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.

Crazy is as Crazy Does

Whenever there is a impending change in my surroundings or my position in life, I tend to lose it a little. It could be just going back to school after summer break (that only warrants a few nights on my parents' floor and an irritable streak). Or...

It seems that the bigger the change, the sooner I begin to freak out. My semester abroad is a little under two months away, but I'm beginning to mess up my dorm room now so that packing to leave college for six months will be much harder. When I got some playful ribbing from my roommate and a friend about it, I burst into tears and spent the next ten minutes sobbing in the bathroom. I can only imagine the hippy hippy shakes I'll have mid-January.

The worst part is not the neurotic techniques that I use as compensation; it's the fact that I know everything will work out well. There's nothing I can't handle when I get right down to it. But try and tell me that now and I'll rip your hair out by its roots and hand it to you.

Who knows, maybe getting arrested for assault will make it harder to leave.

K.

PS. 100th post. It's about damn time.

Tongue-Tied

My rabbi always used to caution me during my bat mitzvah lessons, "Whoa, whoa, don't let your tongue get in front of your eye teeth! You won't be able to see what you're saying!" I'll admit, I haven't always listened to that advice. I talk loudly and quickly, which often gets me into tight spots, even when it comes to easy words. I just can't force them out.

Today, I was discussing West Chester's Old-Fashioned Christmas parade with my friend Oj, a history major. As usual, I was complaining about Christmas. That's when the trouble began.

"I'm not going to the Old-Fasssssh... Old-Fssh... Old-Fascist-- Fsssssssh... Fshfshfsh... Old-Fashioned Christmas parade."

Oj stared at me, then broke out laughing.

Chagrined, I muttered, "What the hell is an Old-Fascist Christmas parade anyway?"

"German," Oj chirped. I mimed a quick goose-step, then we carried on with the conversation.

Oh, sure, it's fine when I screw up in front of my friends, but I know I'm going to make myself look like a total idiot in Scotland. I really need to get my entire life scripted.

K.

Tell the World to Stop Turning

I've held off a little on this post because I'm not totally sure how I feel about this year's Thanksgiving vacation. Why I stopped writing because I had a less than satisfying break is beyond me, but it doesn't take much to throw me off of my groove.

It's an annual family tradition to go to Chincoteague, VA over Thanksgiving. As geeky as it sounds, I belong to a family of passionate birdwatchers. My father, for example, can identify a shoveler from a distance, without binoculars, and staring into the setting sun. Try it, it's not easy. As for me, I'm dedicated enough to let Dad convince me to wake up at five in the morning to listen to the ducks wake up. It's not the most exciting hobby, but water fowl make me smile, I guess.

Over the twenty-one years I've been going to Chincoteague, things have changed. Newer, more modern hotels with heated pools have sprung up around the island's coastline, overshadowing our little motel that features a pool full of micro-organisms and a backyard donkey. More corporation-owned businesses are entering the little town in an attempt to take advantage of the summer tourist season. It's progress and I understand that. I also understand that such decisions that affect the island are not mine to make; the islands need to do what's best for them.

Even with this understanding, this year's vacation was hard. First, my brother and my father could not attend due to a college showcase soccer tourney in northern New Jersey. Mom and I shared the large suite that usually seems cramped when it holds the four of us, but seemed cavernous with only two. It was the first Thanksgiving without Dad, but it was my brother's presence that I missed the most. Sometimes it's nice to have someone in your age bracket to talk to.

Second, the donkey behind the hotel was particularly active this year. I have never seen this animal and have only known of his presence through his early morning braying, which always seemed harmless. This year, the donkey was shrieking (and I do mean shrieking) far into the night and early morning, making sleeping in my room impossible. My nights were spent huddling next to my mother in her double bed, enduring snoring that was at least more familiar than a possessed barn animal.

Third, the internet cafe downtown decided to close for the holidays, leaving my shaking for a connection like a junkie for a hit. I still have tremors.

