Home

Home, home, home. How I love home.

It's been a lovely visit home.

This holiday, we have put together two jigsaw puzzles. We busted out the first one the night after I arrived. It was a 1000-piece conglomeration of Hershey's products. We started at 9:00 Saturday night with the intention of having it available to work on it piecemeal-like for then next few days. We finished it five hours later at 2 a.m.

That out of our system, we meandered our way through the second puzzle for the next week and a half and got to reap the benefits of puzzle-putting-together.

The conversation meandered from one unrelated topic to another as we sat there trying to put together the figures.

We celebrated with each other when someone finally found the piece with the fox's eye.

As my sister rifled through the remaining pieces in the box, she kept saying with unvaried enthusiasm, "Ooh, now this looks like something." And I would remind her, "mmhmm, I bet it is something."

We did the puzzle at the kitchen table which was perfectly suited for stopping for a break to peel an orange or grab a handful of nuts to munch on ("Hey, can I have one?").

The best part of puzzle-putting together is just the being together doing it. Hunting for a piece with a white tip while your sister/mom/brother/dad nearby hunts for their piece. I like being there at the old, worn-out kitchen table talking, or not talking. We don't have to talk to say, "Hey, I like this. This being here with you." We just know.

A follow-up

So, I finished it. Gone With the Wind. What a great read! After the initial shock of the juxtaposition between integration and the antithesis of integration (plantations, slavery, and racial slurs, oh my), the story was delightful. And I think what I enjoyed about it more than anything else is that I had the opportunity to enjoy an iconic story with no idea how it ended. Sure, Gone With the Wind was immortalized by Vivien Leigh and Clark Gable in the 30's, and sure there are countless pop culture references to this epic novel (now I can understand and appreciate the hilarity behind Carol Burnett's use of curtains for elegant eveningwear), but somehow, against all odds, I maintained innocence in regard to Scarlett O'hara's outcome.

I was reminded how fantastically fun it is to read a well-written, well-known, well-crafted story and enjoy the unraveling and discovery of the characters a page at a time.

I feel so sad for the generation of kiddos that will never experience the magic of reading Harry Potter...discovering the loyalties of the characters from one book to another. Movies hand it to you...in an hour and a half to two hours.

Books slow me down. They remind me that taking time to discover is okay. It took me two months and a smidgeon to finish Gone With the Wind (I'm in school, you know...). I had to waylay the discovery of the end for two months (and a smidgeon).

It was way worth it. :-)

Likening the Scriptures

You know that story from the Old Testament about the widow who is gathering sticks for the fire that will prepare her last meal when the prophet Elijah moseys up? No? Basically, there is a famine in the land, the woman has no food left and she is destitute. The prophet approaches her (the Lord has directed him there) and asks for some water. On her way to get the water, he calls again and asks for some bread as well. She informs him the only food she has is a handful of meal and a little oil and she is preparing it for her and her son to eat before they die.

It's a terribly sad situation.

(painting by Elspeth Young)

And then Elijah tells her not to fear and carry on with her plans, but to give make him a cake with the remaining meal and oil first. Before she and her son eat. I've wondered if Elijah agonized over this direction. Did he feel guilty about making such a bold request? It seems awfully chauvenistic (but just wait, the story has a really cool ending). He goes on to explain that if she does this, she won't run out of meal or oil until the Lord sends rain again.

So, she does it. And she and her house eat for many days thereafter, "And the barrel of meal wasted not, neither did the cruse of oil fail, according to the word of the Lord." (1 Kings 17:16)

She did what the Prophet asked, and look at the incredible blessing that resulted. It's a powerful lesson.

While I don't have a holy bucket of meal nor a sacred vat of oil through which the Lord pours out his mercies, he has blessed me in other ways. For example, I've been using the same deodorant for upwards of 6 months now.

Yes, I apply (and sometimes reapply) on a daily basis. And yet, the deodorant wastes not neither does it's cruse of antiperspirant fail me. This occurred to me yesterday morning when, the deodorant I've been expecting to use up for several months now keeps deodorizing day after day after day. And I thought, "I'm having a widow of Zarapheth experience!" No, a prophet has not come and asked, "Let me therefore use that deodorant first and then thy antiperspirant shall never falter." (good thing too, because I'm not a fan of sharing armpit residue with anyone, even if it is a prophet. Nasty...) Nor do I feel as though I am about to pull the lid off and use the deodorant for the last time and then perish in mortal agony.

