I am overjoyed that it is just shy of 6 pm and the SUN IS STILL OUT.
I feel like doing a little dance. In fact, I’m going to do a little dance. Excuse me.
UPDATE: And Sixteen Candles is on!! Although I’ve seen both it and Pretty in Pink, I prefer this one. Classic teen love.
My site is the first result for a Google search of both phbbt and serious lack of motivation.
This is proof: my blog is a slacker!
Yesterday, I received a letter from GW that accompanied a copy of last fall’s alumni magazine.
I’m happy GW remembers me and is continuing to woo me via US mail.
I’m unhappy that no one else is doing likewise—namely, Northwestern, whose admissions packet is still MIA.
Also, Mr. Angst appears to have succumbed to the vile cold I had two weeks ago. He’s been pretty much out of it all weekend—but I guess it’s better that he can recoup on Saturday and Sunday than miss work, right? Doesn’t make the loss of a weekend any easier, of course.
At any rate, I’ve been sort of low key as a result—doing some reading (Book #2 is sort of dense, but terribly interesting, so I’m reading it very closely), cooking (yummy pot roast yesterday), and paperwork (taxes almost complete; waiting only on my investment information).
Basically, what I’m saying is that I haven’t had much to write about. I figure it’s better to write interesting and inspired posts than to ramble without point, so I’ve been avoiding rambling without point.
I do have a picture I’ll be sharing soon—it’s of my new friend Steve, who is a lion, and he’s fierce.
I dreamed last night that I was hanging out with Martha. We were at her home, but it wasn’t in Connecticut—or, if it was, it was near a subdivision of homes on a series of canals.
So we were making sandwiches at her various neighbors’ homes, and the only sandwich I remember clearly was the one at the home of her neighbor who had just caught a 2-foot long goldfish in the canal in front of his house.
(By the way, there was also a barge tooling around on the canals, ferrying people and mail, and it almost took us down. Even though we were in a Ford Explorer.)
Back the sandwiches. This neighbor had an adopted daughter—a toddler—from Russia. So we were making “Russian” sandwiches.
What did this involve? Well, it involved potato bread, which I love, something in a squeeze bottle that said “Mayonnaise with Cheese” and had the consistency of caesar dressing. And then it had lettuce, radishes, and beets. I despise radishes, but I made myself a big sandwich with radishes. And beets.
And then I woke up to discover I was drooling copiously on my pillow.
There’s something about men and smells—as E. Spat will tell you.
When I was in junior high, all the boys wore Eternity. All of them—the beautiful, the not beautiful, the fun, the goofy. It didn’t matter who wore it, though—Eternity was the most beautiful smell in the whole wide world. And because I was that age, Eternity has always reminded me of that time in my life, when the whole world was in front of me, when everything was bursting with promise.
For years, I couldn’t walk through the perfume section of a department store without blushing, because it always evoked youth, teenage crushes, and that exciting rush of adrenaline. I even (and I’m a little embarrased to say this) used to carry around the “scent cards” they give out at the store in my purse so whenever I’d open my purse, I could smell that smell.
I know scientists say now that smell is the sense most linked to memory, and it’s absolutely true.
I think I may stop by the mall this weekend and pick up a scent card.
Thanks, E. Spat, for brightening up my mood.
Law school admissions people appear to be on vacation, leaving me no company but my own overactive imagination. What if what if what if?
What if I get in here but not there? What if Mr. Angst wants to go not here but there? How are these decisions made? How do we pay for it? How do we live and eat?
I spend a lot of time lately with that rock in the pit of my gut, and it’s weighing me down and making my stomach hurt. All the things I’d rather think about—finishing Book #2, making Valentine’s Day dinner, picking out a new swimsuit for the destination wedding we’re going to in April—are overshadowed by a great cloud of uncertainty. How can I buy lobster tail and new clothes when I don’t know how much debt I’ll be in in twelve months? How can I read when I don’t know what school I’m going to next year?
Part of me wants to laugh at how absurd this thought process is. But I can’t even really laugh right now. If I can just get through the next three months, I’m pretty sure I’ll make it. I just don’t know exactly how that’s going to work. And I suspect I may have an ulcer to show for it.
I keep reading articles about people being dooced (fired for their blogs or websites). My gut reaction to this sudden “hot story” is:
If you work for a company or institution that might get peeved about the things you say on your website, don’t say them on your website. Go to a message board to rant anonymously if you must rant online. Or make friends you don’t work with and rant to them. But if you think your company will get even the littlest bit upset about what you’re writing, don’t write it.
People have been fired for much less significant things, my friends. I have a friend who was fired because she mentioned to a coworker at happy hour that she was thinking of updating her resume and looking for something more inline with her college degree. Next day at work, her boss threw her out of the building—and then contested the unemployment claim. So there.
Yes, if I blog on my own time, my company does not have the right to make me stop writing. But that’s not really germane. The only thing that matters is that they don’t have to keep me on.
This is one of the reasons I don’t blog about my job. The other reason, of course, is that my job is not my life. I have other things to write about. Someday, maybe, my job will become my main focus because it will be a career and integral to my identity. But then, my blogging would probably be less snarky and more serious.
I don’t really know where this post is going. I guess I’m just astonished at the righteous outrage out there about this “new” phenomenon. If you say nasty things about your employer behind their back, and it gets out (and it always does, always), you can expect to at least be reprimanded. So if you fear the ax, don’t put your neck under it. Remember that anonymity online is a very thin curtain. It can always be torn down by someone with enough perseverance.
Yesterday, I had four Gmail invites.
Today I have 50. Like E. McPan, I’m not sure I have 50 friends. Anyone want Gmail? Who doesn’t already have it?
Help?
If Charles is going to marry Camilla, at least the ring is tasteful. I’ve seen bigger tackier rings on graduate students.
No further acceptances or denials have come in, but I’ve been doing some hard thinking.
Firstly, we found out that Mr. Angst missed some deadlines for certain fellowships/scholarships at his school in DC, so one of the things we were holding out on is no longer a factor. (We’d always said if he got a certain fellowship, we’d definitely go to DC.)
But if you’ve been reading, you’ll know that Mr. Angst really wants to get into this program in DC—with or without the fellowship/scholarship. And that it’s really the perfect program for him in terms of what he wants to do with it.
I, on the other hand, really want to go to the best-ranked school I’m admitted to because I’d like to teach someday.
If nothing changes from here on out (Mr. Angst doesn’t get into the program in DC, I don’t get into GULC) we almost definitely will go to Chicago. That will work out nicely for my ambitions, since Northwestern will be the highest ranked school I’ll have gotten into. Of course, Mr. Angst’s program there is not as good and has fewer options (and the night class thing is not terrific), but we’ll both be in school, working toward our goals.
If, however, Mr. Angst gets into his program in DC and I get into GULC, we’ll probably go to DC. I want Mr. Angst to be happy and DC fits into his ambitions nicely. Plus, as far as I’m concerned, the three rankings places between GULC and Northwestern aren’t that significant as far as my career objectives go.
So neither of those scenarios presents any big problem. Both have an inherent solution. It’s the other scenario that has me chewing my erasers:
What if Mr. Angst gets into his DC school and I don’t get into GULC? Conventional wisdom would say I need to go to the highest-ranked school I get into, and Northwestern is higher-ranked than GW. But Mr. Angst would probably be unhappy in Chicago, knowing that he got into a better program more closely aligned with his dream job. Conversely, we could go to DC, where I’d be attending a lower-ranked school—one I’m certain I’d enjoy, and one that’s offered me a scholarship—but that choice might impact my dream of going into academia.
As the two cities go, DC is a much more attractive social situation for both of us—we have family and friends living close by—so that also tips the scales for DC in that latter situation. Still, I fear, I fear, I fear. Those stupid US News rankings are turning me into a prestige whore, and I don’t like it.
I can’t help but wonder—is it worth it for me to sacrifice the 10 rankings places and go to GW? We’d be in a marginally more preferable city, Mr. Angst would have a greater chance at his dream job, but I might have a smaller chance at mine. God, this compromise thing is a bitch!
I don’t want to be a prestige whore, really. And were I not interested in seriously pursuing legal academia, I probably would not be so fretful. I’d be just as likely to get a good job out of GW as out of Northwestern. But wanting to go into academia really forces me to bow to the stupid US News rankings.
So someone tell me that I either don’t need to worry or that my fears are well-founded. At least I’d know where to direct my energies—deciding what is more important to me, prestige or comfort.
Whoever found my site by searching for punishment domestic discipline blogs should be taken out back and whipped.
Oh. Wait. Maybe that’s what you WANTED. Freak.
OK, the title of this post could have gone just as well with the last post. Moving past that, I have an actual question:
If you were a Valentine’s Day dinner for me and Mr. Angst, prepared at home, which of the following would you be:
Mr. Angst is pushing for lobster, but I’m sort of terrified of having to kill the poor bugs. I am leaning toward duck, but Mr. Angst says duck makes him think of Thanksgiving (?) and he’d rather not. Steak is the middle of the road option—boring, but foolproof.
Feel free to add your own suggestions. I can cook almost anything.
Update: One of the local fancy grocery stores carries lobster tail—no killing involved! Mr. Angst suggests surf and turf with lobster bisque, so I think I’ll get two tails, some filets, and some lump lobster meat for the soup. Sides: yummy arugula salad with shaved Parmesan! Or maybe just shaved Parmesan! Also, perhaps, roasted asparagus? Will that go with surf and turf? I probably have to make potatoes or something, too. Individual chocolate soufflés for dessert. Mmmm. I must be hungry again.
Here in the wasteland of admissions notifications, I’m starting to get a little insane. For instance, I caught myself thinking how cool it would be if I got into Harvard—even though I didn’t apply.
I “mocked up” our taxes last night so I could finish and submit my FAFSA. In the end, I went with a lot of close estimates because I use TurboTax and didn’t know what numbers were going in what 1040 form lines. Point being, the FAFSA is done and sent. Whew! The taxes are not.
I hate taxes. I used to not mind doing my taxes—I almost always got a little refund. Not a big refund, as that would have pissed me off because who needs to give the government an interest-free loan, but a little one, the kind of refund that could pay for a fancy evening on the town or a new purse.
Not this year, though. Damn marriage penalty. I’m annoyed, angry, and a little worried after my bout with the numbers. We actually owe taxes this year, and it’s all because of the stupid marriage penalty.
Gr.
Gmail now has POP access.
This is a Good Thing if, like me, you have multiple Gmail accounts and tire of switching between them either on a single browser or using multiple browsers. I like all my mail to come to a single location, so I can now read Gmail in my handy mail application—along with work and home emails. Also, and this is a very cool feature, if you set it up properly, any mail you send from your mail app using your Gmail account is copied back to your online space. So you retain all messages, which is, after all, the whole point of Gmail.
If you don’t have a Gmail account yet, I’ve got a few: ask and ye shall receive.
If you’ve already got a Gmail account, consider retrieving your messages via POP. Instructions for various common mail apps can be found in your Gmail settings tab for Forwarding and POP.
I have never watched N.C.I.S., but it’s sort of gross. Seriously. But I have one problem—someone who slits their own throat probably wouldn’t bleed out in, oh, 3 seconds. They could have saved the bad guy and made him pay. Ah well.
I feel I should post something law- or law school-related every few days or so. Therefore, here’s the latest news:
Yep. That’s right. NOTHING. No news from UT, GULC, or Chicago. No admitted students’ packet from Northwestern. No news from Mr. Angst’s other school. Nothing. Nada. Zip. Zilch.
I imagine I am a delightful person to be around right now.
Fitz-Hume requested one other thing, a review of Lake Tahoe, since I mentioned it was one of my “essential” vacation spots.
Full disclosure: I haven’t been to Tahoe in about two years. Last year, I was getting married around ski vacation time, and this year, well, this year we’re a little more preoccupied with visiting campuses and such than going skiing. So my first-hand info is a little out of date. Thankfully, my dad spends a lot of time out there and so does my brother. So I’ve mined them for information to flesh out this review.
Firstly, Tahoe is a great vacation spot in summer or winter. Or spring. Or fall. It’s just gorgeous almost all the time. The area has skiing, hiking, boating, water-sports, and gambling! It’s almost the perfect vacation destination.
Read the rest of this entry »
For the last time, and I’ll say it slow, intelligent design is NOT science. It might be a nice, pretty way to explain how life came to be (via actual scientifically proven/theorized methods), but IT IS NOT SCIENCE.
What the hell is so wrong with presenting evolution to students and then letting their parents explain, in whatever manner they choose, how to reconcile a belief in the literal truth of the Bible with natural selection?
Argh. I am so sick of hearing these news stories that claim intelligent design is an alternative theory to evolution. It’s not! All ID does that the theory of evolution doesn’t is explain how seemingly random mutations occured. It does not reexplain the actual method of selection.
And by the way, just because you believe our DNA sequence has to be caused by a higher intelligence just because it “statistically is impossible” that it arose randomly, remember: people win the lottery. It’s statistically unlikely that an individual will win the lottery, but somehow they do. