drummer Boy" bearable? Or is it sheer strength of mind? Whatever it is, I envy you. Oddly enough, by staying inside for most of December, I've managed to avoid any sort of Christmas input. So, for once, I am-- dare I say it?-- jolly. Ho. ho. ho.

But that's not what this letter is about. No, I'm really taking time out of my busy schedule to ask you what the hell you all were about on Rt. 30 tonight. I understand that, in the old days, you needed to drive out to shops to snag the perfect Christmas gift, even if you screwed yourself over by procrastinating. But, Christmas shoppers, we have the internet now, with store open 24/7. You can any sort of anything on this wonderful web of ours. With this in mind, I must ask you to show some sense from now on and not venture out on stormy nights for those last minutes gifts, especially if I'm trying to get home. You see, I normally wouldn't have been out at all, but my fridge at school needed to be cleaned, lest I come back from break to find a puddle of veggie mush seeping on to my kitchen floor. My drive back was not pleasant, people. With all of your lane-changing foolishness and general rudeness on the road, I arrived home and had to pry my fingers from the ten-and-two position with my feet. I don't believe that I have blinked at all in the last hour.

My friends, I am not asking for anything outrageous-- just that you vacate an entire highway for just an hour while I try to get back home. I'm sure that's not too much trouble. Oh, and while you're at it, a small gift would be nice-- perhaps an Amazon gift certificate? You wouldn't even have to leave the house for that one.

Thanks and much holiday joy to you all,

K.

PS. And for those of you with a more Hebraic persuasion, could I tempt you with this little morsel?

Barney Cam 2007-- My Tax Dollars at Work

I'm not being particularly original when I say that I'm not a big fan of the current administration. Sure, there are some things that I support, but not many. However, there is one thing that I'm eternally grateful to the White House for...

Barney Cam.

Yes, Barney Cam. I am a sucker that cute little Scottish terrier and his Christmas shenanigans. I giggled when he was discovered playing poker with Ari Fleischer while he was supposed to be decorating the White House ("Ari Fleischer? You don't even work here anymore!") and I scolded while he did all he could to outshine Miss Beazley during her first Christmas.

This year was no different, though I was a little disappointed to see politics brought into it. For example:

Secretary of the Interior Kempthorne: But did you know about the President's Initiative that during the next decade we're going to invest over a billion dollars in to parks? It's going to allow us to spruce up the parks and we're going to bring on new park rangers.

What? No! No politics! I don't care what the president does, I just want to watch Barney!

That particular line sets off a while story about Barney and Miss Beazley becoming Junior Park Rangers, which is cute in itself, but rather tainted by the political advertisement above. Boo. But Barney saves the day while dreaming about being a Junior Park Ranger and having Alan Jackson and Tony Blair ("As someone born in Edinburgh, Scotland, it's always good to see the Scots doing well.") congratulate him. Yay!

However, there is something I'm curious about: exactly how did Tony Blair get to be in this video? Was he hanging around the White House, bored, and manage to beg his way on set? It's just such a random guest appearance.

Maybe the Brits don't want him back. Ooh, burn.

K.

Doom on Earth

Again, not a lot of time. But I'm sitting here watching the TV while typing my paper and Fearless Planet comes on. Here's a bit of my interpretation of the beginning narration.

"The Earth is breeding the most massive thing ever created. It is a master of reincarnation. Built out of destruction. A world of danger, violence, and fear. It is...

...

...

... The Great Barrier Reeeeeeeeeeef!!!!"

Remind me never to visit the Great Barrier Reef-- it sounds like it might bite off my foot and revel the resulting gore, uttering a great, reef-like roar of primal fury.

I wonder what a reef roar sounds like.

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.

To the Fruit Flies in my Drain

This was my last day of poetry class and I must admit, I was seriously disappointed. That was the only class that I looked forward to this semester. As soon as we got rid of those grad students (who were smarter and way more talented than we were), we became free to just write, to make fun of ourselves, to experiment. After class ended, a girl that I became friends with and I stayed in the classroom, just talking. We eventually ended up at a coffee shop for about an hour and a half. I don't know why we hadn't done that before.

Anyway, here is the last poem I wrote during class. It's just a free-writing and was supposed to be an ode, so it's kind of silly.

To the Fruit Flies in my Drain

You're a flicker in my eye,
the blink of a dark star on the spacious
white of my ceiling.
Great red eyes-- a gene experiment
in my own leased laboratory.
I've seen you soar out from my sink,
minuscule angels from a drainpipe
nursery, bent on flying
whoknowswhere.
You've perched on my eyelids
as I read,
snuggle on my pillow
as I sleep,
lounge in the misty sauna,
as I shower.
O, my little squatters,
my illegal aliens,
the least you could do is pay half of the rent.

Ah, they have to go!

K.

It's Science!

Which Historical Lunatic Are You?
From the fecund loins of Rum and Monkey.

K.

What a Sad People We Are

I won't be telling my family that I did this, but I will admit it to my blog.

As a Chanukah present to myself, I signed up for JDate. While I was doing it, I was muttering, "I can't believe I'm doing this. Dear G-d." But then I puttered about and noticed that there were quite a few cute guys my age and my type. Where are these people in real life?

Then one profile made it all so clear. One of the guys said that his mom wanted a "nice Jewish girl," so there he was. Ah, the same reason we were all sent to Jew camp. Good thing to know that mom's influence never fades.

K.

Gettin' Me a Shrimp n' Banana Cocktail!

I was looking through my Scotland pictures today to see if I could find an appropriate desktop background (I was feeling particularly nostalgic), when I came upon this:


Yes, it's a bag of candy shrimp and bananas. What the hell, Scotland? Seriously, this is something I would expect to find in downtown Tokyo, not two blocks away from the University of Edinburgh! And what sort of candy genius decided that shrimp and bananas are a match made in heaven? He/she needs to be sacked.

The scariest thing: we know what the banana shapes are going to taste like, but what about the shrimp??

I'll leave you to ponder that for a while.

Procrastination Station

I've been blowing through book left and right lately. In fact, since I put up the "What I'm Reading Now" thing on the right-hand side of my blog, I have changed the middle book three times. It doesn't make sense that I am reading so much at this time of the year-- I have papers due, finals to stress about, and one really evil professor to try and impress. And yet, I shouldn't be all that surprised. Historically, I avoid work by either sleeping or reading. Reading often works better for me than sleeping, because while stress can keep me away for hours, stress in fact drives me to read.

It's cliche to say, but books are an escape for me. The sad fact is that if I'm engrossed in a book, people have a hard time reaching me. I remember once in elementary school, I was busy reading while my teacher was taking roll. She called my name five times before I snapped out of whatever fog I was wandering through and answered her. Surprisingly, she wasn't mad at all for this inconvenience; to her, this was a sign of my English majoriness to come. Oh, little did she know.

Another story, slightly more embarrassing perhaps, is when I managed to read myself out of a bedroom door. Instead of cleaning my room (which was always-- and still is-- a mess), I was lock my door and pick up whatever novel happened to be lying around. Well, eventually my parents caught me and decided that I didn't deserve the privacy. So they took the hinges out from my bedroom door, leaving it propped up against my wall and my doorway open to the elements. Not that this stopped me from avoiding tidying up, but it certainly wore down my patience when I had to stomp to the bathroom every time I had to change clothing.

Frankly, this reading thing as been a blessing and a serious albatross around my neck. I can't stand the temptation. In fact, I've just finished a paper and, though I still have other assignments to do, I am going to take a hot shower, read for an hour, then go to sleep. I'll regret it when I'm sleep-deprived and crying into my laptop later in the week.

K.