Fourth, our motel will probably not be open for Thanksgiving next year. The large hotels attract the families with small children and electricity has gone up 40%, leaving the motel owners to close over the autumn slack. It's not that I blame them; the owners of our motel have two boys to put through college. It's just hard to know that the place you've stayed in for seventeen years won't be there anymore.

Things change, I know. I should look on the bright side... The resturant where we usually eat Thanksgiving dinner wasn't turned into a Waffle House after all. The birds and the ponies are still there. The salt grass will always smell the same (it's one of the three smells I would bottle, along with potato chips and chocolate). And it seems like that donkey will be around as well.

Yes, the bright side is bright, but it's still hard to lose the things you've grown accustomed to in a world that's ever changing.

Sigh.

K.

A Supplication

As my offering to you, oh ye G-d-like readers, I present to you this link, which I hope will fill you with laughter and smiles. Please, oh ye divine entities from the World Wide Web, I beg you to forgive me for my lack of posting. I shall be sure to prostrate myself at your altar more times in the coming week.

K.

The Cuteness Factor is Unbearable!

On this windy, rainy day, I present you with this clever little video about a kiwi. Enjoy!

Hmm, damn Mac hates me... we'll fix this later. Just copy and paste the link.

http://www.i-am-bored.com/bored_link.cfm?link_id=20550

K.

Your Take on This?

The situation:

You are dozing on a couch in your university's newpaper office, trying your damndest to not get any work done. Your cheek is a bit itchy owing to the inferior fabric of the sofa, so you open your eyes in preparation to turn over (you don't know why you always open your eyes before you switch sides; you just do). As your vision becomes clearer, you realize that your line of sight is knee-level to a colleague of yours sitting in the opposite chair. Unfortunately for you, your colleague's knees are splayed wide open, granting you an unobstructed view of places better left unseen.

The problem:

Do you tell your colleague that he has a hole in the crotch of his jeans and let the entire office know that your are looking at his crotch, or do you just let it go, letting your co-worker go all day without knowing that he's showing the world a bit more than he probably wants displayed?

You decide.

K.

The Other Candidate, The Right Choice

It's only a little after four and you still have plenty of time to get out there and vote!

What? You don't want to? But how could that be?

Oh, politicians. Yeah, I understand. I mean, Republicans are of a corrupt sort and even if Democrats take control of Congress, they wouldn't know what to do with it. It does seem pretty hopeless for the average American.

But, you know, there are other choices. Sure, there are several names on the ballot, but have you taken a look below them. See it? Yep, right there-- "write-in candidate." Pretty cool, huh?

However, just because you have the freedom to doesn't mean you should waste your vote! Vote for someone with a plan! Vote for someone with principles! Vote for someone with charisma!

Vote for me!

What? Why are you laughing? Don't you take me seriously? You haven't even asked me about my platform and you're already discounting me? Oh, what a sad state our country is in.

Listen, I have great ideas! In fact, I guarantee you that I can solve America's international relations nightmare as quick as you please. I have a plan that simply cannot fail. Are you ready for it?

Wooly socks.

Yep, wooly socks. Just hear me out. I promise that this is great stuff.

Why is everyone so mad at each other? The answer is simple: we're all worried and over-stressed. And we all know that stressed people are unreasonable. Now, follow me with this one. Pretend it's a cold day, you've just come home from work after having to struggle to get your car started, and you've found that the roads are near impassable. Now you flop down into a comfortable chair and pull on... what? Oh yes, some wooly socks. What happens then? Why, of course, your stress flees under the unstoppable onslaught of the warm wooly sock. You instantly relax and are able to think clearly.

Now, think about this on a large scale. We sends crates and crates of these wooly socks to Russia, China, and North Korea. They put them on. They instantly become more open to negociation. Pretty cool, huh?

