I only wear my red suede boots for special occasions. Okay, until today I only wore my red suede boots on Thursday nights at the Townhouse which was always a special occasion because drag queens sang and danced with us to Beyoncé. I wore them today because it was Thursday and because tomorrow is my Captain's 21st birthday which she will be spending sweating in Ghana instead of consuming her body weight in burgers and Blue Moon at the Nook where we all should be on the celebrated day.
But who's to say that I will not wear them again tomorrow when I skip collegetown to Indianapolis for Halloween weekend. I like to go out with college kids, but after having spent 2 years at GirlLand where Friday nights were spent extracting ourselves from campus, searching town for any remnants of Fun and giving up at 11:30 for Rachel Maddow reruns on CNBC, it can be somewhat overwhelming to turn in at 11:30 only to have Fun knock on your bedroom door, pull you from your cozy, dress you and force you to spend time with it until dawn.
At GirlLand on Halloween, Highland Park kidlets came to gather treats at the residence halls. Here there is a party on the campus farm which the school has provided shuttles to and from until the wee hours as a "safety procaution". The farm is a ten minute walk. Tops.
So to the big city I go. Where The Future President of Africa and I will hand out fun-sized candy, I will force my post-surgical left foot back into the red boots, and hope that at some point in the future, it will forgive me.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Worth the travel time. And the fever. Kinda.
My last week at home was a much needed break from Indiana Life which I will break down for your reading pleasure in three phases.
Phase One: Nebraska
I am interested in seeing which of the Midwestern states is flattest. I have come to the conclusion that if I were dropped in any part of Nebraska, Indiana, Iowa or a remote part of Minnesota with which I am unfamiliar, it would take at least 3 days for me to figure out my whereabouts. They are all flat. Some have more trees, some have more accents but on the whole they are defined by these: corn, earth tones, humidity.
More importantly, I saw one of my high school besties (see Phase Three for vocabulary explanation) who is a theater major at a tiny school in Nebraska. At least this is her excuse for living in the state, as most people who weren't born there feel the need to justify it at some point during most days. She scored the lead in Stage Door and brought down the house playing essentially herself transported to a rooming house for actresses in the 1930s.
She came on stage and I was overwhelmed with what my friend Katie Rose calls, "Friend Pride" in which a friend of yours appears on stage for a play, a concert or presentation and you are totally overwhelmed with pride for them as if they were your own kid or you were personally responsible for their acting skills or had taught them the violin yourself. Maybe I'm biased and know nothing about the theater, but she was absolute perfection in her sassy 30s dresses.
Phase Two: Homestyle
A six-hour ride home brought me over the hills to the Minneapolis skyline, my mother's cooking, a big girl bed and transportation. I figure I spend a significant part of my Indiana life trying to figure out transportation away from campus. It appears to be one of the only problems that college students here cannot solve. Home was delicious. I paid a visit to GirlLand, was totally weirded out, saw the lakes and consumed non-cafeteria food copiously. Being back, in fact, has taught me to eat less extravagantly when I go home next because upon return, the true colors of cafeteria food will be revealed. Important observation of today: just because chickpeas and tofu are in a flat, circular formation does not warrant the title "burger".
Phase Three: Happy Camper
I spent the last stretch of break in the northwoods of Minnesota. The only thing "northwoods" about this annual adventure is the car ride in the northern direction for a few hours and some trees I saw. For the most part I spent time inside, cuddling, singing, consuming boxed snacks and talking with some seriously awesome young people who have the ability to remind me of how much less awesome I was in high school. But unless you tell them, they'll never know that Sandwich Lady and I used to go on the same trip but instead of socializing, we spent time knitting and pretending to be 80 years old. These young women are cool enough to shorten some words and add fun endings to others and make it sound cool (best friends = besties; probably = probs).
By Sunday evening I was back in my tiny room in my Indiana life, minus some old friends and family, and plus swine flu. Which is just as un-fun as people said it would be. Captain's first question about the situation was whether or not I had mutated yet- if there were gills or extra toes or anything. I'm hoping the government has the situation under control and the flu hasn't mutated to be contageous over the internet because this blog post would be like one giant sneeze in your collective faces.
Phase One: Nebraska
I am interested in seeing which of the Midwestern states is flattest. I have come to the conclusion that if I were dropped in any part of Nebraska, Indiana, Iowa or a remote part of Minnesota with which I am unfamiliar, it would take at least 3 days for me to figure out my whereabouts. They are all flat. Some have more trees, some have more accents but on the whole they are defined by these: corn, earth tones, humidity.
More importantly, I saw one of my high school besties (see Phase Three for vocabulary explanation) who is a theater major at a tiny school in Nebraska. At least this is her excuse for living in the state, as most people who weren't born there feel the need to justify it at some point during most days. She scored the lead in Stage Door and brought down the house playing essentially herself transported to a rooming house for actresses in the 1930s.
She came on stage and I was overwhelmed with what my friend Katie Rose calls, "Friend Pride" in which a friend of yours appears on stage for a play, a concert or presentation and you are totally overwhelmed with pride for them as if they were your own kid or you were personally responsible for their acting skills or had taught them the violin yourself. Maybe I'm biased and know nothing about the theater, but she was absolute perfection in her sassy 30s dresses.
Phase Two: Homestyle
A six-hour ride home brought me over the hills to the Minneapolis skyline, my mother's cooking, a big girl bed and transportation. I figure I spend a significant part of my Indiana life trying to figure out transportation away from campus. It appears to be one of the only problems that college students here cannot solve. Home was delicious. I paid a visit to GirlLand, was totally weirded out, saw the lakes and consumed non-cafeteria food copiously. Being back, in fact, has taught me to eat less extravagantly when I go home next because upon return, the true colors of cafeteria food will be revealed. Important observation of today: just because chickpeas and tofu are in a flat, circular formation does not warrant the title "burger".
Phase Three: Happy Camper
I spent the last stretch of break in the northwoods of Minnesota. The only thing "northwoods" about this annual adventure is the car ride in the northern direction for a few hours and some trees I saw. For the most part I spent time inside, cuddling, singing, consuming boxed snacks and talking with some seriously awesome young people who have the ability to remind me of how much less awesome I was in high school. But unless you tell them, they'll never know that Sandwich Lady and I used to go on the same trip but instead of socializing, we spent time knitting and pretending to be 80 years old. These young women are cool enough to shorten some words and add fun endings to others and make it sound cool (best friends = besties; probably = probs).
By Sunday evening I was back in my tiny room in my Indiana life, minus some old friends and family, and plus swine flu. Which is just as un-fun as people said it would be. Captain's first question about the situation was whether or not I had mutated yet- if there were gills or extra toes or anything. I'm hoping the government has the situation under control and the flu hasn't mutated to be contageous over the internet because this blog post would be like one giant sneeze in your collective faces.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Death by superficial wounds.
Internet, I got stung by a bee. What the hell. I didn't know that even happened anymore. After that whole killer bee incident, I thought the species had pretty much lost all credibility. But apparently they still sting, and it still hurts as much as that one time when I was seven at Gramma's cabin.
Plus, after a run in with a hair straightener, I am sporting a burn mark on my face. Let it be known that there is no opportune place for an inch-long burn on one's face. That's right. Clumsy is my name, superficial wounds is my game. And don't even get me started on the blister my new friends, Gray Suede Boots gave me.
This weekend I think I'll lock myself in my room to avoid any more catastrophes, yes catastrophes. I'll read the 200 or so pages of Thoreau (see: sleep) that I've been neglecting and feed my addiction to Triscuits that has become rather unhealthy. Love those woven wheats, people.
Plus, after a run in with a hair straightener, I am sporting a burn mark on my face. Let it be known that there is no opportune place for an inch-long burn on one's face. That's right. Clumsy is my name, superficial wounds is my game. And don't even get me started on the blister my new friends, Gray Suede Boots gave me.
This weekend I think I'll lock myself in my room to avoid any more catastrophes, yes catastrophes. I'll read the 200 or so pages of Thoreau (see: sleep) that I've been neglecting and feed my addiction to Triscuits that has become rather unhealthy. Love those woven wheats, people.
Monday, August 31, 2009
Welcome to a new and kind of weird adventure.
Okay. I've been here eleven days. Here's the breakdown, Interwebz:
On Learning:
All classes have been solid. That is why I came to this place. I have an International Relations prof that spent 30 years as an international diplomat for the U.K. and has a law degree from Cambridge. You know what that means? "Duty" in a British accent. One peace studies professor and everything that implies ("What language do you dream in?"), one shy bunny econ prof, and a timid but totally lovable English professor who loves Gary Snyder. Except for when that last one assigned 80 pages of reading for the weekend and apologized that it was such a light load. Oh, hey college. Why are we friends again?
The Digs:
Loving the single. Finally found appropriate storage for headbands (upside-down fedora) and the Sharpies and photographic adventures from the summer have all found their home in this little room. I have one picture on my phone of when the bed is made and things are orderly-ish for my cluttered but cozy lifestyle. It will come to you via text message upon request.
The Peeps:
Apparently there are only 700 people on campus this year. That means just over my high school graduating class in which every third or fourth person sports some form of ironic eye wear, drinks herbal tea, doesn't believe in religion, has a strong opinion between Sigg, CamelBack and Nalgene, and thinks PBR is a trendy beer. And most are a pretty good time. There are more social things here than I know what to do with. Captain and I used to get weird looks from people when we sat on the Quad at GirlLand, and heaven forbid throw a frisbee around or lay down on the grass in the 80 degree May sun. Here there is never a calm moment on the Heart (EarthLand's version of a quad. They're Quakers. It's funny.). A few nights ago a saxophone player soft-yazzed me to sleep while random guitarists, procussionists and vocalists joined him throughout the night. The Quad was a mostly deserted grassy place whose purpose was a gateway to classes. The Heart is intimidating to walk through 23 hours a day because activity is leaking at the seams.
Those are the basics. I'm still an awkward transfer student with a boot cast. My first impression is still poor. I still have a dinosaur pillow case and live in a single. And only one of those things is going to change this week (!!!).
On Learning:
All classes have been solid. That is why I came to this place. I have an International Relations prof that spent 30 years as an international diplomat for the U.K. and has a law degree from Cambridge. You know what that means? "Duty" in a British accent. One peace studies professor and everything that implies ("What language do you dream in?"), one shy bunny econ prof, and a timid but totally lovable English professor who loves Gary Snyder. Except for when that last one assigned 80 pages of reading for the weekend and apologized that it was such a light load. Oh, hey college. Why are we friends again?
The Digs:
Loving the single. Finally found appropriate storage for headbands (upside-down fedora) and the Sharpies and photographic adventures from the summer have all found their home in this little room. I have one picture on my phone of when the bed is made and things are orderly-ish for my cluttered but cozy lifestyle. It will come to you via text message upon request.
The Peeps:
Apparently there are only 700 people on campus this year. That means just over my high school graduating class in which every third or fourth person sports some form of ironic eye wear, drinks herbal tea, doesn't believe in religion, has a strong opinion between Sigg, CamelBack and Nalgene, and thinks PBR is a trendy beer. And most are a pretty good time. There are more social things here than I know what to do with. Captain and I used to get weird looks from people when we sat on the Quad at GirlLand, and heaven forbid throw a frisbee around or lay down on the grass in the 80 degree May sun. Here there is never a calm moment on the Heart (EarthLand's version of a quad. They're Quakers. It's funny.). A few nights ago a saxophone player soft-yazzed me to sleep while random guitarists, procussionists and vocalists joined him throughout the night. The Quad was a mostly deserted grassy place whose purpose was a gateway to classes. The Heart is intimidating to walk through 23 hours a day because activity is leaking at the seams.
Those are the basics. I'm still an awkward transfer student with a boot cast. My first impression is still poor. I still have a dinosaur pillow case and live in a single. And only one of those things is going to change this week (!!!).
Friday, August 14, 2009
Now maybe I'll consider living past 55. Maybe.
When my great grandmother died almost three years ago, I got a tiny peek into the life of the oldest generation of my mother's side of the family. And after seeing my inevitable fate of being a crotchety old woman with pack rat and poor gift-giving habits, I slammed that window shut and closed the blinds. Being old was for old people.
I inherited GGMA-M's 1984 Oldsmobile Cutlass, in which "inherit" translates as something that nobody could be paid to take. I sold that car last month a little because of the holes in the sides of it, and a lot because of the burgundy velvet interior. I upgraded last week for a beautiful little 1991 Geo Prizm. I call her Dot and she belonged to my great aunt Ruth. Ruth is 88 and has dementia which has shrunk her short term memory to approximately that of a goldfish cracker. I spent 20 minutes with her the other night and told her my name, age, major and familial position 10 times.
Despite the fact that she can't remember her cataract surgery three days ago, my name or where here glasses are, she is a complete and total firecracker. I saw her for the first time in my memory the other day and was astounded at how much of myself I could see in someone so incredibly different from me. She gave me shit about going to GirlLand, regaled me with stories of Macalester (her alma mater), and told me remote controls are ridiculous inventions that are for losers.
The picture below is my aunt Ruth. It's blurry because that's sort of how she sees life these days. Memory disorders scare me more than most forms of cancer and disease, but seeing this woman in all of her fiery glory was like a giant sigh of relief. Because at the end of the day, if we don't have our humor and sass, strong women have nothing.
I inherited GGMA-M's 1984 Oldsmobile Cutlass, in which "inherit" translates as something that nobody could be paid to take. I sold that car last month a little because of the holes in the sides of it, and a lot because of the burgundy velvet interior. I upgraded last week for a beautiful little 1991 Geo Prizm. I call her Dot and she belonged to my great aunt Ruth. Ruth is 88 and has dementia which has shrunk her short term memory to approximately that of a goldfish cracker. I spent 20 minutes with her the other night and told her my name, age, major and familial position 10 times.
Despite the fact that she can't remember her cataract surgery three days ago, my name or where here glasses are, she is a complete and total firecracker. I saw her for the first time in my memory the other day and was astounded at how much of myself I could see in someone so incredibly different from me. She gave me shit about going to GirlLand, regaled me with stories of Macalester (her alma mater), and told me remote controls are ridiculous inventions that are for losers.
The picture below is my aunt Ruth. It's blurry because that's sort of how she sees life these days. Memory disorders scare me more than most forms of cancer and disease, but seeing this woman in all of her fiery glory was like a giant sigh of relief. Because at the end of the day, if we don't have our humor and sass, strong women have nothing.
Thursday, August 06, 2009
Can I put deodorant on my foot? Will it work the same?
Ok, so this surgery bidniz was supposed to go down like this:
Phase One: Sedate me heavily, poke me, sedate me more, cut my foot open, do some gross stuff, sew me up or something else gross, boot cast me.
Phase Two: Boot cast for four weeks.
Note that neither phase one nor phase two involve crutches. Everything went according to plan until the aforementioned splint. And now everything has gone askew. No, no, reader. The surgery went fine. That's not the point. The point is that I am entering week three of crutches, during which I have unintentionally flashed several people on several occasions trying to extract myself from a vehicle and discovered that I cannot be in houses with more than one level and am more or less a useless human being. Run-on sentence, you say? Suck it.
Boot cast will be coming to school with me, apparently. Because transfer student orientation isn't already spelled "w-e-i-r-d-o". Oh. And apparently the girl I'm supposed to live with has a case of the sluts. Woop! Yet another reason that I don't believe in living with strangers in small, confined spaces.
A silver lining: if ever you were looking for a reason to steal a wheelchair from a church, a friend on crutches is a good excuse. Your friend will get the sad sigh from strangers around the lake that says, "Ohhh...but she's so young..." and you will get the knowing nod of, "She's such a great friend". And your day will be a little bit better.
Phase One: Sedate me heavily, poke me, sedate me more, cut my foot open, do some gross stuff, sew me up or something else gross, boot cast me.
Phase Two: Boot cast for four weeks.
Note that neither phase one nor phase two involve crutches. Everything went according to plan until the aforementioned splint. And now everything has gone askew. No, no, reader. The surgery went fine. That's not the point. The point is that I am entering week three of crutches, during which I have unintentionally flashed several people on several occasions trying to extract myself from a vehicle and discovered that I cannot be in houses with more than one level and am more or less a useless human being. Run-on sentence, you say? Suck it.
Boot cast will be coming to school with me, apparently. Because transfer student orientation isn't already spelled "w-e-i-r-d-o". Oh. And apparently the girl I'm supposed to live with has a case of the sluts. Woop! Yet another reason that I don't believe in living with strangers in small, confined spaces.
A silver lining: if ever you were looking for a reason to steal a wheelchair from a church, a friend on crutches is a good excuse. Your friend will get the sad sigh from strangers around the lake that says, "Ohhh...but she's so young..." and you will get the knowing nod of, "She's such a great friend". And your day will be a little bit better.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Gauchos are the pants of the crippled
I had surprise surgery last week, and while I spend approximately 19 hours of every day in bed, I somehow have found more important things to do than blogging. Like take Percocet and Google Image search puppies. My orthopedic surgeon uncle gave a loosey-goosey tendon in my ankle a home. I would like to take this opportunity to form a public complaint about the lack of a program comparable to Microsoft Paint on Macs. Because you have to believe this would be a good'un.
I am currently sporting a plaster splint that is the most counter intuitive crapshoot on God's green earth. In its free time, when it is not producing leg sweat and making me feel claustrophobic, it enjoys personally trying to pull apart every stitch or staple or whatever grossnasty post-surgical thing they use these days.
Everyone is showering Dog Breath with praise, because the reason she won't leave my side is because her dog-sense knows that I'm in pain. Right. And totally not because my side is in bed 19 hours of the day.
I must go now, because last week in a weird prescription drug comatose, I ordered orange pants online. I was just looking at my receipt email to assure that this actually happened and track the order when the UPS dude pulled up. It's fate. Orange pants fate. The pants gods are looking down on me saying, "Yeah. You deal with this."
I am currently sporting a plaster splint that is the most counter intuitive crapshoot on God's green earth. In its free time, when it is not producing leg sweat and making me feel claustrophobic, it enjoys personally trying to pull apart every stitch or staple or whatever grossnasty post-surgical thing they use these days.
Everyone is showering Dog Breath with praise, because the reason she won't leave my side is because her dog-sense knows that I'm in pain. Right. And totally not because my side is in bed 19 hours of the day.
I must go now, because last week in a weird prescription drug comatose, I ordered orange pants online. I was just looking at my receipt email to assure that this actually happened and track the order when the UPS dude pulled up. It's fate. Orange pants fate. The pants gods are looking down on me saying, "Yeah. You deal with this."
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