But, the deodorant keeps going and I'm saving a few bucks by not having to buy more. And so that's what I'm grateful for tonight. Deodorant that wastes not nor fails me. It's a good thing.

A Word About Music

So, I love music. I have always loved it. In fact, just the other day, my mom was relating the fact that I responded to music while still in the womb (for serious). Rumor has it that my dad would hum directly onto my mom's swollen belly while she was carrying me, and my little body would just settle right down, relaxing into a quiet calm. Music can definitely still have that effect on me. I love creating it. I love listening to it. It fills a deep emotional and spiritual need for me.

But, my brother appreciates music in a way that I cannot, or do not, understand. He excitedly finds new music and loves to share his passion for this new music with all who are willing to hear it. I admit that I am not always willing. A few weeks ago, we were discussing this disparity between the two of us in how we listen to and/or appreciate music and when he asked me to describe what music I liked to listen to (I think, in response to my comment that he and I seemed to have different tastes in music...), all I could come up with was, "I like acoustic-y stuff. And, oh, I don't know, I know the stuff I like when I hear it."

That was it. I had nothing else to tell him when it came to what kind of music I liked to listen to. So, he challenged me to figure out what I like and learn to articulate it. He recommended a podcast to listen to--that he loves. So, I listened to it. And, believe it or not Big Brother, I have learned a thing or two about my preferences.

This is what I know so far:

1. Songs need to have an appropriate Melody-Percussion ratio. In my world, the songs I tend to like are those in which the Melody is more salient than the Percussion. Percussion has its place (I played in the pit percussion in marching band!), but it should not overpower the melody.

2. The simpler the instrumental accompaniment, the likelier the song is to make it into my shuffle rotation. Put another way, I love songs accompanied by just acoustic guitar....or a regular old piano....etc. The music in some way feels purer and more real to me. Maybe even more sincere.

3. As sort of an adjunct to #2, I shy away from songs that have a million different things going on in the background. For example, there's 2 or 3 synthesizer parts running--all different patterns, different pitch ranges, all running simultaneously on top of a heavy bass beat on beats 2 and 4 and cymbal crashes on beats 1 and 3, with 3 or 4 different backup vocalists running 3 or 4 independent parts all on top of the lead singer who is singing a melody that doesn't readily "go with" the rest of the music. I think I have a hard time finding order and my brain just gets irritated, frustrated, and tired. I don't like it.

4. I do NOT care for songs that involve a section that repeats the same 16 bars over and over while increasing in loudness and intensity, usually with a buildup of percussion as well. This sort of repetition drives me batty and seems like a cop-out for artists. To me, it feels as though the songwriters reach some sort of block and don't know how to add to their song and simply decide to repeat an "interlude" of some kind over and over and over and oVER AND OVER AND OVER. Not a fan.

5. I love harmonizing vocals. GOOD harmonizing vocals. Well-sung harmonizing vocals. Balanced harmonizing vocals. Good harmony can give me chills--but, the good kind.

6. I do not care for shouting vocals. Please, just sing. Don't yell at me.

7. As a whole, I do not like LOUD music--LOUD vocals, LOUD accompaniment, LOUD percussion, LOUD anything. I don't know as I can adequately explain the irritation I feel when my ears are met with an incessant barrage of noise (and yes, LOUD music can count as noise, in my world). But then, there are a lot of LOUD things I don't like. Vacuums, lawn mowers, motorcycles, large trucks, popping balloons. I don't like LOUD. I never have.

So, this is where I'm at for now. I'm working on articulating what it is that I love about the music I love. I must disclose that there are songs I know and love that violate each of these stated preferences, however, these are general rules of thumb for me. If a song does violate one of these "rules" and yet has made it to my list, it is usually because somewhere along the line a friend (or a brother) convinced me just to give it a shot for a few days and lo and behold, it turned out not so bad. With that said, as a whole, these are my preferences. I'll keep working on it.