My opponents might scoff at this plan. How, they ask, can we possibly appease those in hot countries with wooly socks? Won't this make them even crankier? Well, if you insist on thinking inside the box, this is a perfectly logical point. However, I already have that covered. You see, for our friends in warmer climes, we simply provide them with wooly sweat bands. I don't know of anything more irritating than trying to get work done while sweat stings your eyes. We may find that the Middle East is a friendlier place when we provide them with a sting-free existance.

My international relations plan is inspired, but I think that you may find my domestic issues plans just as spectacular.

What do we complain about most here? That's easy: a lack of jobs and a failing economy. How do we fix this? Why, with new employment created by the rising wooly socks and sweatbands industry. We need people to shear sheep, card the wool, work the knitting machines, and inspect the results. Money and jobs for everyone!

So, as you enter the booth on this fine Tuesday, please keep in mind that you are not limited to those names written on the ballot. Remember me, your wooly textiles candidate! Victory in 2006!

K.

Pax Romana?

As I finished watching "Rome" today, I got to thinking about world events. I don't know, I guess shows about political intrigue, notions of empire, and the installation of dictators just seem to remind me of today's worldwide political climate. Like it or not, we live in interesting times. We see countries traditionally viewed as enemies procuring nuclear arsenals, tyrants being sentenced to death, and bands of "freedom fighters" out-manuovering powerful governments flashed across the TV screen everyday. It's certainly not boring.

Whatever your view on things, I suggest that you click on my link above and watch "Rome." The acting is amazing, the dialogue is interesting, and the lessons it teaches still relevant today. However, may I suggest that you not watch this at work? That is, unless, your boss has a thing for full-frontal Marc Antony scenes.

Apologies for a crappy post. Perhaps I'll have something more interesting to say after the elections tomorrow.

K.

Dreaming of Heather

So, for those who don't know, I'll be spending my spring semester at the University of Stirling in Scotland. I'm very excited-- or, I would be if I weren't sitting under a huge pile of forms and waivers that I have to sign. At some points, it almost doesn't seem worth it. But then I remember this--

And this--

And this--

Yeah, all that is Stirling, the town where I'll be going to school. The last time I was there was this January, on a quintessentially foggy, Scottish day. The town is cute, but I think the castle is the real jewel.

I'm not sure why I like this castle so much. It could be some residual clan pride (it's a Stewart castle and therefore, in an exceptionally round-about way, mine), the fantastic view, or the cool rock wall that you can walk around. I don't know; it's just cool.

There are all sorts of secret little crannies where, I suppose, some people like to hide things.

Some beautiful stained glass in the main hall, as well.

So, I guess I just have to keep this in mind when I get overwhelmed. I think that I'm going to post some pictures from my UK trip every so often if only to keep myself grinning.

K.

A Little Halloween Story

I had about five other ideas for posts today, but it's Halloween and this story can't be put off for another day.

Let me give you a little history--

I've been living in this dorm for two and a half years and I've seen a lot of things. I've seen drunken freshmen carried off by EMTs, hairy guys dressed as cheerleaders, and Campus Safety trying to break down the door of suspected pot smokers. Quite a bit of weird things happen around here, but it's a college dorm. You expect that.

One of the strangest things that would occur happened in one of the rooms down the hall from me. My friend, the current RA of my wing, used to live there with her roommate and I would occasionally hang out to watch movies. Sometimes, the closed door-- which would usually stick when anyone tried to open it, by the way-- would creak open, driving us to get up and shut it. After a period of time, it would open again and the cycle would continue. My friend told me that the lights sometimes blinked on and off, leading her to believe that the room was a tad haunted. This ghost, she rationalized, was male, as this used to be an all-male dorm. And, to repay the thing for being irritating, she gave it the most obnoxious name she could think of-- Eugene.