The Kitchen Nightmare of My Dreams

It became clear to me that I had been watching too much of "Ramsey's Kitchen Nightmares" (the American version, unfortunately) when I had a dream about being best buds with Gordon Ramsey. He was convinced that I was a pretty good cook (in this dream, I hadn't poisoned myself with bad chicken as I had in reality), which totally had me on the gushing fangirl train. It probably does not bode well for me that I have half-crushes on older guys who scream at people. I sense that my self-esteem is going to take a beating in the future.

Stay out of my dreams, Gordan Ramsey!

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.

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!

Kate is a Liar (again!)

Right, so I mentioned that I had joined NaNoWriMo the other day. The more I think about it, the more I believe that there is no way I can possibly get this done this year. I have papers out the wahzoo and I have Thanksgiving vacation on Chincoteague Island, VA. Whether I'll have internet at that point, I don't know, but I know that I won't have time to write 2,000 words a day during my vacation. I mean, I'll try it, but I honestly don't think that it will happen.

So I've decided I'll at least keep myself writing in a second way with NaBloPoMo, National Blog Posting Month. Why this month should be different from all other months, I don't know, but I think that having two different types of impetus to keep writing.

Or maybe I'm just a serial website joiner. Hey, could be.

K.

What You Can Do

While puttering around my traditional blogosphere route, I came upon yesterday's post by Irina over at The IgNoble Experiment. Irina muses a little over the war and mentions that a fellow blogger, The Bow-Tied Blogger's Thomas, was now in Iraq. One of her commenters mentioned that it was all very well to say "Support the troops," but what can we specifically do? That got me thinking, so I've been searching a little while for ways to show your support, not for the war itself, but the troops.

Now, anyone who knows me knows that I am firmly undecided on anything and everything. Both sides of the congressional aisle anger me almost everyday and I have within drawn from politics in general. However, my views on the war are pretty set. My goal here is not to sway anyone in any direction. It is my opinion that the troops should not suffer the anger we direct at our government. As I said on Irina's blog, you cannot blame the cogs for the mistakes of the machinist. All I want to do it to bring some options to your attention so you can make your own decisions on how you wish to show your support.

Soldiers' Angels- This organization sends letters and packages to soldiers overseas, most of whom don't have anyone to write to them. If you have the funds, you can adopt a soldier with the understanding that you will send him/her a letter per week and at least one care package per month. I particularly like this organization because, when I was a camper, I adored letters and packages. It made me feel like someone was thinking about me. I can't imagine what a letter must mean to a kid so far from home.

Injured Marine Semper Fi Fund- Donating money to this charity will provide financial assistance to marines and sailors suffering from injuries or life-threatening illnesses. Money will also go to help pay for specialized equipment, such as handicap vans and modifications to homes.

AnySoldier.com- This is much like Soldiers' Angels, but without the commitment. The organizations have contacts within the army who distribute packages and letters to those who don't receive mail. There is also AnyMarine.com, AnySailor.com, AnyAirman.com, and AnyCoastGuard.com.

National Military Family Association- With a monetary gift to the NMFA, you can send a child of a deployed soldier to camp, help soldiers' spouses get scholarships for college, or many other forms of assistance. The NMFA can apparently also use volunteers to work at the headquarters. So if you have the time and money, this is a worthy cause.

The Fisher House™ Program- This organization provides comfortable homes near military and VA hospitals so that family can always be nearby to a person in need.

Intrepid Fallen Heroes Fund- Money donated to this organization will go to support the families of fallen soldiers. The money recently went to a state-of-the-art medical center in Texas.

Jewish War Veterans of the United States- JWV is running the SOS Programs, which sends care packages to Jewish servicemen and servicewomen . The packages are distributed by the chaplain attached to the unit.

Alright, there are a bunch of charities to show your support for our troops overseas and at home. Please, if you have any other charities that you'd like me to mention, leave a comment and I will post it.

K.