Can you articulate your music preferences?

p.s. Mike - Bon Iver's Blood Bank was my definite favorite for the podcast (All Songs Considered Best of 2009 (the first half of the year)). Loved it. :-)

Makes an Aunt proud....

So, a couple of weeks ago, my sister sent us her children's Christmas Wish lists. On my five-year-old niece's list?

A gift card to Barnes and Noble.

A woman after my own heart...

Highlight of my week

I heard this week, from a friend in the music department, about a undergraduate who came in to audition for a vocal choir. He sang "Let's Call the Whole Thing Off", which was immortalized by Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers. You know,

"You say po-tay-to, I say po-tah-to

You say to-may-to, I say to-mah-to

To-may-to! To-mah-to! Po-tay-to! Po-tah-to!

Let's call the whole thing off."

Anyhow. This kid sang with gusto and passion. But, somewhere along the way missed the memo and whole point of the song. With fervor, he proudly sang:

"You say po-tay-to, I say po-tay-to

You say to-may-to, I say to-may-to

To-may-to! To-may-to! Po-tay-to! Po-tay-to!

Let's call the whole thing off."

Poor kid. But, seriously, it's been making me chuckle all week.

I haven't heard if he made the choir or not...

To an old friend

Dear Hoodie,
Oh, how I have missed you. Your smooth, cozy, goodness knows no bounds. These many long months, I have longed to feel your fleecey goodness envelope my frame in a cocoon of warmth and snuggage.
I know your pouch pooches in the most unflattering way, but it keeps my hands so cozy warm on those frigid chilled-to-the-bone days.I know your shapeless form masks what precious little feminine shape I have.

I know the bunchage around my neck from your hood is not known to be necessarily becoming to a lady, such as I.

But Hoodie, dear Hoodie, I knew today was the day. I felt the chill in the air as my eyes peeped open this morning. Fall is here.

It's so nice to see you again. Welcome back.

Love,

Me

Impulse control--it's a good thing

For some reason, in the past few weeks, I've been grateful that the inhibition center of my brain is fully functioning. I have these random thoughts that, were it not for my brain putting the brakes on these terrible (but usually funny-to me anyway) ideas, I would be that awkwardly weird classmate/friend/family member that constantly halts the conversation (hey...maybe I already am that person...).

Some real-world examples.

I was sitting in my Perception Psych class and the teacher was droning on about visual systems in various animals. I was trying to pay attention, but found the content of the lecture, the manner of the lecture, and the sequence of the lecture DRY and boring. The professor asked for another example of an animal with extremely keen telescopic vision, and my immediate thought was, "Unicorns." It made me inwardly giggle. And for the rest of class I desperately wanted to answer his questions, any question, with, "Unicorns."

Last night, I was in a Prepping for College Teaching class and the teacher was pontificating on the importance of promoting critical thinking in our students, but acknowledging that sometimes students just don't want to apply themselves and blah blah blah. When she asked, "What would be a good way to instill motivation in your students?" Out of nowhere, my thought was, "Death Threats." (funny, huh? I laughed too...and started thinking of various motivating death threats I could make to college students.)

Thinking about inhibition reminds me of an experience that I had last Christmas at our Church Christmas party. We had met in the basement at a ward member's house and were all sitting around listening to some spiritual talks about the Nativity--Mary, Joseph, the Wise Men, etc. One of them talked about the shepherds. The room was quiet, there was a hush as he talked about the Angel visiting the shepherds in the fields with the flocks. His voice was almost a whisper as he talked about the shepherds who came to kneel before the baby Jesus. And he asked, very sincerely and very poetically, "And what would you do before the baby Jesus?" And, out of nowhere, I thought (in song...), "I'd play my drum for him, pa-rum-pum-pum-pum."

Ha...still makes me laugh. I'm glad I don't have inward impulse control, because then I would never get to have these ridiculous thoughts.

Anyhow, gratitude for impulse control. That's what is on my mind today.

