I have a new blog.
In fact, I have TWO new blogs.
One is about gardening, land use, agriculture, food security, and all things dirt-related:
www.toknowbeans.wordpress.com
The other is a simpler continuation of this blog. Follow it here:
www.thatwasithatwasme.wordpress.com
See you on the other side.
Au revoir!
L
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Saturday, June 13, 2009
The good old boys
Until today, I thought I had an in; I thought I had worked my way into being part of the local political scene. Until today, I thought I was respectable, bright, articulate-- smart, even. It turns out that none of this matters because-- guess what-- I'm a girl.
I've been working on a local campaign for one of my dad's good friends. Don't get me wrong-- the man I'm working for is an absolute peach and a great politician. I'm working on his campaign in hopes that I can network and perhaps find a job, or at least learn a little bit about the political process while helping him out. I've been doing some pretty boring, monotonous stuff, but I figured that that's part of starting at the bottom. Nope-- I'm just filling my gender role as secretary who can't be trusted with any decisions or excess knowledge. Fuck that. I have a degree from a great school, have a proven track record with various legal and political internships. I studied abroad at Oxford University. I'm never this full of myself, but give me a break. I'm not a secretary. I wasn't just being handed the peon work. If I were a guy, a dude, a bro, I would be going to the staff meetings and giving actual input to the campaign.
As it so happens, my roommate's friend emailed me to find a spot working on the same campaign I'm working on. I forwarded his resume to my "boss", thinking nothing of it; I thought, perhaps, that I would see him stuffing envelopes with me some weekend. I was wrong. Oh, how I was wrong.
Not only is he much more involved than I am, but he is invited to every campaign staff meeting. I am not. He is invited to breakfast and lunch with members of the campaign. I am not. While I do data entry work, he gets phone calls from our "boss" about events. I am the one with the degree. I am the one with a relevant degree. This kid is still an undergrad at UMass studying landscape architecture. Yet, he has surpassed me completely in this case.
This evening I saw our candidate at a city event. He told me that I looked great-- he always compliments me. It wasn't meant in a dirty way, but rather in a "that's our only real use for you" way. I'd rather have a penis and be ugly-- maybe I would get to do what I want in life.
If this didn't make me bristle enough, I found out later that my roommate's friend had spoken to the candidate earlier today and had been to several staff meetings. I've been toiling on this campaign for nearly a month now, and for what? To NOT be invited to staff meetings, to NOT learn anything about the election process, to NOT get what I want out of this venture. I was the one who forwarded this guy's resume to the candidate; I never thought he'd surpass me so quickly. I think the real translation of "you look great" is GLASS FUCKING CEILING.
Am I overreacting? No. Because this evening, me, my roommate, and her friend ran into the mayor of Easthampton. I expected him to recognize me. I have had several face-to-face conversations with the mayor in his office. I am the youngest woman to serve on any city committee. I have lived in this town all my life; my parents both serve on committees.
The mayor recognized my roommate's friend, not me. Why? Because he had offered to work on the mayor's campaign and had met him, oh, say, once. The mayor then proceeded to jokingly ask Alexis's friend if he wanted to be filmed with him for an interview. Oh, joy. Apparently, all the conversations I've had with the mayor have been disregarded. I feel as though I have been put up with or tolerated. I feel like my degree isn't worth the paper it's printed on.
There is something starkly wrong here. I am not inarticulate, nor am I dumb. I am smart yet still willing to learn. This, however, equates to "you can do secretarial work". If I had a dick and no degree, I could get further. What. The. Fuck.
The real conundrum here? If I'm not aggressive enough, I'll get nowhere. If I'm too aggressive, I'll be a ball-breaking bitch (Hillary Clinton, apparently). I'm not sure whether I want to surge forward or fall by the wayside. I'm too young to be so tired of the good ol' boy system.
I've been working on a local campaign for one of my dad's good friends. Don't get me wrong-- the man I'm working for is an absolute peach and a great politician. I'm working on his campaign in hopes that I can network and perhaps find a job, or at least learn a little bit about the political process while helping him out. I've been doing some pretty boring, monotonous stuff, but I figured that that's part of starting at the bottom. Nope-- I'm just filling my gender role as secretary who can't be trusted with any decisions or excess knowledge. Fuck that. I have a degree from a great school, have a proven track record with various legal and political internships. I studied abroad at Oxford University. I'm never this full of myself, but give me a break. I'm not a secretary. I wasn't just being handed the peon work. If I were a guy, a dude, a bro, I would be going to the staff meetings and giving actual input to the campaign.
As it so happens, my roommate's friend emailed me to find a spot working on the same campaign I'm working on. I forwarded his resume to my "boss", thinking nothing of it; I thought, perhaps, that I would see him stuffing envelopes with me some weekend. I was wrong. Oh, how I was wrong.
Not only is he much more involved than I am, but he is invited to every campaign staff meeting. I am not. He is invited to breakfast and lunch with members of the campaign. I am not. While I do data entry work, he gets phone calls from our "boss" about events. I am the one with the degree. I am the one with a relevant degree. This kid is still an undergrad at UMass studying landscape architecture. Yet, he has surpassed me completely in this case.
This evening I saw our candidate at a city event. He told me that I looked great-- he always compliments me. It wasn't meant in a dirty way, but rather in a "that's our only real use for you" way. I'd rather have a penis and be ugly-- maybe I would get to do what I want in life.
If this didn't make me bristle enough, I found out later that my roommate's friend had spoken to the candidate earlier today and had been to several staff meetings. I've been toiling on this campaign for nearly a month now, and for what? To NOT be invited to staff meetings, to NOT learn anything about the election process, to NOT get what I want out of this venture. I was the one who forwarded this guy's resume to the candidate; I never thought he'd surpass me so quickly. I think the real translation of "you look great" is GLASS FUCKING CEILING.
Am I overreacting? No. Because this evening, me, my roommate, and her friend ran into the mayor of Easthampton. I expected him to recognize me. I have had several face-to-face conversations with the mayor in his office. I am the youngest woman to serve on any city committee. I have lived in this town all my life; my parents both serve on committees.
The mayor recognized my roommate's friend, not me. Why? Because he had offered to work on the mayor's campaign and had met him, oh, say, once. The mayor then proceeded to jokingly ask Alexis's friend if he wanted to be filmed with him for an interview. Oh, joy. Apparently, all the conversations I've had with the mayor have been disregarded. I feel as though I have been put up with or tolerated. I feel like my degree isn't worth the paper it's printed on.
There is something starkly wrong here. I am not inarticulate, nor am I dumb. I am smart yet still willing to learn. This, however, equates to "you can do secretarial work". If I had a dick and no degree, I could get further. What. The. Fuck.
The real conundrum here? If I'm not aggressive enough, I'll get nowhere. If I'm too aggressive, I'll be a ball-breaking bitch (Hillary Clinton, apparently). I'm not sure whether I want to surge forward or fall by the wayside. I'm too young to be so tired of the good ol' boy system.
Monday, March 9, 2009
Retrospect: I haven't learned much.
This afternoon, I was cleaning out my basement.
Trust me, it gets more interesting than that.
After an hour of organizing my records, several shelves of books (all belonging to me), and some other random nonsensical items, I came across a giant Tupperware tub filled with notebooks.
I, at some point, decided I needed to save all of my notes/papers/flash cards/etc. from all of my years in college.
Here are some highlights from my notebooks. If there is no introduction/explanation, assume that it’s written somewhere, on some page, in some notebook next to other, more important/coherent things:
From a Spanish notebook, I have the essential translation of ‘la estetica de fealdad’- the aesthetic of ugliness. No further explanation granted in said notebook.
“Today’s Lecture: We’re Fucked and Here’s Why”
“Barney Frank. D-MA. GAY” (underlined several times)
“British Parliament:
Lots more yelling.”
Sometimes I write quotations down that other idiots in class might utter. Here’s a good one: “Do Republicans have a problem with trans-fats?”
Oh, another good one. Next to a smudge where a chunk of dark chocolate was laid on my notebook, the words “the last piece is yours” with an arrow. Thanks, Ema.
“rats and feces stories”
10/27 (large, scrawled letters) I NEED COFFEE. Walk to elbow room with me afterward?
Written conversation between Ema and I after some dumb girl in our class was talking about how she was friends with the governor of Maine:
Me: GOOD FOR YOU.
Ema: (happy clapping retard kid)
Me: well…my family hangs out with important people too. Should I raise my hand and say that my uncle shook Bill Clinton’s hand?
Ema: ABSOLUTELY.
“I’m just writing down random phrases so it looks like I’m paying attention”
“killer of children rather than making own line propagate” (?)
“Wales is fucked, Scotland is screwed”
“debagging: ripping off men’s pants.”
“Boy gets girl. General celebration. End.”
“sex vs. diseased sex”
“sex=death, syphyilis”
In notebook on Evelyn Waugh: “Racist. Sexist. Homophobic, classist, enjoyed being offensive and rude. Bigot. Snob. Politics of T.S. Eliot. Partied, got fired from all jobs. Drank, did drugs. Blatant alcoholic. Left Oxford without degree.”
“pain & cruelty= funny.”
“clean, square, modern. i.e.: Cutter-Z.”
“like trying to write a travel book on Hoboken, New Jersey.”
“Laura dies of black plague, 1348.”
“Henry VII: typical younger brother. Stubborn, impatient.”
“Shot in leg. Leg turns gangrenous. = Protestant hero.”
“what’s with Yeats and birds?”
“England: no onions or citrus fruits”
comments on a paper:
“Laura—I like the way you construct both the thesis and the argument here—while these two writers look completely different, there’s a lot to be learned from what they have in common. Like the Odd Couple!”
On another paper:
Laura—you offer here a highly insightful treatment of Platonic Forms. Excellent work! Your comments on how Plato might draw on his theory in order to block the regress from starting are highly perceptive. A.”
… I could not at this point recall exactly what Platonic Forms or the regression theory are. Oh well.
“literature today: cigar, volcano.”
“spend= ejaculate”
“it’s not that great to be Irish”
“getting raped by swan.”
“carves giant slabs of meat before father= very aristocratic”
“it snowed meat and drink of all possible kinds in his house”
“high, goatish voice”
“Deeply disturbing. Steals children.”
“wedlock is a paradise= misconception thus far. Wants young sex partner.”
“Adam and Eve- blindly clenching a phallus”
“sodomy wasn’t a huge deal in England.”
“swearing= worse than homicide”
“rhymes exquisitely elsewhere; then it becomes shitty”
“image of poppet: portly, ample waisted”
(Will Morgan called me poppet a few times. Now I shall hit him.)
“why put this in the mouths of chickens?”
“why so sluttish?”
“artistic temperament: his soul is female.”
“Resolution. Problem. Resolution.”
The following are from Michael Thurston’s American Lit class. I was in the class with several close friends. It was a big class. We often wrote ridiculous things to each other in my notes.
“Where are you in Moby(‘s) Dick?”
“Page 1”
“Look at girl in red behind Ali. HAHAHA.”
The name “Mel Gibson” with an arrow drawn to “Slaves” and then the name “Joey”
“shut the fuck uppppp” next to picture of someone vomiting. I can only assume that someone in the class was pattering on about something stupid.
“Length of Moby’s Dick”
Title of notes for 11/8/2008: Moby’s Dick
(this became a significant inside joke.)
“Call me Ishmael. Not his really name.” (wow, I was an English major.)
“what if there IS NO MEANING? (contemporary anxiety)”
written in margin: “did you just say ‘club footing’?”
“Thomas Morton—Woodstock. Beaver hats. Anglican guy. Phallic dancing.”
“parents have your interests at heart. Unlike BOYZ. (sad face)”
“New England writers are bad singers”
“1830’s- Western Frontier to Chicago (not the band)”
“Natty Bumpo—mountain man, a la Lonnie”
“falling of trees= trees can be dangerous.”
“Hawthorne= impotent”
“1+2=3” (Yes, in American Lit notebook)
“Emerson. Nature- “our world is retrospective”. We write about guts, black stuff, slim jims.”
“Judaism= Buddhism” (This was Mareva, in the margin, making fun of someone who essentially made that connection)
“Can you draw some circles on the board?” (another quotation from a lovely class member)
“Intoxicants breed artificial transcendence. Systematic derangement of the senses. So…my great American novel SUCKS.”
“Poe= Alec Baldwin?”
“Thoreau= “Tho-row”. Invented hacky-sacks. Hippie appearance.”
Written directly below that, with an arrow pointing somewhere: “HAHA THAT GIRL WAS SO WRONG”
“quoth Gene Wilder, NEVERMORE”
“fishing with a net…spear…guide”
“birds eat semi-fermented berries (accidentally)”
“Dr. Broya Mookheygree @ IFF” (…?)