Haveil Havalim #138

It's been a while since I've linked to this, but here is that world famous Haveil Havalim back on this blog again.

Huzzah!

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?

NaNoWri Oh No!

Seriously, what possessed me to sign up for this when I clearly do not have any time? Or idea. Or plot.

I barely have enough time to study, work, do anything in this blog, or eat, much less write a 50,000 word novel in 30 days. Oh well, I supposed that the NaNoWriMo people aren't going to come after me with torches and pitchforks if I'm unable to finish.

But maybe they'll haunt my dreams. :(

K.

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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.

Catching Up

Having become jaded and impatient with news, news media, current events, 24-hour news channels, and the like, I have spent several weeks away from anything that might possibly be happening outside of my apartment and my university campus. Really, the only news that I have gotten from the world is that the Phillies got into the play-offs, but that's only because I live near Philly. That, and that the Phillies were declared the losingest team of all time at the beginning of the season. It's alot to live down.

It seems, though, that I have been losing track of things. I missed the whole Myanmar/Burma thing, the Jena 6 issue, and the incident with independent contractors in Iraq. It's very unlike me. If you had spoken to me freshman through junior years of college, I could have conversed with anyone about anything. Renaissance woman, you know. Right now, all I can tell you is that Britney Spears lost the custody of her children. Not really world-changing news.

So I decided to putter around the Internet for a little to catch up on the news. This is the stuff that I find interesting:

A scandalous character takes his final bow - CNN.com

So this is the end of the famous Nathan Zuckerman, who has acted as Philip Roth's literary counterpart for 25 years. :(

Oh well, perhaps it will lead to more strange plots in the future.

US senators slam lack of Arab support for Mideast conference

You're damned if you do, you're damned if you don't. This bears watching, I think.

K.

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.

You Poor People

There are several things that I wanted to write, but I've found that my brain refuses to concentrate. I can see myself writing something incredibly ridiculous (and perhaps I already have), so I'm just going to post a super rough draft of a poem from my Poetry Workshop 1 class.

We were supposed to create a poem using the specialized language of some animal. That may sound odd, but you're essentially supposed to use the language and point of view of whatever animal you chose to focus on. Also, we were supposed to include anaphora (in this case, a repetitive invocation).

I chose to honor the common mallard. So, here it is.

Pleading for the Mallard

Let the mallard remain ignorant of his undistinguished features.
He blends into the verdant forest of heads, the fertile soil of bodies.
Since his fledgling years, trailing his mother like a strand of weed
caught on a heron’s leg, he’s only concerned himself with the bouquet
of marsh mud and the fluid pressure between his toes.

Let the mallard remain ignorant of his lack of grace.
Compared to the strides of the egret, his waddle is clumsy;
compared to the flight of the eagle, his hold on the sky is precarious.
But his plump body rolls with the waves as he tips,
feet paddling the air, to harvest the bottom-dwelling grasses.

Let the mallard remain ignorant of his place in the universe.
He doesn’t know that his curly-tailed brethren
dabble around city parks, across oceans,
and in golf course water hazards.
Cattailed shores and briny pools form his continents and seas.

Yep, there it is. Still in rough draft form, but feel free to critique.

Hopefully, I'll never have to offend your eyes with my horrendous poetry again. :)

K.

The Penitent Man Kneels Before G-d: A Yom Kippur Review

(Get the quote? You would be surprised how many people don't.)

The Dream

This year, I felt that it might be slightly more meaningful Yom Kippur if I didn't shlep my laptop home. Of course, a great deal of laziness factored into it, but the result was the same. Instead of puttering around on the web while those mighty gates were slowly swinging shut, I decided to take a nap between services. The best way to avoid the pangs of hunger is to sleep through them.

Or so I thought.

I've been looking on-line, but I haven't found anything that tells me about the affect of hunger upon a person's dreams. For my part, my stomach drove me into one of those dreams that seems so real that you actually wake up twice: one in your dream, once in real life. In my dream, I had awoken from my nap and wandered around my dead aunt's house, getting terribly lost in the twisting hallways. As I walked, things would appear to me and then disappear. I can't remember what they were, but I know that I mentally collapsed. Because of my confusion and terror, I hid in a bathroom and avoided going to the (dream) afternoon Yom Kippur service. Then, improbably, I decided to order from Pizza Hut.

I woke up at that point.

It really was a "what-the-hell?!" moment and I tried to ponder it as I quickly dressed for the (real) afternoon Yom Kippur service. I don't really believe in the meaning of dreams; they are just your brain replaying history and adding some of its own commentary in the process. But it still didn't keep me from thinking about it all through services and most of the break fast.

Was it just a yearning for Pizza Hut? Why would my brain keep me from going to services on one of the most important holy days of the year? Why was I in my deceased aunt's house? So many mysteries.

The Tears

My rabbi has held his post at my temple for about 35 years, which is an extremely long time for a notoriously wander-lusty profession. He has been there for all of my early Jewish life events: my naming, my kindergarten consecration, my bat mitzvah, and my confirmation. He has refused to directly answer my philosophical questions (a plus, if you know me), comforted me during the deaths in my family, and offered advice during my many existential meltdowns. He, forever and always, has my respect.

I knew this was coming, but I guess it didn't really hit me until the Kol Nidre service. He's finally retiring.

I think his leaving will be a turning point in my relationship with my congregation. It was his influence that truly kept me anchored to my hometown and my temple. There are two congregations in my college town, but instead of attending them, I sometimes walk down to Saint Agnes, the local Catholic church, and sit through a service. I suppose I would rather spend time in a space radically out of my realm than spend my Saturdays comparing some strange rabbi to mine. I would rather admire the beauty of the church than sit in some other synagogue's austereness.

But I have to get over that now.

There will be a new rabbi. He will be close to my age. He will probably not last more than two or three years. I might as well make a clean break of it.

Change makes me cry. But perhaps the tears will cleanse.

K.

Famous Fish in a Very Small Pond

Last year, I participated in my rabbi's brainchild concocted to get more people to come to the Yom Kippur afternoon service. Basically, five other people and I wrote five minute speeches detailing exactly why we were Jews. It seems to be gaining in popularity, so the rabbi is getting what he wanted. However, my participation seems to have yielded an interesting opportunity.

I believe it was two weeks ago that I got a message from my mother saying that one of our local papers was doing a piece about the people who spoke at the service last year. So I called the reporter and did my thing-- and by my thing, I mean that I babbled for about fifteen minutes to a total stranger about things that I normally keep to myself. Cringe.

So, anyway, the article came out today, complete with a picture of yours truly sitting with a handful of shwarma in the Parisian Jewish quarter. Two of my fellow speakers also responded, so it wasn't a "Kate Show," which keeps my community from thinking that I'm totally egotistical.

Here's a bit of the article. You can find my section of the article and picture by clicking on the link.

Time for reflection: Why they are Jews
Jewish holidays are a time to think about faith.

By
MELISSA NANN BURKE
Daily Record/Sunday News

A month of reflection, Elul, precedes the Jewish High Holy Days. Again this year, Rabbi Irwin N. Goldenberg has asked a diverse group at Temple Beth Israel to reflect on what it means to be Jewish.

The group will speak during a 3 p.m. Yom Kippur service Saturday in York Township.

Among the lay people who spoke last fall were an immigrant, a college student and a secular Jew...

You can find the rest of it on the York Daily Record website or by the link.


K.

Kate is a Big, Fat Liar

So, remember when I promised that I would write from Scotland? And remember when I said that I would post pictures? And remember how I never keep a promise?

It's that time of year again-- the time of year when I feel guilty about abandoning my blog, wonder how the bloggers whose entries I used to haunt like the cyber ghost I am are doing, and just want to take a stab at being a responsible citizen of the blogging community again. My impetus this time is my Writing and Computers class that I'm taking strictly for the credits. Suddenly, I'm forced to look at different blogs, to read books written about blogs, to ponder the significance of blogs and blog-like writings throughout history. Eye-opening, I assure you. It's making me miss what I was once a part of. I'm such a sentimental ass.

And thus the prodigal daughter returns.

K.

Whose Blog is This Anyway?

Well hey there!

I'm an awful person for not updating, I know, but I've been ill for about half the time I've been here and working my ass off the other half. But, I have been thinking about y'all. I just wanted to direct you guys to my travel blog in case you were curious about my travels. I decided that separate blogs for this sort of thing would be best because I'm not keen on my family hanging around this blog. Some things should remain private... or at least anonymous. I'll still be writing here, but direct travel experience will on the other one.

Hope to see you guys there!

K.

Finally Found a Computer...

I just want to let everyone know that I'm doing fine and I will post when I have settled down in Stirling for good. This nomadic lifestyle is not condusive for regular blogging-- not that I did much of that anyway. :)

K.

Jitters

And at last, here we are, the day that I leave what I know and enter the unknown. Sounds pretty cliche, but that's what it is. At 9 PM, I board my flight on Air India and spend seven hours trying to sleep upright on my way to Paris, which, as we all know, is full of the French. All of that is a pretty daunting prospect, but what can you do? I have yet to pack, but I realize that the few belongs that I have scattered around my bags are the only bits of my life that I'm able to carry with me. Bleak.

But here I am, sounding like my house has burned down and my life as I know it with it. I'm sure that there will be happier entries to come once I've settled in.

However, before my semester beings in Scotland, I'm traveling for a bit. So I've started a travel blog for that purpose. Don't worry, I'm not abandoning this. The other one will be filled with pictures and things I see during this hazy period before I get to my apartment. If you'd like to visit, by all means, click on this link.

Until then, au revoir!

K.

PS. I have no idea if that's spelled correctly. I took Spanish, for G-d's sake. :)

Maybe They're Not So Bad

When you've spend all of your previously parent-free time around those who have raised you-- like I have for the last few weeks-- you tend to forget that they can be pretty neat people. My revelation came yesterday as I was walking out of the mall with my mother, bags filled with sweaters, socks, and jeans for my stay in a cold and very wet little country. The shopping spree had ended with me tallying up a rather steep debt to my mother, who had paid for everything with the credit card. On to the bill, I added the cost of my Naots (buying Naots in the States is not cheap), my worry beads, and my passport. Since I had taken care of all of that in the previous weeks, I had assumed my mother had taken the money from my savings account. Mom needed to go to the credit union again, so I figured that she would dip into my account again to pay for the clothing I had just bought.

As we crossed the parking lot, laden with the spoils of The Gap, Mom turned to me.

"Didn't you say you were going to sign over a paycheck?"

"I did!" I exclaimed, a little miffed. "Two, in fact. I put them on your purse."

"Oh, ok. Just as long as you're contributing to all of this."

"Wait, what? Contributing? I've been telling you to take money from my account to pay for all of this." There was silence on her end. "You haven't been taking money out, have you?" The last bit was more of a statement than a question.

"Nope."

"So, you've just been paying for all of this."

"So far, yeah."

I nearly dropped the bag into a puddle. "But Mom... I told you... Well, now I feel incredibly guilty."

"We want to make sure you have everything and you never expect anything from us. So don't worry about all of this yet. We'll work it out later."

All of the crap I've been buying for this trip has cost well over $500. Not only that, in the words of Hugh Laurie, "plane tickets don't grow... on a tree" (if you haven't heard his song "Mystery," you should look that one up). Nothing has been cheap. And yet... they've taken care of me, which is incredibly sweet.

I must keep this in mind when they piss me off. :)

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.