Juxtaposed

So, I recently finished a fantastic little read: Warriors Don't Cry, by Melba Patillo Beals. Melba was one of the "Little Rock Nine" who bravely integrated Little Rock, Arkansas' Central High School in the late 1950's. Her story is one of honesty and bravery in the face of a decision that made her, her friends, and her family very unpopular. It was humbling to reflect on these amazing nine students and the impact their example ultimately had on the world at large. Could they have known the magnitude of what they were doing at the time? I hope that, if they didn't feel it then, that they have since felt the gratitude people such as me feel for the cost they paid to set an amazing example. Truly inspiring. Read it. It will confirm the perspective that we all should just simply be nice to each other. Regardless.

After I finished the book, I needed a new book to read. Gone With the Wind was suggested as I've never read it, and it's a great American love story. Can I tell you that, after having read the story of the Little Rock Nine and the racial injustices they endured for the sacrifice of integration, Margaret Mitchell's depiction of the Slaves on Tara actually made me physically wince? It did.

I'll let you know what I think of the love story part.

What I've been up to

These days, any given night/hour/minute, you can find me here.At my desk, reading, reading, reading. This semester, I have ladled oodles of new information into the pot that is my brain, and for now it just feels like a pile of gloppy mush sloshing around my noggin. Concepts flitting about in the space between my ears longing to spill out and be forgotten forever. But I hope that, in time, I will make sense of latent trait analyses, lexical restructuring models and the motor theory of speech perception. I hope that, in time, I will be able to awe my peers and superiors with my organized brilliance and insight. I will wow the scientific community with groundbreaking theoretical models and processes.

Someday.

For now, I just read. And read. And read.

It's in the genes...

This is my sister, Rebekah (a few years ago...).

She’s basically fabulous. How do I know? For starters, she is four years my senior and had to share a room and a bed with me for much of our childhood and she never complained about it. Ever. I would often bemoan my ill-fated sentence of sharing a room with her but grossly underappreciated her kindness and patience with sharing a room and a bed with a pesky little sister. Seriously, she’s fabulous.

There are certain Rebekah-isms that characterized memorable moments of our childhood that I think of and remember with great fondness. Such Rebekah-isms include Rebekah bursting into opera (frequently), Rebekah’s complaint that “you’re pulling my skin!”, Rebekah’s “cleanliness is next to Godliness” family home evening lesson, and the fact that she could not travel nor eat at the dinner table without having her feet up. I remember many a car trip and/or dinner table interaction that included, “Rebekah, put your feet down please” to the oft-repeated response, “But I can’t. I need to have my feet up. It’s not comfortable to have them down!” Repeat (for our entire childhood). In fact, when I think of her at the dinner table, I always see the crook of her knee at her shoulder and when I think of her in her assigned seat in the van (back seat, door side), there are her feet crossed and propped up on the seat in front of her (much to the chagrin and annoyance of my other sister whose assigned seat was directly in front of Rebekah).

A few weeks ago, I had the unexpected and delightful opportunity to ride in a van for 12+ hours with my fabulous sister and her and her husband’s great kiddos.
What a treat! I enjoyed the trip immensely. Imagine my surprise when, not 50 miles down the road, I heard from the back seat, “Jacob, put your feet down!” and the quick oh-so-familiar response, “I need to have my feet up!”

I could not squelch the burble of laughter from me. If only they could understand how delightfully hilarious they were.

Highlight of My Week

All last week, this note hung on the office door across the hallway from me.

What she meant to say was that she was in the Home Economics building, room 11. But, something about those happy tulips and peppy handwriting and unfortunate miscommunication just made me chuckle everytime I walked out my door.

Epiphany

I love epiphanies. I love discovering them, I love that exhilirating, all-consuming AHA! feeling you get when you have them. Even the word "epiphany" is fantastic. Go ahead and say it a couple of times. It feels good. e-PIFF-uh-knee. Just a great word.

I have had some memorable epiphanies in my life. They have run the gamut from the eternally significant (spiritually life-changing) to the mundane (learning in 8th-grade that I don't actually have to participate in stupid getting-to-know-you games--nothing will happen to you if you don't!) to those that allow me to embrace being ME (I don't like backpacking. And that's okay.).

I recently had an epiphany. It turns out that when I go to Art Museums, I am less interested in the Art and more interested in the people looking at the Art. I have known for a long-time that I am an avid people watcher, and while I have tried valiantly to appreciate any and all Art, it turns out that I am much better at appreciating People. And, that's okay.

Now, don't get me wrong, there is Art that I know and love. But, people. People. They're just so fascinating. While I was appreciating the Art at The Art Institute of Chicago recently, I found myself in a room with several works by Monet. I like Monet because a) I can recognize his work, 2) it really is stunningly beautiful, and d) I like impressionism because it seems uppercrust artistic, but even I can enjoy it. But, I digress. As I wandered the room appreciating the Art, I noticed a man studying Water Lilies.

And thus began the People watching.

He looked to be in his seventies or eighties.

He was alone.

He wandered from painting to painting, apparently unattached to anyone.

And he was carrying a purse.

Why?

I kept him in sight for several rooms because I was dying to know whether or not the purse he carried belonged to someone or if he was unaware that most men don't sport girly leather purses? Had he decided, in his older years, that he didn't care what the rest of the world thought--he would carry a purse if he wanted to? Was he being chivalrous by carrying the heavy bag for a wife that didn't seem to be around?

I had so many questions. I eventually lost sight of him and was left to wonder about my purse carrying man-friend.

But, no. Two hours later, three floors later, and a whole lot of Art and People later, I spotted him again. Ah, there we go.

Although this picture doesn't adequately depict it, their interaction did suggest they were husband and wife. As they silently moseyed from one room to the next, it was evident they were both comfortable and at ease in their respective going-to-the-art-museum roles. He, unashamedly carrying her purse, she walking, standing, staring, studying. Just after I snapped this picture, they walked out of the room arm in arm, clearly content in who they were as individuals and as a couple.

And, as more of a People appreciating person at an Art museum than an Art appreciating person, I, too, am comfortable and at ease in my going-to-the-art-museum role.

Welcome Aboard Flight 263 to....Chicago!

So, a few days ago I returned from a fabulous little excursion to Chicago with a friend. She was there to present a paper at a conference, needed someont to go with her, and being the kind person that I am, I consented to go. It was a real sacrifice. While we were there, we went to the top of the Sears Tower (which is now the Willis Tower, did you know that? I think it should still be called the Sears Tower, but no one asks my opinion on these things...), ate fabulous food, and saw Topol as Tevye in Fiddler on the Roof (but that's another story).

But, a first on this trip was flying on Southwest Airlines, which resulted in my first experience with "open seating".

On traditional flights with assigned seating, I usually request the window. I like watching the landforms change outside as I fly across the country and I like having the side of the plane to lean my head against while I nap.

Open seating is basically a first-come, first-serve seating system wherein those who board early take the window and aisle seats and those who board later (read: ME) are left to squish in the middle seat, much to the annoyance and irritation of aforementioned first-came, first-served folk. As those who board later (read: ME) climb over/on/in front of/around the aisle dweller, they are usually met with glares, much hmmphing from the annoyed passengers they have interfered with and are left to fumble for the seatbelt which is inevitably under the derrieres of said aisle/window seatmates. It’s not all that pleasant.

But, here’s the real reason for my post. On this trip of open-seating, I had a lot of time and reason to think about seatmate etiquette.

Observation #1. Had I to do it again, even though the row I happened to select was the exit row (score! More legroom!), I would be much more cognizant of the people between whom I am going to sit. In this case, it was two men—one middle-aged, the other slightly more middle-aged—who were engaged in a loud and monotonous conversation about used cars. The aisle guy was a used car salesman from whom the window guy was insistent on getting used-car-buying-tips for the entire flight. Leaning around me and talking loudly over the whirr of the airplane the entire flight. Comparing notes and quotes for the entire flight. I saw them engaged in conversation before I sat down, and although this should have been the cue to head for another row, I realized this all too late—namely, as soon as I had my seatbelt buckled.