I only half-seriously believed in Eugene. I believe in ghosts mainly so that they never feel like they have to prove their existence to me. I'll be fine with my unfounded suspicions, thanks. As a normal person does, I tried to explain away the door phenomena by theorizing that the pressure changes in the room forced the door open. I would mention these things to my friend, but then added that, you know, it could still be a ghost, right? Call it added insurance.

Well, for a while, Eugene stopped showing up. He wasn't ever mentioned around the wing. Then this morning happened.

In the wee hours, the current residents of that particular room were sitting up and chatting. The lights were off, the blinds were drawn, and the only illumination came from the glow of their computer monitors. Suddenly, one of the girls saw a flashing light out of the corner of her eye. She waited for a while, then got fed up and convinced herself that the computers were acting screwy. So the two girls turned off their monitors and plunged the room into darkness.

Except...

The light was still there. It was an orb, really, golden in color. It zigzagged back and forth around the room, scaring the girls out of their wits. Screaming, they tumbled out of their room and spent the rest of the night with the RA, too frightened to go back to their own beds. Several boys, having heard the commotion, volunteered to stay the night in the room, but didn't see anything.

Eugene was baaaaaaaaaack.

Talking to the girls this morning, I found out that they had lots of odd activity occurring in the room. They would hear scratching by their ears and other auditory points of interest. To corroborate their story, the girl next door claimed to have seen the orb too. Interesting.

Do I believe it? Let's be honest, I'm scared to say no. I don't need spooks appearing to me. Nooooo way.

You don't think Eugene's real? Fine, then you can tell him!

Happy Halloween.

K.

PS. Odd that it happened so close to the holiday, yes? Hmm...

A Letter

Dear Girl Talking on Her Cellphone While in the Bathroom,

Hey, this is the girl from the next stall over. You know, the one wearing the dirty socks. But you probably didn't notice as you were so wrapped up in your conversation.

As much as I enjoy a little bit of entertainment while I sit there (I bring books in there all of the time), I tend to draw the line at cellphone conversations. You may be enjoying yourself, but trust me, I'm not. Public bathrooms are uncomfortable enough without the added drawback of having to listen to someone talk while taking care of... uh, business. You don't hear me busting out Shakespearean monologues, do you? I think not.

Though even that wouldn't be as bad as a cellphone conversation. See, while the monologue is a two person embarrassment (the reader and the listener), a cellphone involves three or more. Seriously, do you want to broadcast to whoever you're communicating to that you're on the toilet? If so, that's a fetish I don't need to know about.

So, in conclusion, let's stop these little cellphone chats for good, shall we? Because if I hear it again, I am going to make myself obnoxious in ways not necessarily accepted by polite society. And don't think I won't. You only know me by my stockinged feet.

Hugs and kisses,

K.

I'm An Idiot.

G-d, why do I procrastinate? Why, why, why?

I have a paper and a poem due on Monday. :( This means I have to get started.

K.

PS. Sorry that this was such a cop-out post. Maybe I'll have something better to say once I actually get something done.

Taken Over By Victorian Humor

I find that the more I delve into Victorian literature, I'm finding the most idiotic observations absolutely hilarious. My sense of humor-- and my imagination-- seem to have been irrevocably skewed.

I often picture myself standing in front of a blazing fireplace with a companion, clothed in a crimson smoking jacket and cradling a brandy snifter in my palm. We are both gazing up at some protrait of an aristocratic relative that clearly marks me as one possessed of wealth and good taste. I turn to my friend, gently swirling the brandy.

"I say, old boy, did you not find the resemblence between Lady Audley and Phoebe Marks in Lady Audley's Secret quite remarkable? Why, the illustrious lady and her maid servant are only separated by coloring, the inferior far less vibrant than her clear superior."


"Quite right, quite right," my companion harrumphs, "in fact, the only thing the young maid needs to look like her mistress is a make-over. A Pre-Raphaelite make-over! A-hur-hur-hur!"

We both chuckle heartily, then launch into a detailed discussion about my butler Nigel's latest faux pas. It seems that the blighter had mistakenly placed common butter on my table during tea instead of clotted cream. Imagine making such a barbaric mistake. Clearly, this man had never stepped foot in the hallowed halls of Eton, a-hur-hur-hur!

See, that comment that my "companion" made was not at all funny, but I definately giggled at it when my professor said it in class. What is happening to me?

Seriously, there needs to be a comedy intervention.

K.

On a More Happy Note...

I've never watched "The Office" before and then I found a site with all of the episode. Enjoy!

K.

Child Abuse

Every semester, West Chester University has the distinct pleasure of hosting a group of very passionate people on its campus. These people go out of their way to talk to students, try to communicate new ideas to a vast audience, and hold up signs to allow those shyer people to understand their message without actually having to go up and talk to them. And then, without fail, the campus police come and kick them off the property.

That's because these people talk to student by berating them about the sin-filled lifestyle they may or may not be living, communicate ideas through a bull horn, and hold up signs with "aborted" fetuses on them. Yep, the crazies have come to town!

Really, I have no problem if someone is particularly religious or holds beliefs that I cannot possibly agree with. Spice of life, you know? But I want to scream when I am told that I am going to hell or when Bible verses are screamed at me over a loud speaker. Don't break my personal bubble and won't stomp on yours. But I saw something today that left me shaking with rage.

As I was trying to enter our student union, I was confronted with placards sporting bloody fetuses and sour-looking adults staring down a heathen student population. Nothing new. Then I glanced down, only to see a small boy, his plump cheeks flushed with the biting cold, handing out pamphlets with a tiny mittened hand. He was small, barely coming up to my waist, and was topped with a hat with a pompom on it. Shocked, I skirted him, shuffling quickly up the walk. I was nearly in tears by the time I pulled out my phone to call my father, my sounding board.

How could you use a child to hand out propaganda? How could you make a child stand out in the cold in front of bloody dipictions of what may or may not be an abortion? How could you possibly you a child-- your child-- to guilt the people around you? I just don't understand.

It was two o'clock; the kid should have been in school. He should have been on a playground. He should have been playing video games or watching "Dora the Explorer" or building high towers out of Legos. He should have been eating a bowl of Cheerios while coloring with crayons. He should have been everywhere but there-- representing something that he couldn't possibly understand.

I don't care what you stand for. A child is not a tool for your agenda. A child should be living his childhood because it goes by way too fast.

If only I had the courage to walk out there and give him a cookie or some hot chocolate. Woulda coulda shoulda.

K.

I Wasn't Ignoring You! I Promise.

See, I thought I was getting a handle on this blogger thing, but then I switched to blogger beta and found that tons of people had left comments that I (apparently) needed to moderate. So to all those people that left me those 33 comments, I sincerely apologize. I've tried to make it a policy to reply to every comment left on this blog, but I've failed miserably.

Well, live and learn, I guess. I'll do better now.

K.

And I Thought I Was Confused Before

Last night, I ventured over to the student union to watch TransAmerica and caught the tail-end of a panel about gender and sexuality. Having taken psychology in high school, I had some idea of the difference between the two, but I had never actually seen anyone who had gender dysphoria or issues of gender identity. There was one transexual girl on the panel who had been born a male, but had considered himself/herself a girl for many years. A few friends of mine came into the discussion even later than I had and began questioning me about the proceedings. So I tried to explain and I did... sort of... badly.

Where I got screwed up was which pronoun to use. I was trying to convey that this person had been a guy, but considered himself/herself a girl. From what I've read, many transexuals get very irritated when people use the wrong pronouns and I'm pretty sure that if that the person on the panel had been standing next to me when I was explaining, I would have gotten smacked upside the head. I don't mean to be insulting, but when you've experienced such a thing, it's hard to wrap your brain around it.

Oh yeah, if I've mortally wounded anyone reading this post, please forgive me. I clearly have no idea what I'm talking about.

K.