That’s it, for now. Funny stuff, eh?
Trust me, it gets more interesting than that.
After an hour of organizing my records, several shelves of books (all belonging to me), and some other random nonsensical items, I came across a giant Tupperware tub filled with notebooks.
I, at some point, decided I needed to save all of my notes/papers/flash cards/etc. from all of my years in college.
Here are some highlights from my notebooks. If there is no introduction/explanation, assume that it’s written somewhere, on some page, in some notebook next to other, more important/coherent things:
From a Spanish notebook, I have the essential translation of ‘la estetica de fealdad’- the aesthetic of ugliness. No further explanation granted in said notebook.
“Today’s Lecture: We’re Fucked and Here’s Why”
“Barney Frank. D-MA. GAY” (underlined several times)
“British Parliament:
Lots more yelling.”
Sometimes I write quotations down that other idiots in class might utter. Here’s a good one: “Do Republicans have a problem with trans-fats?”
Oh, another good one. Next to a smudge where a chunk of dark chocolate was laid on my notebook, the words “the last piece is yours” with an arrow. Thanks, Ema.
“rats and feces stories”
10/27 (large, scrawled letters) I NEED COFFEE. Walk to elbow room with me afterward?
Written conversation between Ema and I after some dumb girl in our class was talking about how she was friends with the governor of Maine:
Me: GOOD FOR YOU.
Ema: (happy clapping retard kid)
Me: well…my family hangs out with important people too. Should I raise my hand and say that my uncle shook Bill Clinton’s hand?
Ema: ABSOLUTELY.
“I’m just writing down random phrases so it looks like I’m paying attention”
“killer of children rather than making own line propagate” (?)
“Wales is fucked, Scotland is screwed”
“debagging: ripping off men’s pants.”
“Boy gets girl. General celebration. End.”
“sex vs. diseased sex”
“sex=death, syphyilis”
In notebook on Evelyn Waugh: “Racist. Sexist. Homophobic, classist, enjoyed being offensive and rude. Bigot. Snob. Politics of T.S. Eliot. Partied, got fired from all jobs. Drank, did drugs. Blatant alcoholic. Left Oxford without degree.”
“pain & cruelty= funny.”
“clean, square, modern. i.e.: Cutter-Z.”
“like trying to write a travel book on Hoboken, New Jersey.”
“Laura dies of black plague, 1348.”
“Henry VII: typical younger brother. Stubborn, impatient.”
“Shot in leg. Leg turns gangrenous. = Protestant hero.”
“what’s with Yeats and birds?”
“England: no onions or citrus fruits”
comments on a paper:
“Laura—I like the way you construct both the thesis and the argument here—while these two writers look completely different, there’s a lot to be learned from what they have in common. Like the Odd Couple!”
On another paper:
Laura—you offer here a highly insightful treatment of Platonic Forms. Excellent work! Your comments on how Plato might draw on his theory in order to block the regress from starting are highly perceptive. A.”
… I could not at this point recall exactly what Platonic Forms or the regression theory are. Oh well.
“literature today: cigar, volcano.”
“spend= ejaculate”
“it’s not that great to be Irish”
“getting raped by swan.”
“carves giant slabs of meat before father= very aristocratic”
“it snowed meat and drink of all possible kinds in his house”
“high, goatish voice”
“Deeply disturbing. Steals children.”
“wedlock is a paradise= misconception thus far. Wants young sex partner.”
“Adam and Eve- blindly clenching a phallus”
“sodomy wasn’t a huge deal in England.”
“swearing= worse than homicide”
“rhymes exquisitely elsewhere; then it becomes shitty”
“image of poppet: portly, ample waisted”
(Will Morgan called me poppet a few times. Now I shall hit him.)
“why put this in the mouths of chickens?”
“why so sluttish?”
“artistic temperament: his soul is female.”
“Resolution. Problem. Resolution.”
The following are from Michael Thurston’s American Lit class. I was in the class with several close friends. It was a big class. We often wrote ridiculous things to each other in my notes.
“Where are you in Moby(‘s) Dick?”
“Page 1”
“Look at girl in red behind Ali. HAHAHA.”
The name “Mel Gibson” with an arrow drawn to “Slaves” and then the name “Joey”
“shut the fuck uppppp” next to picture of someone vomiting. I can only assume that someone in the class was pattering on about something stupid.
“Length of Moby’s Dick”
Title of notes for 11/8/2008: Moby’s Dick
(this became a significant inside joke.)
“Call me Ishmael. Not his really name.” (wow, I was an English major.)
“what if there IS NO MEANING? (contemporary anxiety)”
written in margin: “did you just say ‘club footing’?”
“Thomas Morton—Woodstock. Beaver hats. Anglican guy. Phallic dancing.”
“parents have your interests at heart. Unlike BOYZ. (sad face)”
“New England writers are bad singers”
“1830’s- Western Frontier to Chicago (not the band)”
“Natty Bumpo—mountain man, a la Lonnie”
“falling of trees= trees can be dangerous.”
“Hawthorne= impotent”
“1+2=3” (Yes, in American Lit notebook)
“Emerson. Nature- “our world is retrospective”. We write about guts, black stuff, slim jims.”
“Judaism= Buddhism” (This was Mareva, in the margin, making fun of someone who essentially made that connection)
“Can you draw some circles on the board?” (another quotation from a lovely class member)
“Intoxicants breed artificial transcendence. Systematic derangement of the senses. So…my great American novel SUCKS.”
“Poe= Alec Baldwin?”
“Thoreau= “Tho-row”. Invented hacky-sacks. Hippie appearance.”
Written directly below that, with an arrow pointing somewhere: “HAHA THAT GIRL WAS SO WRONG”
“quoth Gene Wilder, NEVERMORE”
“fishing with a net…spear…guide”
“birds eat semi-fermented berries (accidentally)”
“Dr. Broya Mookheygree @ IFF” (…?)
That’s it, for now. Funny stuff, eh?
Sunday, February 1, 2009
Oy vey!
It has admittedly been a while since my last update. I can explain. Well, not really, but i suppose the very act of explaining sort of provides an update in and of itself. Eh?
My last post concerned my lack of motivation. I can assure you that this trend continued steadily up until the very last moments of my time at Smith College. Needless to say, I have graduated. Let me rewind a little bit. We'll start with my last days at school.
To begin, I truly miss my friends and the campus already. I know all I did was bitch and complain about it, but what else do you do when you love something? Smith College is like an annoying sibling: you can complain, and you get aggravated, but in the end, you love it, snotty nose and all.
The last two weeks of school, I was inundated with work. My finals included two actual, physical tests and 52 pages of papers. 25 pages of those papers were for my Evelyn Waugh seminar with Doug Patey. I had a long research paper for my environmental class as well as a Shakespeare paper and another research paper for my Congressional/legislative process class.
A couple of weeks before the last day of finals, I realized that I needed to organize my time fairly well. I vowed to write five pages a day and, surprisingly, stuck with decent accuracy to this goal. I typed away about bees for my research paper on pollinator bills before congress (try writing fifteen pages on that...I somehow did). I theorized my way through various manifestations of societal "clothing" in King Lear. I wrote about...something...for my environmental ethics class.
My friends were entirely supportive of me during this time. Every night they'd ask, "did you finish your five pages?" and when I'd reply in the affirmative, they'd cheer with what looked like real excitement. I had a makeshift thermometer on my door, separated into 5-page intervals. People left me encouraging notes, knowing that I'd soon graduate. This all went very, very well, until the night of Wednesday the 18th.
I was in Neilson library, alternately typing about modernist architecture and watching youtube videos of Eureka's Castle (i'd post said video but it has been taken down due to copyright infringement...lame). I had, by that time (about 9 pm), consumed about five cups of coffee and a lot of carbs. My stomach started to hurt. No big deal. I typed away though my insides seemed to be trying to escape.
I got back to Park Annex (my house) and explained my ongoing gastrointestinal discomfort to my friends. One girl gave me some Tums and sent me on my way. I decided not to finish my five pages for the night. In bed, I put a heating pad on my stomach; it was burning more and more every minute.
After sitting up all night, writhing (literally) in pain, I decided I had a stomach bug. I dragged myself out of bed and proceeded to chip away at my seminar paper. After a few hours, I had only seven pages left to write: I was close to my goal of 52 pages. I had taken all of my actual finals a few days before. The only thing standing between me and my diploma was seven pages.
Ali convinced me to move home; a big snowstorm was expected the next day. She helped me pack up what was left of my belongings. I had been moving things back to my family's house intermittently; all I had left at school were some hangers, my computer, bedding, and a toothbrush. My stomach felt like it was being stabbed with a million knives. I carried my stuff to Ali's car and tried to stay awake.
At home, I was feeling worse. I managed to somehow type another four pages of my paper. I hadn't been physically sick, I didn't have a fever, and I wasn't even nauseous. I went to bed early-- at about eight p.m.-- and vowed to finish my last three pages the following morning. I had until 4 p.m. on Friday to do so; it would be no big deal.
At about 3 a.m. that night, however, I woke up feeling as though my stomach had exploded. I am so glad that I was at my family's house because I could hardly move. I laid in bed and cried hysterically. I could not get comfortable. I finally fell back asleep after my mother gave me a pill (I'm still not sure what the pill was).
The next morning I woke up and lied to my mother that I felt better. It was indeed a lie because the pain had localized in my lower right abdominal quadrant. It felt, again, like I had been stabbed. I walked with a limp but kept telling my mother I was fine. I typed one more page before my mother dragged me away from my computer and brought me to the hospital.
I was admitted at 11 am and sat in the Emergency Room alone while my mother went home to get my computer so I could finish working on the paper while waiting. Let me take this opportunity to say that I hate Cooley Dickinson Hospital. The woman who gave me the iv could NOT find a vein and kept jamming the needle into my arm. I hadn't eaten anything in a few days at this point (I had not showered either, but that is another story). I looked down while she was jabbing the needle into my vein and saw it moving under my skin. Ali and my mother were there with me; I yelled to them that I was going to puke. Sure enough, I puked--luckily, into some weird bag that Ali had procured out of somewhere-- and the woman FINALLY got the iv needle into my arm. While all of this was happening, a phlebotomist was seemingly subjecting me to the archaic practice of bloodletting. The nurse putting the iv in hooked me up to a saline drip and then attempted to give me morphine. She first, however, dropped the glass jar of morphine on the floor and chuckled, stating happily that she was clumsy that day. She finally got the morphine into my system; things were good. For a little while.
Some dumbass doctor ordered a CT scan (not sure why; they KNEW it was my appendix). I had to drink all that nasty orange stuff and be wheeled to the big weird machine (I'm clearly down with medical jargon). While I was on my way to the big weird machine, the person pushing my wheelchair (I really couldn't walk) rammed me into a machine in the hallway and knocked it over and then proceeded to open a door with my legs. Great.
After about, oh, three more hours, my CT results came back. Surprise surprise: it was my appendix. Oh, and it had ruptured while I was sitting around waiting, being rammed into things and jabbed with needles. They promised that I'd be operated on by seven p.m. I was still pissed that I hadn't finished my Doug Patey paper and asked if I could work on it. I tried; it wasn't a good idea to type while on morphine.
I wasn't nervous about the operation until they wheeled me up (in my bed, still ramming me accidentally into walls and things) to the recovery area. Then I got nervous. My imbecile of a father tried to comfort me, telling me that it wouldn't be like years ago when he had his wisdom teeth out: "I could hear everything they were doing!". Finally, at 10:30 p.m. (12 hours after I had first been admitted), my anesthesiologist gave me something which she referred to as "champagne". I remember, vaguely, being wheeled into the operating room, saying bye to my parents, still sobbing though I had been heavily sedated. My heart monitor beeped quickly. I remember a woman patting my head and telling me that I'd be fine. They put a shower cap type thing on me. I remember them stating that I'd "be asleep in no time". I remember shivering and crying, but I don't remember closing my eyes.
Things were hazy when I woke up. I groaned to make sure my vocal chords worked because my throat was so sore-- I had been given an oxygen tube during the surgery. I couldn't see clearly, so I squinted and closed one eye to read the clock in front of me. It was almost midnight. My stomach was in searing pain. I had an oxygen mask on my face and could hardly remember where I was. I was back in the recovery room, post-operation. They hadn't given me any painkillers yet because they wanted to make sure I woke up completely.
I kept asking for my mom, for Aaron, for painkillers, for anything. My throat hurt very badly but I still managed to groan and bitch at the nurses. I was put on oxygen because I had tachycardia (a rapid heartbeat). I was eventually given morphine and brought up to the new wing of the hospital. I remember breathing very slowly, and a nurse kept reminding me to breathe. I wasn't really coherent so it was easy to forget about breathing...
I slept pretty well through the night with a constantly supply of morphine and antibiotics being injected into my system. I was smelling pretty ripe because I hadn't showered in days. Aaron and Ali came to visit; my room was really nice and I had a beautiful picture window to watch the big snowstorm through. I watched horrible holiday movies, catching only segments of them at a time because I was drifting in and out of sleep. It took me about three full viewings of The Wizard of Oz to piece various segments together; I couldn't keep my eyes open.
The best part about recovery was that I looked pregnant. My surgery was laproscopic, so they had inflated my abdomen with carbon dioxide. I was even fatter than usual. Great.
I finally made it home on what I think was Sunday or Monday. I can't remember. Regardless, I finished Doug Patey's paper while on morphine and attached it to an email, sent it along, and collapsed on my family's couch with a semi-contented whimper. So much for going out with a bang like I had always pictured.
I passed all of my classes and did fairly well. It wasn't my best semester ever grade-wise, but that's ok. The semester had been plagued with apathy (see previous post) and various bad occurrences (getting my identity stolen, for one). The important thing is that I managed, somehow, to graduate.
Wow, this post went on for a lot longer than I had expected. Anyway, that is the story of how I parted ways with my appendix. People really dig it when I tell it at job interviews and such.
On another note, I was urged to update my blog by a few people; I didn't realize that people actually read this. I mainly keep this blog for personal reasons. It makes me feel like I have a theoretical place where my thoughts are organized. I'll be updating more frequently now (after writing 52 pages in two weeks, I didn't want to even be literate anymore, let alone type another word), so stay tuned.
Quite a bit has happened to me since I left the hospital, none of it as interesting as the appendix story. I will, however, set it down soon enough. Happy February, y'all.
My last post concerned my lack of motivation. I can assure you that this trend continued steadily up until the very last moments of my time at Smith College. Needless to say, I have graduated. Let me rewind a little bit. We'll start with my last days at school.
To begin, I truly miss my friends and the campus already. I know all I did was bitch and complain about it, but what else do you do when you love something? Smith College is like an annoying sibling: you can complain, and you get aggravated, but in the end, you love it, snotty nose and all.
The last two weeks of school, I was inundated with work. My finals included two actual, physical tests and 52 pages of papers. 25 pages of those papers were for my Evelyn Waugh seminar with Doug Patey. I had a long research paper for my environmental class as well as a Shakespeare paper and another research paper for my Congressional/legislative process class.
A couple of weeks before the last day of finals, I realized that I needed to organize my time fairly well. I vowed to write five pages a day and, surprisingly, stuck with decent accuracy to this goal. I typed away about bees for my research paper on pollinator bills before congress (try writing fifteen pages on that...I somehow did). I theorized my way through various manifestations of societal "clothing" in King Lear. I wrote about...something...for my environmental ethics class.
My friends were entirely supportive of me during this time. Every night they'd ask, "did you finish your five pages?" and when I'd reply in the affirmative, they'd cheer with what looked like real excitement. I had a makeshift thermometer on my door, separated into 5-page intervals. People left me encouraging notes, knowing that I'd soon graduate. This all went very, very well, until the night of Wednesday the 18th.
I was in Neilson library, alternately typing about modernist architecture and watching youtube videos of Eureka's Castle (i'd post said video but it has been taken down due to copyright infringement...lame). I had, by that time (about 9 pm), consumed about five cups of coffee and a lot of carbs. My stomach started to hurt. No big deal. I typed away though my insides seemed to be trying to escape.
I got back to Park Annex (my house) and explained my ongoing gastrointestinal discomfort to my friends. One girl gave me some Tums and sent me on my way. I decided not to finish my five pages for the night. In bed, I put a heating pad on my stomach; it was burning more and more every minute.
After sitting up all night, writhing (literally) in pain, I decided I had a stomach bug. I dragged myself out of bed and proceeded to chip away at my seminar paper. After a few hours, I had only seven pages left to write: I was close to my goal of 52 pages. I had taken all of my actual finals a few days before. The only thing standing between me and my diploma was seven pages.
Ali convinced me to move home; a big snowstorm was expected the next day. She helped me pack up what was left of my belongings. I had been moving things back to my family's house intermittently; all I had left at school were some hangers, my computer, bedding, and a toothbrush. My stomach felt like it was being stabbed with a million knives. I carried my stuff to Ali's car and tried to stay awake.
At home, I was feeling worse. I managed to somehow type another four pages of my paper. I hadn't been physically sick, I didn't have a fever, and I wasn't even nauseous. I went to bed early-- at about eight p.m.-- and vowed to finish my last three pages the following morning. I had until 4 p.m. on Friday to do so; it would be no big deal.
At about 3 a.m. that night, however, I woke up feeling as though my stomach had exploded. I am so glad that I was at my family's house because I could hardly move. I laid in bed and cried hysterically. I could not get comfortable. I finally fell back asleep after my mother gave me a pill (I'm still not sure what the pill was).
The next morning I woke up and lied to my mother that I felt better. It was indeed a lie because the pain had localized in my lower right abdominal quadrant. It felt, again, like I had been stabbed. I walked with a limp but kept telling my mother I was fine. I typed one more page before my mother dragged me away from my computer and brought me to the hospital.
I was admitted at 11 am and sat in the Emergency Room alone while my mother went home to get my computer so I could finish working on the paper while waiting. Let me take this opportunity to say that I hate Cooley Dickinson Hospital. The woman who gave me the iv could NOT find a vein and kept jamming the needle into my arm. I hadn't eaten anything in a few days at this point (I had not showered either, but that is another story). I looked down while she was jabbing the needle into my vein and saw it moving under my skin. Ali and my mother were there with me; I yelled to them that I was going to puke. Sure enough, I puked--luckily, into some weird bag that Ali had procured out of somewhere-- and the woman FINALLY got the iv needle into my arm. While all of this was happening, a phlebotomist was seemingly subjecting me to the archaic practice of bloodletting. The nurse putting the iv in hooked me up to a saline drip and then attempted to give me morphine. She first, however, dropped the glass jar of morphine on the floor and chuckled, stating happily that she was clumsy that day. She finally got the morphine into my system; things were good. For a little while.
Some dumbass doctor ordered a CT scan (not sure why; they KNEW it was my appendix). I had to drink all that nasty orange stuff and be wheeled to the big weird machine (I'm clearly down with medical jargon). While I was on my way to the big weird machine, the person pushing my wheelchair (I really couldn't walk) rammed me into a machine in the hallway and knocked it over and then proceeded to open a door with my legs. Great.
After about, oh, three more hours, my CT results came back. Surprise surprise: it was my appendix. Oh, and it had ruptured while I was sitting around waiting, being rammed into things and jabbed with needles. They promised that I'd be operated on by seven p.m. I was still pissed that I hadn't finished my Doug Patey paper and asked if I could work on it. I tried; it wasn't a good idea to type while on morphine.
I wasn't nervous about the operation until they wheeled me up (in my bed, still ramming me accidentally into walls and things) to the recovery area. Then I got nervous. My imbecile of a father tried to comfort me, telling me that it wouldn't be like years ago when he had his wisdom teeth out: "I could hear everything they were doing!". Finally, at 10:30 p.m. (12 hours after I had first been admitted), my anesthesiologist gave me something which she referred to as "champagne". I remember, vaguely, being wheeled into the operating room, saying bye to my parents, still sobbing though I had been heavily sedated. My heart monitor beeped quickly. I remember a woman patting my head and telling me that I'd be fine. They put a shower cap type thing on me. I remember them stating that I'd "be asleep in no time". I remember shivering and crying, but I don't remember closing my eyes.
Things were hazy when I woke up. I groaned to make sure my vocal chords worked because my throat was so sore-- I had been given an oxygen tube during the surgery. I couldn't see clearly, so I squinted and closed one eye to read the clock in front of me. It was almost midnight. My stomach was in searing pain. I had an oxygen mask on my face and could hardly remember where I was. I was back in the recovery room, post-operation. They hadn't given me any painkillers yet because they wanted to make sure I woke up completely.
I kept asking for my mom, for Aaron, for painkillers, for anything. My throat hurt very badly but I still managed to groan and bitch at the nurses. I was put on oxygen because I had tachycardia (a rapid heartbeat). I was eventually given morphine and brought up to the new wing of the hospital. I remember breathing very slowly, and a nurse kept reminding me to breathe. I wasn't really coherent so it was easy to forget about breathing...
I slept pretty well through the night with a constantly supply of morphine and antibiotics being injected into my system. I was smelling pretty ripe because I hadn't showered in days. Aaron and Ali came to visit; my room was really nice and I had a beautiful picture window to watch the big snowstorm through. I watched horrible holiday movies, catching only segments of them at a time because I was drifting in and out of sleep. It took me about three full viewings of The Wizard of Oz to piece various segments together; I couldn't keep my eyes open.
The best part about recovery was that I looked pregnant. My surgery was laproscopic, so they had inflated my abdomen with carbon dioxide. I was even fatter than usual. Great.
I finally made it home on what I think was Sunday or Monday. I can't remember. Regardless, I finished Doug Patey's paper while on morphine and attached it to an email, sent it along, and collapsed on my family's couch with a semi-contented whimper. So much for going out with a bang like I had always pictured.
I passed all of my classes and did fairly well. It wasn't my best semester ever grade-wise, but that's ok. The semester had been plagued with apathy (see previous post) and various bad occurrences (getting my identity stolen, for one). The important thing is that I managed, somehow, to graduate.
Wow, this post went on for a lot longer than I had expected. Anyway, that is the story of how I parted ways with my appendix. People really dig it when I tell it at job interviews and such.
On another note, I was urged to update my blog by a few people; I didn't realize that people actually read this. I mainly keep this blog for personal reasons. It makes me feel like I have a theoretical place where my thoughts are organized. I'll be updating more frequently now (after writing 52 pages in two weeks, I didn't want to even be literate anymore, let alone type another word), so stay tuned.
Quite a bit has happened to me since I left the hospital, none of it as interesting as the appendix story. I will, however, set it down soon enough. Happy February, y'all.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
A sign that I should do my work.
Normally, I procrastinate. By procrastinate, I mean that I get my work done eventually, and always before the deadline. Lately, my concept of procrastination has transcended this definition and I procrastinate to whole new levels.
Case in point: I had a Shakespeare paper due today that I have known about for a couple of weeks.
It was to be a short assignment-- 8-10 pages, in rough draft form, on a topic of my choosing.
I chose to write on the significance of clothing and clothing imagery in king lear.
fucking. simple.
right?
wrong.
I put off the work, and put off the work. I convinced myself that I had a thesis. I assumed that there was 8-10 pages worth of semi-coherent rambling on the subject stored somewhere in the depths of my thick skull. Well, maybe there was. Or should I say maybe there is, because I haven't written the paper yet.
As of 5:00 p.m. today, when the paper was due, I had my NAME written on a Microsoft Word document saved as "Clothing--Lear". The cursor blinked intermittently all afternoon, taunting me, daring me to hit a cohesive series of keystrokes and complete a functional sentence.
Let me rewind.
At 1030 p.m. yesterday evening I had a shot of espresso after having consumed various other forms and amounts of caffeine all day. I decided to start my paper after ignoring it all weekend. By midnight I had begun and erased several paragraphs. I had gone for a walk to clear my mind. I had sat in the living room with the rest of my housemates, talking about how none of us were actually doing work. All of this is completely normal. By the time 1:00 a.m. hit, though, and I had nothing to show for my entire weekend-- which was supposed to be spent writing this paper-- I broke down. I called aaron in tears and asked him to save me. I asked Ali to stab me so that I could go to the hospital and get out of work for a few days. I considered throwing myself down a flight of stairs or inducing some minor but moderately serious injury. I considered committing a crime and the delightful prospect of incarceration: free food, reading for pleasure, no student debt... I waxed melancholy on the fact that I am paying 52,000 dollars a year to be miserable...
Alas, I was not able to enact any of these logical (at the time) proposals. After a couple of hours of sobbing, a bout of stress eating where Ali and I stuffed our faces with junkfood, and a little bit more crying, I fell asleep with nothing more than my name on the page at approximately 3:00 a.m.
I planned, at that point, to write what I could between 2:30 and 5:00 p.m. today. In fact I VOWED to do my work, I promised myself that after a few more weeks of this HELL I could be out of here. I promised myself a month of alternately substitute teaching at EHS, sleeping on my family's couch, and watching Lifetime movies. Last night I even had a dream that Bill Oram (the shakespeare professor) was going to have me executed by firing squad for not turning in my paper. Heading up the execution exercise was Kevin Rozario (why? well never know) dressed in a motley mixture of various military uniforms. Amongst the ranks of people with guns aimed at me (all of this took place on the side of Neilson library) were Michael Thurston, Doug Patey, Michael Gorra, Nora Crow, and Tony Bennett (?). Clearly this dream was a sign from either God, my ancestors, or...Tony Bennett...that I need to do my work.
None of these promises worked. The dream did nothing to shake me awake. I remained steadfast in my procrastination. I held fast to my apathetic grandeur, becoming a beacon for all of those who want to become less responsible...
At 8:00 p.m. tonight, I still had nothing more than my name on the paper.
Hours later I have only a few pages done, and that's all he's getting.
Lesson here, kids? Don't go to Smith. In fact, don't go to college. Become a plumber. Or an HVAC specialist. Shakespeare is small beans and is best avoided.
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
ELECTION NIGHT IN PARK ANNEX
"one time i drank two milk shakes and barfed and then my dog ate it and barfed and then my other dog ate it and didn't barf"
- jessica watson
i find myself gathered with eight lovely ladies, glued to the television, waiting for election updates. we've all contributed amounts of food to a communal coffee table; everything ranging from fresh baked bread to nutella, two large pizzas, doritos, cheese, soda, and to top it all off a gigantic pot of coffee.
barack obama just won new hampshire; there's nothing i'd rather be doing than stuffing my face, glued to the television with politically enthusiastic, intelligent friends.
needless to say we're all gunning for obama.
updates later.
- jessica watson
i find myself gathered with eight lovely ladies, glued to the television, waiting for election updates. we've all contributed amounts of food to a communal coffee table; everything ranging from fresh baked bread to nutella, two large pizzas, doritos, cheese, soda, and to top it all off a gigantic pot of coffee.
barack obama just won new hampshire; there's nothing i'd rather be doing than stuffing my face, glued to the television with politically enthusiastic, intelligent friends.
needless to say we're all gunning for obama.
updates later.
Friday, October 31, 2008
my environmental ethics class is the bane of my existence
so i stupidly thought it would be a good idea to take, first of all, a philosophy class at smith college...i might add that this philosophy class is 'environmental ethics'. while i identify myself as a fairly liberal democrat, this class makes me want to turn into a far-right, conservative republican. it also makes me want to cry or throw my coffee mug at someone's head.
the thing is, it's not a bad class. the readings are great, the work isn't too bad, and the professor is amusing, incredibly intelligent, and clearly knows his shit. the problem is that 90 percent of the smith population that i hate is in the class.
we've got all sorts of trust-fund hippies who, in the end, have probably never worked a day in their miserable little lives. they spout out liberal buzzwords like 'sustainability' and often remind us to 'diversify our alternative energy sources'. while they want to (and believe they can) 'subvert the dominant paradigm', they can't cross the street without getting hit by a car.
i should start over.
ok.
so, i took this class because i felt that environmental law would be a great career path for me. maybe it is, but certainly not if being an environmental lawyer is even VAGUELY reminiscent of this class. which, now that i think of it, it probably isn't. why? because these poor souls in this class have no real world solutions or realistic suggestions. 'smash the patriarchy' probably doesn't mesh well with policy jargon.
the class, as it is billed, is simply a study of how ethics can be applied to environmental policy and decision making. if i had known that class discussion (stupidly fostered by the professor--this is his only fault) would center around some jackass's preachy tirade about how the government should legally enforce a vegetarian diet on all american citizens, i would not have signed up. not in a million years. we rarely discuss policy, once in a while we'll look at a case study, but the class mainly seems to be a soapbox for smithies who, as usual, just want to affirm their own fucking views. once again, smith proves itself intolerant as i am SERIOUSLY afraid to speak out against any of them.
the thing is, none of them seem to understand very much about, well, very much. for instance, today we were discussing some bullshit-- i don't even remember what because we only focused on the actual reading for 3 minutes before the floor was opened up to these deliciously uninformed rants on shifting the power structure etc. anyway, we were supposed to be picking the most ECONOMICALLY and SOCIALLY feasible way to solve a problem: there is a river in the Northwest that is dammed in various places. It produces a ton of hydroelectric power. It has, with the lakes it has created, provided a great habitat for lots of waterfowl. Tons of barges go up and down this river-- crops like timber, grain, and potatoes are shipped inexpensively. This type of transportation is also less polluting than, say, shipping things on roads in flatbed trucks. The only thing is, the salmon population is slipping. THE FUCKING SALMON POPULATION. Ok, so that's bad. But one of the inexpensive options is to produce a fish lift like we have in Holyoke. It's the cheapest option. It would not shut down the dams. Economic and social factors dependent on the dam and what it produces would continue unchanged. From antecedent probability, we see that the lift would indeed be functional.
Possibly the best option, right? WRONG. Not to Smith College! According to my class, we need to, first of all, completely shut down the dams. The level of the lakes would return to the shallowness appropriate for salmon breeding. Spend the 500 million to tear down the dam. Let the fish run free. Give little or no attention to the fact that the habitat (albeit one that we have created) is now home to lots of other species. NO. WE ONLY CARE ABOUT THE EFFING SALMON.
This is only the beginning. Lots of agriculture is completely dependent on irrigation that comes from damming the river. There is apparently a huge aluminum smelting industry depending on cheap hydroelectric power. And, as I mentioned, barge transportation of good depends on the dams.
One girl asked about the aluminum smelting industry: "what is that, anyway? do we really need it?"
While, perhaps, recycling is a more viable option for aluminum cans, this girl failed to realize that 1) aluminum goes into other things and 2) THIS INDUSTRY CREATES JOBS. This girls parents are clearly not employed by the aluminum smelting industry. So why should she care? Just get rid of it. Who gives a shit. The salmon. It's all about the salmon (which we aren't allowed to eat, but more on that later).
Clearly the agriculture dependent on irrigation is not important either. One girl suggested that "we should all live in self-sustaining communities". LISTEN. I'm glad to hear that whatever planet your'e from has a mediterranean climate and infinitely fertile soil, plus the time and means to grow and produce whatever you fucking feel like, but here in the lovely state of Massachusetts, we have something called WINTER during which time we do not grow things and must import them. I have a feeling, too, that if these idiots were forced to live on a farm for more than a week they'd shit their pants. They glorify and idealize organic farming, but seem to FAIL to realize that organic farming means pulling weeds by hand, dealing with pests directly; it's altogether much more time consuming. So yes, Smith College, go buy yourself an organic farm. Eat your grass and continue being miserable. Sure, go ahead and assume farmers are stupid because they don't have a degree from some fancypants institution. I wanted to suggest that these girls and the farmers strip themselves of all of their belongings-- all the money in the world says that the farmers will be able to live off the land MUCH longer than these intolerant brats who don't even know how to do their own laundry, much less raise a fucking field of corn. How's that for Social Darwinism/ survival of the fittest?
So yes. Let's get rid of agriculture. Oh, and one girl said there should be no interstate commerce-- i.e. Idaho should live off its own damn potatoes. Once again, there is failure to realize that these girls' precious little soybeans come from some plantation somewhere. I can not emphasize how mad these people make me. Oh, and also the government should enforce a countrywide vegetarian diet. We should stop eating meat. And the grain that is grown? We'll just eat that instead. Because it's a complete protein, right? Or maybe because we live in America where people are free to choose what they eat? Oh yeah, that. The Bill of Rights says nothing about that, so we're free to penalize people who EAT FUCKING MEAT.
Also, arent' there bigger, more important things going on in this country that we should be worrying about? No? Ok. Salmon population it is! We shouldn't worry about the economy. Or worry about destroying, for that matter, the jobs dependent on these dams which might be some of the only fucking jobs left in this country. Fuck you, Smith College.
Let me reiterate: trust-fund hippies with NO experiential knowledge run this campus. They think they know, but they don't. I'm not saying I know any better, but hey, at least listen to what the professor is saying. Your parents are paying for your lazy ass to be here for a reason.
Yet another reason I need OUT of here.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
AND NOW FOR SOMETHING COMPLETELY DIFFERENT
written a few days after my grandmother's death last fall for a satire seminar. i'm going to hell for this.
anyway, i'm re-posting this now. took it down for awhile (out of fear that family would be reading the blog-- family who might not have taken it as lightheartedly as it is intended).
almost exactly one year later, here it is-- the obituary to end all obituaries.
Sister of FAMOUS GOLFING LEGEND DIES.
Victoria M. Algustoski Fisher passed away late Sunday evening, surrounded by her impatient family, who had waited ninety-one years to pilfer her belongings. Vicky remained in nearly perfect health (much to the chagrin of her family, who thought that she might actually be immortal) up until a hip fracture--the cause of which is still highly debatable-- that occurred a month before at her home in Florence, Massachusetts.
Vicky was born on January 22, 1916, and raised in Haydenville, Massachusetts, in a home much too small for her ever-expanding family. Her mother, Mary, died while delivering her twelfth child (can you blame her?) leaving Vicky to raise the other children: Bobby, Tommy, Benny, Lottie, Dottie, Kenny, Stasia, and Jack. Her father, Walenty, attempted to help as best he could by getting drunk, gambling, and running a barbershop out of their basement—usually in that order.
She is outlived by three of her twelve siblings. Bobby Toski, of Some Expensive House on Some Famous Golf Course in Boca Raton, Florida, promises to honor her memory by sipping 12-year-old Scotch and mentioning her name in passing the next time he appears on the Golf Channel. Unfortunately, Bobby will not be around for any of the memorial services—he’s much too consumed by his harrowing job as a golf instructor—so all of you planning to attend the wake or funeral for the chance of a few free golf tips, don’t bother-- send flowers instead. Tommy Toski, best known as The Marginally Talented Brother of the Famous Bobby Toski, will not, like his brother, attend either the wake or the funeral. In fact, Tommy is admittedly slightly irked at Vicky’s untimely passing. Plane tickets bought on such short notice are, of course, expensive, though Tommy did reconsider attending when he was told about the free meal after the funeral ceremony. Victoria’s only surviving sister, Dottie “Sticky Fingers” Kneeland, mourns the passing of her older sister and eagerly anticipates the inheritance of a few coveted family heirlooms. For instance, a fitted brown dress that Vicky wore on her honeymoon—worth only eight dollars in 1942—is now going for twenty-five dollars plus shipping on eBay. Dottie encourages those who would like to remember her sister to visit her eBay page for a 20% Bereavement Discount on any single item owned by Vicky (this limited time offer can not be combined with any other offers).
Vicky will be buried with her beloved husband, Harrison A. Fisher, in Saint Mary’s Cemetery in Haydenville. Harrison, a World War II veteran, declined in health in 1992 and passed away after an altercation at a large-scale family reunion that resulted in the relinquishing of all door prizes by Dottie “Sticky Fingers” Kneeland. It is rumored that Harrison suffered several heart attacks at this event, where he witnessed the use of an ostentatious gold serving dish as a weapon and heard a drunken, unintelligible rendition of “Melody of Love” by Bobby Vinton.
For reasons unbeknownst to her family, Victoria chose to bear four children, all of which survive her. Her eldest daughter, Marianne Donahue, Register of Deeds of Hampshire County, will serve as executrix of the estate. In an attempt to uphold her reputation with the public, she will use this opportunity as a tool for social networking and delegation: her mother’s wake will serve as the pinnacle of her campaign for reelection. Hours before Victoria passed away, she had already planned the majority of the funeral services. As family streamed in to visit Vicky, Marianne confronted them, requesting that some begin working on the obituary while others start cleaning the homestead. She was even able to find six pallbearers with alternates in case of emergency. Vicky, though unconscious and struggling through her last breaths, must have felt very reassured when she heard that her wake would be held only a few days hence.
Victoria also leaves behind her second daughter, registered nurse Cynthia Clark of Easthampton. Cynthia attended to her mother’s health, not only as a nurse, but as a constant provider of Schweppes (and only Schweppes) ginger ale and plain chocolate M&M’s. Victoria’s funeral plans, enumerated in an appendix to her will, provide for the inclusion of a bottle of Schweppes and a party-sized bag of M&M’s in her casket. Victoria’s last wishes also included and emphasized a closed-casket wake. In her dying breaths, she asked angrily whether she was dead yet, and upon realizing that she was still alive, promised to haunt all of her children if they dared to open the casket. She summoned up every ounce of strength in her body to shake her fist in concurrence with this emphatic statement.
Lieutenant Colonel James R. Fisher of Washington D.C., the third child of Victoria and Harrison, spent time alternately comforting his dying mother and attentively watching the final Red Sox game of the American League Championship Series. Luckily, Victoria held on long enough to find out that the Red Sox were going to the World Series. She passed away only ten minutes after the game was won—just long enough to hear the resounding choruses of “Tessie” and “Dirty Water.” Although her family urged her to simply “let go” and “relax”, Vicky held out until the Sox won the pennant— what a diehard fan!
The baby of the family, William “Billy” Fisher remained somewhat elusive and aloof during his mother’s last hours. He reconciled her illness and dealt with her death in the same manner he dealt with all other problems: by chain smoking and betting on horse races. Billy was born on Christmas in 1956 and was often seen by the family as their equivalent of Jesus. God’s gift did spend time with his ailing mother when his doting sisters weren’t constantly there to rib him. Billy had not been on good terms with Marianne since the age of seven, when Marianne dressed him up as a bride and forced him to “marry” his own brother Jim. Billy did, however, exact some vengeance for this when, during his “wedding reception”, he chased Marianne around the house with a nine-iron. With one perfectly aimed swing, he broke the arm off a dining room chair. He and Jim spent the entire evening gluing the chair back together; however, Billy forgot to remove his gown. Only when it was wrinkled and splattered with glue and mahogany-tinted wood stain did Billy and Jim decide to put their mother’s wedding dress through the wash. Though the dress ended up in tatters, Billy and Jim created a story that put Marianne at fault for the ruined gown. They never disclosed the secret about the broken but convincingly repaired dining room chair: until her dying day, Vicky never found out exactly what happened the night she and her husband left their younger children with Marianne as the babysitter.
Victoria will also be remembered and missed by her six loving grandchildren: Amy, Jennifer, Beth, Laura, and Mary Fisher, and Jonas Clark. Beth, the eldest daughter of Jim and his wife, Kathy, hoped to inherit the previously aforementioned dining room set. Beth and her husband Rick had recently purchased a home in North Carolina and, needing a place to entertain, they hoped to commemorate Bapcia by having the set as a fixture in their home. Billy and Jim were forced to disclose, at long last, the secret of the dining room chair. Marianne hoped that this story would sway Beth to decide against taking the dining room set that she herself had wanted; however, Beth thought the well-hidden cracks, scald and burn marks, and rough edges added a character very reminiscent of the Fisher family holidays.
Jennifer (the second daughter of Jim and Kathy) traveled North from Virginia to attend bapcia’s memorial services. When asked by Marianne if there were any items in the house she’d like to inherit, Jennifer declined; however, she did closely examine all family photo albums, extracting all pictures from her younger years in which she sported a well-groomed mullet. Everyone deals with death and grief in their own way—apparently Jennifer was comforted by the abolition of any proof of such a horrific haircut.
Amy Fisher, the youngest daughter of Jim and Kathy, and Laura Fisher, the eldest daughter of Billy and his wife Karen, remembered bapcia in death the same way they celebrated her in life: by requesting the crass “She’s Too Fat for Me” polka on the local Sunday morning Polish radio show. Amy and Laura, both the same age, requested the same song every year at the annual family reunion. For as long as they could remember, bapcia always acted surprised and horrified when the polka band dedicated it to her before they counted down the bouncing beat. Marianne would not, however, honor their request that the “She’s Too Fat for Me” polka be played as the recessional during the funeral, though the girls were sure bapcia would have loved it.
Jonas Clark, the sole grandson of Vicky and only child of Cynthia Clark and her ex-husband George Clark, drove to his bapcia’s house immediately after her death and, with a roll of masking tape in one hand and a Sharpie in the other, labeled everything from the washer and drier to the kitchen table as his. He already missed his grandmother so very much that he hauled her collections of antique crystal expensive watercolors to his apartment hours before she even died. Unfortunately, Jonas will not be attending the funeral: though Marianne was sure that Vicky would have loved Jonas to be a pallbearer, he couldn’t, due to an annual dentist appointment that was scheduled for the same time.
Mary Fisher, the sister of Laura Fisher and the youngest grandchild and namesake of Vicky’s mother, asked that she simply have one of her bapcia’s sets of rosary beads. Vicky, religious until the very end, owned several and prayed with them on a daily basis. Marianne assured Mary that none of Vicky’s rosary beads was worth any amount of money and remained in a state of perpetual shock after Mary admitted that monetary worth was not superior to sentimental value.
Victoria, surprisingly, dealt with her unruly, loud, and confrontational family until the very end. She raised all of her nine brothers and sisters, had four children of her own, and played a large role in the upbringing of her six grandchildren. Though they may not exhibit their sorrows in any usual manner, her family will miss her greatly and remember her fondly when they sip Schweppes and nosh on M&M’s, listen to Vicky’s favorite polkas, and especially when they hear anyone exclaim in a fit of frustration, “BILLY- JIMMY- BOBBY- TOMMY-BOBBY--Oh, YOU KIDS!” Goodbye to the central pin in the fabric of all of our lives—may she rest in peace and quiet.
anyway, i'm re-posting this now. took it down for awhile (out of fear that family would be reading the blog-- family who might not have taken it as lightheartedly as it is intended).
almost exactly one year later, here it is-- the obituary to end all obituaries.
Sister of FAMOUS GOLFING LEGEND DIES.
Victoria M. Algustoski Fisher passed away late Sunday evening, surrounded by her impatient family, who had waited ninety-one years to pilfer her belongings. Vicky remained in nearly perfect health (much to the chagrin of her family, who thought that she might actually be immortal) up until a hip fracture--the cause of which is still highly debatable-- that occurred a month before at her home in Florence, Massachusetts.
Vicky was born on January 22, 1916, and raised in Haydenville, Massachusetts, in a home much too small for her ever-expanding family. Her mother, Mary, died while delivering her twelfth child (can you blame her?) leaving Vicky to raise the other children: Bobby, Tommy, Benny, Lottie, Dottie, Kenny, Stasia, and Jack. Her father, Walenty, attempted to help as best he could by getting drunk, gambling, and running a barbershop out of their basement—usually in that order.
She is outlived by three of her twelve siblings. Bobby Toski, of Some Expensive House on Some Famous Golf Course in Boca Raton, Florida, promises to honor her memory by sipping 12-year-old Scotch and mentioning her name in passing the next time he appears on the Golf Channel. Unfortunately, Bobby will not be around for any of the memorial services—he’s much too consumed by his harrowing job as a golf instructor—so all of you planning to attend the wake or funeral for the chance of a few free golf tips, don’t bother-- send flowers instead. Tommy Toski, best known as The Marginally Talented Brother of the Famous Bobby Toski, will not, like his brother, attend either the wake or the funeral. In fact, Tommy is admittedly slightly irked at Vicky’s untimely passing. Plane tickets bought on such short notice are, of course, expensive, though Tommy did reconsider attending when he was told about the free meal after the funeral ceremony. Victoria’s only surviving sister, Dottie “Sticky Fingers” Kneeland, mourns the passing of her older sister and eagerly anticipates the inheritance of a few coveted family heirlooms. For instance, a fitted brown dress that Vicky wore on her honeymoon—worth only eight dollars in 1942—is now going for twenty-five dollars plus shipping on eBay. Dottie encourages those who would like to remember her sister to visit her eBay page for a 20% Bereavement Discount on any single item owned by Vicky (this limited time offer can not be combined with any other offers).
Vicky will be buried with her beloved husband, Harrison A. Fisher, in Saint Mary’s Cemetery in Haydenville. Harrison, a World War II veteran, declined in health in 1992 and passed away after an altercation at a large-scale family reunion that resulted in the relinquishing of all door prizes by Dottie “Sticky Fingers” Kneeland. It is rumored that Harrison suffered several heart attacks at this event, where he witnessed the use of an ostentatious gold serving dish as a weapon and heard a drunken, unintelligible rendition of “Melody of Love” by Bobby Vinton.
For reasons unbeknownst to her family, Victoria chose to bear four children, all of which survive her. Her eldest daughter, Marianne Donahue, Register of Deeds of Hampshire County, will serve as executrix of the estate. In an attempt to uphold her reputation with the public, she will use this opportunity as a tool for social networking and delegation: her mother’s wake will serve as the pinnacle of her campaign for reelection. Hours before Victoria passed away, she had already planned the majority of the funeral services. As family streamed in to visit Vicky, Marianne confronted them, requesting that some begin working on the obituary while others start cleaning the homestead. She was even able to find six pallbearers with alternates in case of emergency. Vicky, though unconscious and struggling through her last breaths, must have felt very reassured when she heard that her wake would be held only a few days hence.
Victoria also leaves behind her second daughter, registered nurse Cynthia Clark of Easthampton. Cynthia attended to her mother’s health, not only as a nurse, but as a constant provider of Schweppes (and only Schweppes) ginger ale and plain chocolate M&M’s. Victoria’s funeral plans, enumerated in an appendix to her will, provide for the inclusion of a bottle of Schweppes and a party-sized bag of M&M’s in her casket. Victoria’s last wishes also included and emphasized a closed-casket wake. In her dying breaths, she asked angrily whether she was dead yet, and upon realizing that she was still alive, promised to haunt all of her children if they dared to open the casket. She summoned up every ounce of strength in her body to shake her fist in concurrence with this emphatic statement.
Lieutenant Colonel James R. Fisher of Washington D.C., the third child of Victoria and Harrison, spent time alternately comforting his dying mother and attentively watching the final Red Sox game of the American League Championship Series. Luckily, Victoria held on long enough to find out that the Red Sox were going to the World Series. She passed away only ten minutes after the game was won—just long enough to hear the resounding choruses of “Tessie” and “Dirty Water.” Although her family urged her to simply “let go” and “relax”, Vicky held out until the Sox won the pennant— what a diehard fan!
The baby of the family, William “Billy” Fisher remained somewhat elusive and aloof during his mother’s last hours. He reconciled her illness and dealt with her death in the same manner he dealt with all other problems: by chain smoking and betting on horse races. Billy was born on Christmas in 1956 and was often seen by the family as their equivalent of Jesus. God’s gift did spend time with his ailing mother when his doting sisters weren’t constantly there to rib him. Billy had not been on good terms with Marianne since the age of seven, when Marianne dressed him up as a bride and forced him to “marry” his own brother Jim. Billy did, however, exact some vengeance for this when, during his “wedding reception”, he chased Marianne around the house with a nine-iron. With one perfectly aimed swing, he broke the arm off a dining room chair. He and Jim spent the entire evening gluing the chair back together; however, Billy forgot to remove his gown. Only when it was wrinkled and splattered with glue and mahogany-tinted wood stain did Billy and Jim decide to put their mother’s wedding dress through the wash. Though the dress ended up in tatters, Billy and Jim created a story that put Marianne at fault for the ruined gown. They never disclosed the secret about the broken but convincingly repaired dining room chair: until her dying day, Vicky never found out exactly what happened the night she and her husband left their younger children with Marianne as the babysitter.
Victoria will also be remembered and missed by her six loving grandchildren: Amy, Jennifer, Beth, Laura, and Mary Fisher, and Jonas Clark. Beth, the eldest daughter of Jim and his wife, Kathy, hoped to inherit the previously aforementioned dining room set. Beth and her husband Rick had recently purchased a home in North Carolina and, needing a place to entertain, they hoped to commemorate Bapcia by having the set as a fixture in their home. Billy and Jim were forced to disclose, at long last, the secret of the dining room chair. Marianne hoped that this story would sway Beth to decide against taking the dining room set that she herself had wanted; however, Beth thought the well-hidden cracks, scald and burn marks, and rough edges added a character very reminiscent of the Fisher family holidays.
Jennifer (the second daughter of Jim and Kathy) traveled North from Virginia to attend bapcia’s memorial services. When asked by Marianne if there were any items in the house she’d like to inherit, Jennifer declined; however, she did closely examine all family photo albums, extracting all pictures from her younger years in which she sported a well-groomed mullet. Everyone deals with death and grief in their own way—apparently Jennifer was comforted by the abolition of any proof of such a horrific haircut.
Amy Fisher, the youngest daughter of Jim and Kathy, and Laura Fisher, the eldest daughter of Billy and his wife Karen, remembered bapcia in death the same way they celebrated her in life: by requesting the crass “She’s Too Fat for Me” polka on the local Sunday morning Polish radio show. Amy and Laura, both the same age, requested the same song every year at the annual family reunion. For as long as they could remember, bapcia always acted surprised and horrified when the polka band dedicated it to her before they counted down the bouncing beat. Marianne would not, however, honor their request that the “She’s Too Fat for Me” polka be played as the recessional during the funeral, though the girls were sure bapcia would have loved it.
Jonas Clark, the sole grandson of Vicky and only child of Cynthia Clark and her ex-husband George Clark, drove to his bapcia’s house immediately after her death and, with a roll of masking tape in one hand and a Sharpie in the other, labeled everything from the washer and drier to the kitchen table as his. He already missed his grandmother so very much that he hauled her collections of antique crystal expensive watercolors to his apartment hours before she even died. Unfortunately, Jonas will not be attending the funeral: though Marianne was sure that Vicky would have loved Jonas to be a pallbearer, he couldn’t, due to an annual dentist appointment that was scheduled for the same time.
Mary Fisher, the sister of Laura Fisher and the youngest grandchild and namesake of Vicky’s mother, asked that she simply have one of her bapcia’s sets of rosary beads. Vicky, religious until the very end, owned several and prayed with them on a daily basis. Marianne assured Mary that none of Vicky’s rosary beads was worth any amount of money and remained in a state of perpetual shock after Mary admitted that monetary worth was not superior to sentimental value.
Victoria, surprisingly, dealt with her unruly, loud, and confrontational family until the very end. She raised all of her nine brothers and sisters, had four children of her own, and played a large role in the upbringing of her six grandchildren. Though they may not exhibit their sorrows in any usual manner, her family will miss her greatly and remember her fondly when they sip Schweppes and nosh on M&M’s, listen to Vicky’s favorite polkas, and especially when they hear anyone exclaim in a fit of frustration, “BILLY- JIMMY- BOBBY- TOMMY-BOBBY--Oh, YOU KIDS!” Goodbye to the central pin in the fabric of all of our lives—may she rest in peace and quiet.
waugh, and what i need to remove from my life.
'and i, who by every precept should have put heart into them-- how could i help them, who could so little help myself?...here my last love died. there was nothing remarkable in the manner of its death. as i lay in the dark hour, i was aghast to realize that something within me, long sickening, had quietly died; no hope of setting things right, no self-reproach for the disaster...i had played every scene in the domestic tragedy, had found the early tiffs become more frequent, the tears less affecting, the reconciliations less sweet, till they engendered a mood of cool criticism and aloofness...i caught the false notes in her voice and learned to listen for them apprehensively; i recognized the blank, resentful stare of incomprehension in her eyes, and the selfish, hard set of the corners of her mouth...i learned her slatternly ways, the routine and mechanism of her charm, her jealousy and self-seeking....she was stripped of all enchantment now and i knew her for an uncongenial stranger to whom i had bound myself indissolubly in a moment of folly. i would go on with my job, but i could bring to it nothing more than acquiescence.... my eyes were dry to all save poetry.'
precisely.
this simple passage can be applied to all of the things i need to eradicate or move on from in my life.
and
'i should like to bury something precious in every place where i've been happy and then, when i was old and ugly and miserable, i could come back and dig it up and remember'
& i suppose that's all there is to it: selective memory. recalling happiness. moments recollected in tranquility. the end, period.
& away we go.
50 days left for my current state of directionlessness to disappear...
precisely.
this simple passage can be applied to all of the things i need to eradicate or move on from in my life.
and
'i should like to bury something precious in every place where i've been happy and then, when i was old and ugly and miserable, i could come back and dig it up and remember'
& i suppose that's all there is to it: selective memory. recalling happiness. moments recollected in tranquility. the end, period.
& away we go.
50 days left for my current state of directionlessness to disappear...
Sunday, October 19, 2008
perpetuating purgatory
I can't go on. I'll go on.
-Samuel Beckett
I'm counting down the days until my I can successfully add a completed B.A. to my resume. Only a couple more months of Smith College and I'll be out the door. I know these are my last moments here and, indeed, the last moments of a very concrete, very defined portion of my life. Soon, eating stolen pancakes on my bedroom floor with my bare hands will no longer be the norm and I'll be forced to keep a much more socially productive schedule. I'll need to stay awake for more than six hours at a time and I'll need to adjust my diet away from starch and caffeine. I feel almost like a terminally ill patient, as awful as that sounds, who has just been given a few months to live. I am seeing what I've learned to take for granted here. I'm starting to realize that my core group of friends will soon be dispersed all over the world. While I'm tentative to leave behind the place that I've come to call home, I'm also looking forward to the prospect of a time when alpha sigma sigma is running this joint (the world, that is). Indeed, this big earth has felt a bit smaller lately-- I think of all the places I and my friends have been to recently, the things we've accomplished, and what we've made of ourselves in such a short span of time, and I start to regain a little bit of faith in humanity. As long as Julia is saving Peruvian orphans, Jess is running the Met., Mareva is entertaining millions with her music, and Julia Baker has found the cure to the common cold, all will be right in the world. Having such amazing, talented, and brilliant friends makes life a little bit more worthwhile and unpredictable.
It's odd, however, how 'predictable' life has become here. I don't necessarily mean it in a bad way-- it's just that Smith gives students no room for any kind of typical college social life. The lovely ladies of Park Annex have, of late, been joking about how habitual and geriatric our lives have become. I often feel as though I'm in some sort of rest home. I mean, when it's cold out, none of us want to leave the house and instead complain about the hundred yards we have to walk to get dinner. We have a grand piano that is often subject to renditions of classical pieces one might hear on NPR. I'm pretty sure that if we had wheel chairs, no one would bother walking. People cringe at the idea of having to walk up two flights of stairs to get something. Friday nights have become a time for sitting around the fireplace in squishy armchairs discussing literature, the presidential race, or gossiping about professors. The other night, Julia Baker brought me a blanket and tucked me in as I curled up on an ottoman to read some Evelyn Waugh. Teacups and newspapers are sprawled haphazardly on our coffee tables along with reading glasses. Rarely do any of us go to bed after midnight, even on a weekend. When young firsties pass the house drunk at three in the morning, we're more inclined to roll our eyes or bark at them to shut up than to join in. Sure, we might have a glass of wine once in a while, but it's more in the ' a glass of red wine will help me sleep better' sense than in the old 'let's get drunk and steal things' mode of the 'old days', as Ali and I say, when we had only recently turned 21 and spending a significant portion of our bank accounts on alcohol was more acceptable. I wouldn't change this for anything. I love the excitement that surrounds the simple act of having dinner together or sharing a pot of coffee. I'd rather this than eternal beerpong tournaments any day. I complain about it, of course, but at least I can get my work done and I'll leave here with more brain cells intact.
So, right now I'm kind of in the middle of two places. I'm almost done with school, with one foot out the door into the "real" world. (But what even quantifies "real"? I'm willing to create and substitute my own reality for anything I find less than satisfactory.) Come January, I'll throw out some lines and see what I can get. Whether it be a job, an opportunity to travel, or even an opportunity to relax, I'm glad I've taken my focus off law school. I need to see some things for myself before I descend back into the world of academia. And it seems that this is indeed the time to do it.
As I type this, there is a fairly drunk young lady screaming bloody murder somewhere outside my window. She must not have taken a class with Doug Patey yet.
-Samuel Beckett
I'm counting down the days until my I can successfully add a completed B.A. to my resume. Only a couple more months of Smith College and I'll be out the door. I know these are my last moments here and, indeed, the last moments of a very concrete, very defined portion of my life. Soon, eating stolen pancakes on my bedroom floor with my bare hands will no longer be the norm and I'll be forced to keep a much more socially productive schedule. I'll need to stay awake for more than six hours at a time and I'll need to adjust my diet away from starch and caffeine. I feel almost like a terminally ill patient, as awful as that sounds, who has just been given a few months to live. I am seeing what I've learned to take for granted here. I'm starting to realize that my core group of friends will soon be dispersed all over the world. While I'm tentative to leave behind the place that I've come to call home, I'm also looking forward to the prospect of a time when alpha sigma sigma is running this joint (the world, that is). Indeed, this big earth has felt a bit smaller lately-- I think of all the places I and my friends have been to recently, the things we've accomplished, and what we've made of ourselves in such a short span of time, and I start to regain a little bit of faith in humanity. As long as Julia is saving Peruvian orphans, Jess is running the Met., Mareva is entertaining millions with her music, and Julia Baker has found the cure to the common cold, all will be right in the world. Having such amazing, talented, and brilliant friends makes life a little bit more worthwhile and unpredictable.
It's odd, however, how 'predictable' life has become here. I don't necessarily mean it in a bad way-- it's just that Smith gives students no room for any kind of typical college social life. The lovely ladies of Park Annex have, of late, been joking about how habitual and geriatric our lives have become. I often feel as though I'm in some sort of rest home. I mean, when it's cold out, none of us want to leave the house and instead complain about the hundred yards we have to walk to get dinner. We have a grand piano that is often subject to renditions of classical pieces one might hear on NPR. I'm pretty sure that if we had wheel chairs, no one would bother walking. People cringe at the idea of having to walk up two flights of stairs to get something. Friday nights have become a time for sitting around the fireplace in squishy armchairs discussing literature, the presidential race, or gossiping about professors. The other night, Julia Baker brought me a blanket and tucked me in as I curled up on an ottoman to read some Evelyn Waugh. Teacups and newspapers are sprawled haphazardly on our coffee tables along with reading glasses. Rarely do any of us go to bed after midnight, even on a weekend. When young firsties pass the house drunk at three in the morning, we're more inclined to roll our eyes or bark at them to shut up than to join in. Sure, we might have a glass of wine once in a while, but it's more in the ' a glass of red wine will help me sleep better' sense than in the old 'let's get drunk and steal things' mode of the 'old days', as Ali and I say, when we had only recently turned 21 and spending a significant portion of our bank accounts on alcohol was more acceptable. I wouldn't change this for anything. I love the excitement that surrounds the simple act of having dinner together or sharing a pot of coffee. I'd rather this than eternal beerpong tournaments any day. I complain about it, of course, but at least I can get my work done and I'll leave here with more brain cells intact.
So, right now I'm kind of in the middle of two places. I'm almost done with school, with one foot out the door into the "real" world. (But what even quantifies "real"? I'm willing to create and substitute my own reality for anything I find less than satisfactory.) Come January, I'll throw out some lines and see what I can get. Whether it be a job, an opportunity to travel, or even an opportunity to relax, I'm glad I've taken my focus off law school. I need to see some things for myself before I descend back into the world of academia. And it seems that this is indeed the time to do it.
As I type this, there is a fairly drunk young lady screaming bloody murder somewhere outside my window. She must not have taken a class with Doug Patey yet.
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Oops! Haven't updated; I'm not dead.
Ok, so I failed MISERABLY at keeping my blog updated while in England. That should serve as a testament to how much I was enjoying myself. I really didn't have the time or motivation to sit down and rehash adventures while more awaited.
That said, I'm home now-- have been for two months. I'm back at Smith and once again finding myself equally loving and hating it. I'm thrilled that it's my last semester, but I'm graduating in January into a horrific economy with a B.A. in English from a school whose main association is "lesbian". Although Smith has been ranked, usually, right within/outside the top ten best lib arts colleges in the country, it's been kind of thumbing its metaphorical nose at newsweek ratings/other ratings which rely heavily on SAT scores...Smith kind of ignores SAT scores at this point and now we're slipping...i understand where they're coming from, but to an everyday person who googles smith and finds it slipping in rank? that doesn't help my job prospects. THANKS AGAIN, CAROL CHRIST!
at least we've got 'prestige', whatever that means anymore. and good housing!
and overall, we're 13th for being happy with our overall experience. i wonder what it's like to be MORE miserable than a Smithie. wow.
i hope this holds when i go to job interviews! otherwise, lots of money wasted (not that i didn't take anything out of being here).
Anyway, I looked at a few law schools this weekend. UVA, Georgetown, and American were all great but I decided I'll definitely be taking a year off or more after all is said and done.
Options for the year off? I'd like to think I'm going to travel the globe and save the earth with Julia Rhinelander (who is leaving for New Zealand in a week-- JEALOUS), but I'll probably just sit in Easthampton and rot like the economy.
Ok. So prospects aren't that bad. I could always work at the Registry of Deeds, picking up my old job for about 28k a year (not too great, but at least it's money). I'm looking at local law firm options and since I've done two legal internships (not in the strict sense of the phrase), hopefully that will help. I'm in talks with a superior court judge for an internship now, so keep your fingers crossed for me...
Or I could travel. Hey, I can dream. I really want to go back to Oxford-- and I want Izzy to come with me!--but I also really want to go to Spain to see Mareva (& Julia if she's there), I'd love to go to Amsterdam, because we missed it when we were in England. Paris to see Jess, perhaps? Great American road trip to visit all my friends who are sprawled out around this country? Senegal to volunteer with Julia? I've always wanted to go to India. Ooh, and Chile. Voy a practicar mi espanol. I'd love to go to the west coast of ireland, too-- didn't make it there, we just ended up staying in Dublin. Internship at Kew Gardens? Internship at the Bodleian? Who knows. Who wants to give me money for travel?
In the meantime, I can only wonder, in the words of Azure Ray's 'Displaced', "am i making something worthwhile out of this place? am i making something worthwhile out of this chase?"...I hope the massive piles of money I've given Smith will return to me tenfold. Or, at very least, I hope I end up happy.
I guess it's all in what I make of it. At least I'm not socially inept like half of this school!
Peace kiddos. I'm off to read some shakespeare.
That said, I'm home now-- have been for two months. I'm back at Smith and once again finding myself equally loving and hating it. I'm thrilled that it's my last semester, but I'm graduating in January into a horrific economy with a B.A. in English from a school whose main association is "lesbian". Although Smith has been ranked, usually, right within/outside the top ten best lib arts colleges in the country, it's been kind of thumbing its metaphorical nose at newsweek ratings/other ratings which rely heavily on SAT scores...Smith kind of ignores SAT scores at this point and now we're slipping...i understand where they're coming from, but to an everyday person who googles smith and finds it slipping in rank? that doesn't help my job prospects. THANKS AGAIN, CAROL CHRIST!
at least we've got 'prestige', whatever that means anymore. and good housing!
and overall, we're 13th for being happy with our overall experience. i wonder what it's like to be MORE miserable than a Smithie. wow.
i hope this holds when i go to job interviews! otherwise, lots of money wasted (not that i didn't take anything out of being here).
Anyway, I looked at a few law schools this weekend. UVA, Georgetown, and American were all great but I decided I'll definitely be taking a year off or more after all is said and done.
Options for the year off? I'd like to think I'm going to travel the globe and save the earth with Julia Rhinelander (who is leaving for New Zealand in a week-- JEALOUS), but I'll probably just sit in Easthampton and rot like the economy.
Ok. So prospects aren't that bad. I could always work at the Registry of Deeds, picking up my old job for about 28k a year (not too great, but at least it's money). I'm looking at local law firm options and since I've done two legal internships (not in the strict sense of the phrase), hopefully that will help. I'm in talks with a superior court judge for an internship now, so keep your fingers crossed for me...
Or I could travel. Hey, I can dream. I really want to go back to Oxford-- and I want Izzy to come with me!--but I also really want to go to Spain to see Mareva (& Julia if she's there), I'd love to go to Amsterdam, because we missed it when we were in England. Paris to see Jess, perhaps? Great American road trip to visit all my friends who are sprawled out around this country? Senegal to volunteer with Julia? I've always wanted to go to India. Ooh, and Chile. Voy a practicar mi espanol. I'd love to go to the west coast of ireland, too-- didn't make it there, we just ended up staying in Dublin. Internship at Kew Gardens? Internship at the Bodleian? Who knows. Who wants to give me money for travel?
In the meantime, I can only wonder, in the words of Azure Ray's 'Displaced', "am i making something worthwhile out of this place? am i making something worthwhile out of this chase?"...I hope the massive piles of money I've given Smith will return to me tenfold. Or, at very least, I hope I end up happy.
I guess it's all in what I make of it. At least I'm not socially inept like half of this school!
Peace kiddos. I'm off to read some shakespeare.
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
names & faces and the fourth of july
i haven't been too motivated to write anything down about this trip. it's absolutely gorgeous here and so many amazing things have happened, but i haven't wanted to sit and write it all down. anyway, here we go. i'll attempt to write more often now.
this past weekend i went to london with izzy. but that's not where the story begins.
the story begins on friday afternoon, the fourth of july. izzy and i, being scholarly and classy, decided to explore even more of oxford. we went to the ashmolean museum and wandered around quite a bit. on the way home from the ashmolean, i suggested that we stop at a bar for a drink before we grabbed dinner. as you may guess, dinner never occurred that night, and one drink turned into a few more. i was told not to make a big deal out of being an american by my friend who was originally from bristol. i understand why people here might dislike loud, crass, unrefined americans, but that didn't stop izzy and i from yelling every few minutes about our status as AMERICANS. we told everyone in the bar that it was the fourth of july, and luckily (possibly since we're girls) we didn't get beaten up. everyone seemed pretty amused and a few people even bought us drinks. the night culminated in us walking home arm in arm singing elton john's 'your song' at the top of our lungs. needless to say, we were starving because we hadn't eaten dinner. izzy-- and god knows how she pulled this off-- managed to order us a pizza at about 1 am. there was a minimum for delivery, so she just kept adding more and more food to the order until we reached about 15 pounds (30 american dollars). we just finished the leftovers yesterday. oh, and something really creepy happened. izzy had to give her cell phone number to the pizza place so that they could call us when they got here with the food (we live in a gated college so they can't just walk up to the door). when the food gets here, the creepy delivery guy immediately gives us his number (which is hanging on my bulletin board as a testament to our drunken endeavors). thinking nothing of it, we ate our pizza and decided to head to london the next day. at about 5 pm on saturday, as we were walking around london, izzy received a text message from a random number-- it turns out that this creepy pizza guy took her phone number off the receipt and tried to call us. the text message basically asked what we were up to and if we wanted to go out (gross!). we didn't answer, obviously, but we remain determined to get a free pizza for our pain and suffering from this place.
on another note, london was amazing. i don't feel like i saw very much, but we definitely walked around a lot. the bus ride was about 2 hours (half of that was pretty much city driving, trying to get to the bus station etc). luckily saturday was beautiful. we accidentally wandered through soho and saw the biggest gay pride parade ever. there were so many half naked latino men running around all greased up. it was absolutely fabulous. on every level. stay tuned for photos/videos that i took. we ate pizza for lunch-- again, clearly that's all we eat-- and wandered around the city until about 8 pm. we saw parliament and big ben, the london eye, and all those fabulous things. next time i go back i will see buckingham palace, the british museum, and some bars...
sunday night we were exhausted from our trip to london and i passed out at around 10 pm and didn't wake up until 830 am the next morning. i've become thoroughly obsessed with downloading episodes of digging for the truth (a history channel show). izzy and i have tried to watch various episodes on various occasions, but we always fall asleep. i'm pretty sure my roommate might have some pictures of us passed out in front of my computer...
monday night izzy and i decided to plan an excursion for this coming weekend. we agreed on dublin and spent wayyyy too much money on plane tickets because they were so last minute. so, to drown our sorrows, we went out and spent MORE money on drinks. since it was a monday night, all the bars were closing around 11. we ended up at THE SHADIEST nightclub EVER. first of all, i really hate night clubs, but we went anyway. there was a cell phone floating in one of the toilets and the entire place smelled like puke-- that pretty much sums it up. so izzy and i stood at the bar and took shot after shot after shot (the bartenders thought we were superhuman) and then walked home, somehow. then she ate 2 croissants in my room and we passed out. as you can tell, we're clearly classy.
last night we had our second high table dinner, so again i had to get all dressed up. afterward, the summer group met in the beer cellar (the on-campus bar) to talk with some professors. then we went out to a bar called the kings arms, which was enjoyable. while i was ordering drinks for izzy and myself (as you can tell, this is becoming a trend), a random english guy walked up to me to inform me that he and his friends were taking bets on where i was from. one guessed new york, one guessed new hampshire. both were wrong (but close), so they gave me 2 pounds, with which i bought a drink. haha, suckers.
so-- dublin this weekend! our flight leaves early friday morning and we come back on sunday evening. it'll be an expensive but worthwhile trip. i'll write again tomorrow, and pictures will be posted somewhere soon!
this past weekend i went to london with izzy. but that's not where the story begins.
the story begins on friday afternoon, the fourth of july. izzy and i, being scholarly and classy, decided to explore even more of oxford. we went to the ashmolean museum and wandered around quite a bit. on the way home from the ashmolean, i suggested that we stop at a bar for a drink before we grabbed dinner. as you may guess, dinner never occurred that night, and one drink turned into a few more. i was told not to make a big deal out of being an american by my friend who was originally from bristol. i understand why people here might dislike loud, crass, unrefined americans, but that didn't stop izzy and i from yelling every few minutes about our status as AMERICANS. we told everyone in the bar that it was the fourth of july, and luckily (possibly since we're girls) we didn't get beaten up. everyone seemed pretty amused and a few people even bought us drinks. the night culminated in us walking home arm in arm singing elton john's 'your song' at the top of our lungs. needless to say, we were starving because we hadn't eaten dinner. izzy-- and god knows how she pulled this off-- managed to order us a pizza at about 1 am. there was a minimum for delivery, so she just kept adding more and more food to the order until we reached about 15 pounds (30 american dollars). we just finished the leftovers yesterday. oh, and something really creepy happened. izzy had to give her cell phone number to the pizza place so that they could call us when they got here with the food (we live in a gated college so they can't just walk up to the door). when the food gets here, the creepy delivery guy immediately gives us his number (which is hanging on my bulletin board as a testament to our drunken endeavors). thinking nothing of it, we ate our pizza and decided to head to london the next day. at about 5 pm on saturday, as we were walking around london, izzy received a text message from a random number-- it turns out that this creepy pizza guy took her phone number off the receipt and tried to call us. the text message basically asked what we were up to and if we wanted to go out (gross!). we didn't answer, obviously, but we remain determined to get a free pizza for our pain and suffering from this place.
on another note, london was amazing. i don't feel like i saw very much, but we definitely walked around a lot. the bus ride was about 2 hours (half of that was pretty much city driving, trying to get to the bus station etc). luckily saturday was beautiful. we accidentally wandered through soho and saw the biggest gay pride parade ever. there were so many half naked latino men running around all greased up. it was absolutely fabulous. on every level. stay tuned for photos/videos that i took. we ate pizza for lunch-- again, clearly that's all we eat-- and wandered around the city until about 8 pm. we saw parliament and big ben, the london eye, and all those fabulous things. next time i go back i will see buckingham palace, the british museum, and some bars...
sunday night we were exhausted from our trip to london and i passed out at around 10 pm and didn't wake up until 830 am the next morning. i've become thoroughly obsessed with downloading episodes of digging for the truth (a history channel show). izzy and i have tried to watch various episodes on various occasions, but we always fall asleep. i'm pretty sure my roommate might have some pictures of us passed out in front of my computer...
monday night izzy and i decided to plan an excursion for this coming weekend. we agreed on dublin and spent wayyyy too much money on plane tickets because they were so last minute. so, to drown our sorrows, we went out and spent MORE money on drinks. since it was a monday night, all the bars were closing around 11. we ended up at THE SHADIEST nightclub EVER. first of all, i really hate night clubs, but we went anyway. there was a cell phone floating in one of the toilets and the entire place smelled like puke-- that pretty much sums it up. so izzy and i stood at the bar and took shot after shot after shot (the bartenders thought we were superhuman) and then walked home, somehow. then she ate 2 croissants in my room and we passed out. as you can tell, we're clearly classy.
last night we had our second high table dinner, so again i had to get all dressed up. afterward, the summer group met in the beer cellar (the on-campus bar) to talk with some professors. then we went out to a bar called the kings arms, which was enjoyable. while i was ordering drinks for izzy and myself (as you can tell, this is becoming a trend), a random english guy walked up to me to inform me that he and his friends were taking bets on where i was from. one guessed new york, one guessed new hampshire. both were wrong (but close), so they gave me 2 pounds, with which i bought a drink. haha, suckers.
so-- dublin this weekend! our flight leaves early friday morning and we come back on sunday evening. it'll be an expensive but worthwhile trip. i'll write again tomorrow, and pictures will be posted somewhere soon!
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
england so far: the city of dreaming spires
landed in london heathrow at about 7 am (7 am here, 2 am at home) on june 29th. i took a long bus ride from the airport to oxford-- one with very enjoyable scenery that i didn't enjoy because i was so exhausted and jet-lagged. it almost looked like western mass, but infinitely more beautiful-- lots of cows and sheep grazing, but quite a bit more picturesque, all surrounded by a low mist that lolled over the grass. a few girls from my program were on the bus with me, but none of us were really motivated to speak to each other. we arrived in oxford at about 10 am and my first order of business was to almost get hit by a bus. a big bus. i hadn't thought to look a different way when crossing the road (they drive on the left here, obviously, because they're nuts)...and the rest is history.
i'm exhausted now as i write this, still not completely adjusted to the time change and still fairly shocked at how beautiful this place is. i didn't expect so much to be so different from home. i went grocery shopping today with some friends-- even the food is completely different. one of the most jarring things is that they heat treat their eggs (or they do something to them) and in grocery store's they're not refrigerated! same goes for some milk. ew.
i've been meaning to write in this for the past few days, but between meeting everyone and sleeping and unpacking etc etc, i've been incredibly busy. so, i'll just fill y'all in on a few key events that have occurred.
i'm living at trinity college (one of oxford university's 39 colleges), which is absolutely and easily the most beautiful school i've seen in my life. my room has a fabulous view of the garden quad. my roommate, genevieve, and i got really lucky-- we have a huge common room that we share, with a fabulous view. off of the common room, we each have our own bedroom. between our bedrooms we have a private bathroom with a sink, toilet, and shower. to lock the door to the bathroom, you have to pull on a red cord hanging from the ceiling. it's pretty badass.
one of the weird things about living here (and it's something i feel really weird about) is the fact that we have what is called a scout. A scout, at oxford, is a person who comes into your room every morning to check on you/clean up after you. they make your bed for you, vacuum your room, take out your trash...i haven't met our scout yet, but genevieve has. apparently he is a few years older than us and is from poland. i'm looking forward to meeting him-- maybe he can teach me some polish! anyway, i feel really weird about someone having to clean up after me, so i've been trying to do it myself...
oxford is a beautiful city and a beautiful school. i've loved everything about being here, but there are a few strange things that i find highly amusing and somewhat odd. for instance, if you vomit on campus, you have to pay a 27 pound (equivalent about 60 US dollars) vomit fine. yes, we get charged for vomiting on this beautiful campus. my friend izzy got sick and had to go to the hospital on our first day here, and i feel bad (but secretly am laughing at the fact)-- she has to pay the vomit fine.
we're not allowed on any of the grass, ever. except the quad i live off of. we're not allowed to carry red wine or hot liquids on it-- red wine could stain the grass, hot liquids could burn it. my mother would love this place. a guy from georgetown that i met said he saw a guy edging one of the lawns with a pair of scissors, but i won't believe it until i see it.
we had our first high table dinner last night. we have this formal dinner every tuesday, and we are joined by our professors (tutors, they call them here) and are served food and wine by candlelight in the great hall that looks like something straight out of harry potter (some of harry potter was filmed at oxford, but more on that later).
anyway, plans for the weekend include a hike to wytham (a small town about 3 miles from here) that will take us through the cotswolds (which are beautiful), a pub crawl friday night to celebrate the fourth of july (we americans are assholes and want to rub our freedom in their british faces), and a trip to london, possibly saturday-sunday. i have to give a presentation on yeats's drama on monday, and i have a 12 page paper due in a few weeks for my modern irish literature class. FABULOUS. i'll try to update this as much as possible, but until then...happy trails! i'll post photos later!
i'm exhausted now as i write this, still not completely adjusted to the time change and still fairly shocked at how beautiful this place is. i didn't expect so much to be so different from home. i went grocery shopping today with some friends-- even the food is completely different. one of the most jarring things is that they heat treat their eggs (or they do something to them) and in grocery store's they're not refrigerated! same goes for some milk. ew.
i've been meaning to write in this for the past few days, but between meeting everyone and sleeping and unpacking etc etc, i've been incredibly busy. so, i'll just fill y'all in on a few key events that have occurred.
i'm living at trinity college (one of oxford university's 39 colleges), which is absolutely and easily the most beautiful school i've seen in my life. my room has a fabulous view of the garden quad. my roommate, genevieve, and i got really lucky-- we have a huge common room that we share, with a fabulous view. off of the common room, we each have our own bedroom. between our bedrooms we have a private bathroom with a sink, toilet, and shower. to lock the door to the bathroom, you have to pull on a red cord hanging from the ceiling. it's pretty badass.
one of the weird things about living here (and it's something i feel really weird about) is the fact that we have what is called a scout. A scout, at oxford, is a person who comes into your room every morning to check on you/clean up after you. they make your bed for you, vacuum your room, take out your trash...i haven't met our scout yet, but genevieve has. apparently he is a few years older than us and is from poland. i'm looking forward to meeting him-- maybe he can teach me some polish! anyway, i feel really weird about someone having to clean up after me, so i've been trying to do it myself...
oxford is a beautiful city and a beautiful school. i've loved everything about being here, but there are a few strange things that i find highly amusing and somewhat odd. for instance, if you vomit on campus, you have to pay a 27 pound (equivalent about 60 US dollars) vomit fine. yes, we get charged for vomiting on this beautiful campus. my friend izzy got sick and had to go to the hospital on our first day here, and i feel bad (but secretly am laughing at the fact)-- she has to pay the vomit fine.
we're not allowed on any of the grass, ever. except the quad i live off of. we're not allowed to carry red wine or hot liquids on it-- red wine could stain the grass, hot liquids could burn it. my mother would love this place. a guy from georgetown that i met said he saw a guy edging one of the lawns with a pair of scissors, but i won't believe it until i see it.
we had our first high table dinner last night. we have this formal dinner every tuesday, and we are joined by our professors (tutors, they call them here) and are served food and wine by candlelight in the great hall that looks like something straight out of harry potter (some of harry potter was filmed at oxford, but more on that later).
anyway, plans for the weekend include a hike to wytham (a small town about 3 miles from here) that will take us through the cotswolds (which are beautiful), a pub crawl friday night to celebrate the fourth of july (we americans are assholes and want to rub our freedom in their british faces), and a trip to london, possibly saturday-sunday. i have to give a presentation on yeats's drama on monday, and i have a 12 page paper due in a few weeks for my modern irish literature class. FABULOUS. i'll try to update this as much as possible, but until then...happy trails! i'll post photos later!
Thursday, May 15, 2008
travelogue: my epic summer
Photo-- Trinity College, Oxford (where I'll be living...be jealous!)
Unless you've been living under a rock or have been completely out of contact with me for the past year, you probably know that I'll be spending about 7 weeks in England this summer. This blog will become a place for musings on my travels and experiences. It'll also be a site where all y'all can catch up on what I'm doing and where I am. I leave June 28th, and, after flying overnight, I'll end up in Oxford (ideally) in the morning the next day. I'm taking a class on Modern Irish Literature and a class on Oxford, the city and university as a work of art (I think this is being billed as an architectural/art/historical class, sounds fascinating though). I'll be in Oxford until August 8th, at which point I will (hopefully, if all goes according to plan) meander my way up to Edinburgh, Scotland for a few days of the infamous Fringe Festival. I'll be staying in a hostel up there, so if anyone is going to be up in that area, I'll be there alone-- get in touch!
So, that being said, stay tuned for a blog bildungsroman.
Also, if anyone has any suggestions on places to visit in the UK (or Western Europe for that matter) feel free to let me know.
That's all for now...wish me luck!
--L
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
Idealistic and hasty resolutions made in political theory class as I was staring out the window
So.
Another year of school nearly behind me, I felt a surge of optimism and idealism. Instead of learning about Rousseau's commentary on nascent societies, I jotted down some ideas. Things to accomplish or work towards. Things to plan for. Things to make my life a little bit more organized, but also a little bit more enjoyable.
Ok. One. I joined Smith Rugby. I start playing next fall. I have never played before but I figured golf is a ridiculous excuse for a sport.
Two-- I've created an elaborate diet/exercise plan that will help me work toward losing my freshman 15 (or 20. or 30. I don't even want to think about it at this point). The end in sight is to be able to do the Smith SteelWoman Triathalon next year. Kudos to Julia who did this and inspired me.
Three-- Um, I'm going to take better care of my feet. They're absolutely gross. Every summer this happens: I wear flipflops or sandals or go barefoot and I end up with dirty feet. My friends call them hobbit feet. So, in an attempt to be possibly more feminine (though this is probably completely undone by joining rugby), I'll take better care of my feet. I'm a dirty hippie on the inside, it doesn't need to look that way on the outside too.
Four-- Register for the LSAT. This is more of a self-referential reminder. Ok, so as you might know, I'm definitely considering law school but I've got a bad bout of Peter Pan syndrome-- I don't ever want to get a job, I don't want to do any work, all I want to do is run around barefoot all day reading June Jordan poetry and eating mangoes. So, I says to myself, 'self, get up off your lazy ass and take the damn test'. June 15th is when it goes down! Schools I'm considering: Vermont Law, UVA, Chicago, Yale (pipe dream)....
Five--I am going to fly in more airplanes more often and go climb the rock wall here to get rid of my INSANE fear of heights. This is a perennial problem, one that's haunted me for years. Any suggestions?
Six-- Someone needs to teach me to play pool and poker. I know how to do NEITHER of these things, and I feel they may very well be essential to being a human.
Seven-- I'm gonna learn either cello or violin in the next year. Hands down. Who's gonna teach me?
Um, that's it for now. I'll keep you updated on my successes.
Another year of school nearly behind me, I felt a surge of optimism and idealism. Instead of learning about Rousseau's commentary on nascent societies, I jotted down some ideas. Things to accomplish or work towards. Things to plan for. Things to make my life a little bit more organized, but also a little bit more enjoyable.
Ok. One. I joined Smith Rugby. I start playing next fall. I have never played before but I figured golf is a ridiculous excuse for a sport.
Two-- I've created an elaborate diet/exercise plan that will help me work toward losing my freshman 15 (or 20. or 30. I don't even want to think about it at this point). The end in sight is to be able to do the Smith SteelWoman Triathalon next year. Kudos to Julia who did this and inspired me.
Three-- Um, I'm going to take better care of my feet. They're absolutely gross. Every summer this happens: I wear flipflops or sandals or go barefoot and I end up with dirty feet. My friends call them hobbit feet. So, in an attempt to be possibly more feminine (though this is probably completely undone by joining rugby), I'll take better care of my feet. I'm a dirty hippie on the inside, it doesn't need to look that way on the outside too.
Four-- Register for the LSAT. This is more of a self-referential reminder. Ok, so as you might know, I'm definitely considering law school but I've got a bad bout of Peter Pan syndrome-- I don't ever want to get a job, I don't want to do any work, all I want to do is run around barefoot all day reading June Jordan poetry and eating mangoes. So, I says to myself, 'self, get up off your lazy ass and take the damn test'. June 15th is when it goes down! Schools I'm considering: Vermont Law, UVA, Chicago, Yale (pipe dream)....
Five--I am going to fly in more airplanes more often and go climb the rock wall here to get rid of my INSANE fear of heights. This is a perennial problem, one that's haunted me for years. Any suggestions?
Six-- Someone needs to teach me to play pool and poker. I know how to do NEITHER of these things, and I feel they may very well be essential to being a human.
Seven-- I'm gonna learn either cello or violin in the next year. Hands down. Who's gonna teach me?
Um, that's it for now. I'll keep you updated on my successes.
Thursday, March 13, 2008
green plants and england
I used to visit and revisit it a dozen times a day, and stand in deep contemplation over my vegetable progeny with a love that nobody could share or conceive of who had never taken part in the process of creation. It was one of the most bewitching sights in the world to observe a hill of beans thrusting aside the soil, or a rose of early peas just peeping forth sufficiently to trace a line of delicate green. ~Nathaniel Hawthorne, Mosses from and Old Manse
I've been finding myself all too often in the Smith greenhouse. I'm growing everything, literally-- cantaloupes, tomatoes, basil, peas, peppers, and about 5 kinds of flowers. I planted the peas at the very beginning of the semester and now they are over a foot high. It's very reassuring to know that despite everything else going on in the world, a few seeds still manage to sprout and grow into tall tangling plants. Even though it's freezing cold outside-- even though the wind is severe and even the mud is frozen-- one small warm room stays humid and delightful all year round. I think if everyone had a greenhouse (or really, any place to grow plants) the world might just be a better place.
On the other hand, what the hell am I going to do with 80 tomato plants?
Today I found out that I was officially accepted to the summer seminar at oxford university. i'll be there for 6 weeks. I'm going mainly to travel-- I'll get my work done, but I'm excited to breathe the air the poets breathed, see the sights, and meet new people. Northampton is all well and good, but I'm quite tired of being a townie.
If you see me, say hello. I'll be the idiot belting out the first 18 lines of chaucer's canterbury tales with a goofy grin on my face.
http://www.bartleby.com/145/ww138.html
I've been finding myself all too often in the Smith greenhouse. I'm growing everything, literally-- cantaloupes, tomatoes, basil, peas, peppers, and about 5 kinds of flowers. I planted the peas at the very beginning of the semester and now they are over a foot high. It's very reassuring to know that despite everything else going on in the world, a few seeds still manage to sprout and grow into tall tangling plants. Even though it's freezing cold outside-- even though the wind is severe and even the mud is frozen-- one small warm room stays humid and delightful all year round. I think if everyone had a greenhouse (or really, any place to grow plants) the world might just be a better place.
On the other hand, what the hell am I going to do with 80 tomato plants?
Today I found out that I was officially accepted to the summer seminar at oxford university. i'll be there for 6 weeks. I'm going mainly to travel-- I'll get my work done, but I'm excited to breathe the air the poets breathed, see the sights, and meet new people. Northampton is all well and good, but I'm quite tired of being a townie.
If you see me, say hello. I'll be the idiot belting out the first 18 lines of chaucer's canterbury tales with a goofy grin on my face.
http://www.bartleby.com/145/ww138.html
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