Observation #2. I have strong opinions about armrest etiquette. Or, perhaps we ought to call it “armrestiquette” (ha! I love that idea…). Let me pose a scenario: if you were a person sitting in either the window or aisle seat, where you readily have two armrests at your disposal, would you kindly concede the shared armrest to the poor soul in the middle who has neither a window nor an aisle to stretch out/lean against/enjoy the flight? Of course you would. My seat buddies thought otherwise. Both of them had their piggy little arms firmly planted on both armrests for the duration of the flight. The entire flight.

Observation #3. Personal space, although limited in the confines of an airplane, should carefully be maintained. In relation to the armrestiquette issue, the guy sitting in the aisle seat had little-to-no personal space. In addition to hogging the armrest, his feet kept veering into my space, he kept digging in his bulging pockets which meant his knees/hips/elbows kept bumping into me and to top it off, he had unruly armhair that kept tickling my arms.

Observation #4. An adjunct of the previous observation, when on an airplane, the seat pocket in front of you is to stow your items such as books, mp3 players, and other personal devices. YOUR personal items. One of my seatmates (yep, the aisle guy), used his seat pocket AND my seat pocket for his garbage (which included his crumpled up used-car inventory lists he was sorting through to show the great deals to the window guy and his old newspaper) and more than one used-car quote book (how much stuff do you bring on a plane, anyway?).

Observation #5. The only people for whom open-seating is a bonus are privileged fliers (business class, premiere folks, etc. etc.) and those flying with children (although, to be honest, anyone flying with small children has my sincerest pity.). Because they get to board early, they have their pick of the airplane! The rest of us are left to fight for anything but the crappy middle seat, dreading that we will find ourselves next to a hairy-armed used car salesman who hogs the armrest.

Your next seatmate

(image courtesy: Swiftian on photobucket)

Whoosh

The other day, while riding my bike to school, a bird darted unexpectedly out of the bushes on the side of the bikepath directly in front of me. As we both flew down the bikepath, I kid you not, I could feel the draft from its wings.

It was awesome.

A Scientific Experiment, of sorts

This is my friend Kendra.While this picture was taken a couple of summers ago, it is reminiscent of a roadtrip we recently went on. We met up in Portland to see The Flight of the Conchords (who were, by the way, a total kick in that pants, as expected. I was not disappointed.). The next day, we drove back to ye olde Tri-Cities together.

Along the way, we busted out some Skittles and while she was trying to be sneaky about it, I called her out on picking through the Skittles for her favorites (the red and the purple, which coincidentally are also my favorites, hence my disapproval with her antics. Are the reds and purples everyone's favorites? Hmm...). Everyone knows that in a communal pool of candy, there is no picking allowed. You get what ya get, and ya don't throw a fit.

After a, "but I don't liiiikke the other ones..." (said in the perfect likeness of a whiny six-year-old), I handed her a Skittle and asked her to blindly identify the flavor (no peeking!). I think she was certain it would be no problem.

"Orange." Nope, it was green. ha! Next.

"Green!" Nope, it was yellow. Next.

"Red?" Nope, it was purple. Ha ha!

To be fair, she did get some right. But, I will say that her accuracy rate was tragically low. Low enough to NOT warrant the picking through said pile o' Skittles.

Also, be warned. She has a penchant for just the red and pink starbursts.

Why I Love the Northwest

So, right now I'm going to school in Nebraska. The scenery looks much like you might expect it to look.

There's corn.

It's flat.

I drove 420 miles to the other side of the state and still there was corn and still there was flat.

While I do believe that Nebraska is beautiful in its own right (have I shown you the pictures of the fabulous bike trail I like to frequent?), it is not My Northwest.

A couple of weeks ago, I had the opportunity to go to Portland for a conference for school and since I had family nearby, my advisor all but twisted my arm to stay a few extra days to visit them. Graciously, I accepted the offer. In that time, I drove around the state of Washington visiting and staying with various members of my family.

In that time I saw mountains,

I saw rolling hills,

I saw valleys,

I saw rocky hillsides,

Desert,
Columnar joints,
I even saw flat. Very flat.

And I didn't even make it over to the coast where I could have seen sandy beaches, rocky beaches, ocean, and rainforest.

All in the same state.

That is what I love, and miss, about My Northwest. Beautiful, stunning variety.

My Subconscious Self Has Left the Building

I know it's the end of the semester. How do I know? For the past few days, I keep dreaming of going on vacation. To exciting places. That are far away from school.

Dream 1. Jemaine from Flight of the Conchords was my personal tour guide on a trip to Australia.

(Jemaine. My tour guide.)

I spent an inordinate amount of time packing in the dream as I was very concerned about having the proper attire, equipment, needs, etc. At one point, no lie, Jemaine turns to me and says, "Oh, Katy, take the sunglasses. You'll definitely want the sunglasses." (On a side note, this is only the third time in my life, that I can recall, that a celebrity has made a cameo in a dream. One time, I rollerbladed with Steve Carrell from The Office in Howard Amon Park in Richland, the whole time I was thinking to myself, "Omigosh! I'm rollerblading with Steve Carrell!"; and another time I dreamt Jim Halpert was my boyfriend and he was declaring his undying love for me in my parents' kitchen. Hmm...). But, back to Australia. I finished packing, we took a bus to the airport and got on the plane. Jemaine made hiLARious comments the whole way and it was just fantastic. And, sadly, just as I looked out the window and saw the Australian landscape, I woke up.

Dream 2. I don't remember much from the dream, EXCEPT that I was going to London. I was leaving notes everywhere letting people know where I was. One in particular I remember is the note I left on my door at school, "Hey hey. I've gone to London. Later!" Someday, I would love to actually leave that note. Again, I woke up before actually landing IN London. Aah!

The exciting thing is that, in the real world, I do get to travel for the next couple of weeks! Not to London or Australia (nor with Jemaine--although I do get to see Jemaine in concert in a couple of weeks!), but travel is travel and it will be fantastic.

Goodbye Spring Semester. Hello Summer!

Reach for the stars

Wherever I go, whatever I do, there are a few goals I always carry around with me. These are seemingly unimportant, nay, trivial ambitions for my personal quality of life but, I assure you, they are crucial.

Goal #1. I have a furtive goal to never be ambiguous. Put another way, I don’t ever want to be the object of a “male or female?” conversation. You know the type. It often involves a mullet, gender-neutral clothing, and overt signs of too much testosterone. If I’m ever encroaching into this territory, please, please slap me upside the head and help me.

Goal #2. I don’t want to be in a place where I have to wear a muumuu, not because I choose to wear a muumuu, but because a muumuu is the only thing I fit into. There is a particular episode of The Simpson’s that haunts me on this point.

If I ever proudly show off my collection of muumuus in every color of the rainbow or try to prove to you that the muumuu is the perfect article of clothing because it doesn't constrict my girth in any way, please, please slap me upside the head and help me.

Goal #3. I want to avoid the flaunting of accomplishments and/or mourning of disappointments greater than 10 years after they've happened. I witnessed a woman in her 40's regularly remind us she was her high school class valedictorian and another woman in her late 30's regularly sob because she didn't go to her high school prom. I remember thinking, "Wow. But, what's happened in the last, oh, twenty or so years since then?" If you ever witness said flaunting and/or mourning emanating from my mouth on any occasion on a regular basis, please, please slap me upside the head and help me.

Goal #4. I want to marry a big, burly man because of my own big, burly stature. When I was in Boston a couple of years ago, I saw this illustration by William Steig in the Boston Public Library

and prayed that I would never be “the potato” in a “string bean and potato” couple. I’m happy being the potato, but just let me be a potato with another potato. Hence, the need for the big, burly man. If I excitedly introduce you to my string bean fiance, well....just congratulate us on our upcoming marriage and move along.

what IS that?!

So, I need some help. While I was finishing my walk on this overcasty, springy day I came across this tree.

It didn’t look that extraordinary until I noticed the pinecone-esque things that didn’t really look like pine cones. Because they weren’t pine cones. I had no idea what they were. I left the trail to get a closer look.

What the heck is that?! Of course, I had to touch it, which totally repulsed me. Think cold, gelatinous, slime encased in a water weenie about to burst. Disgusting. But, fascinating.

I've never see them before.

I find them quite strange.

Here's another one that seems to be earlier in whatever this cycle is.Little help here?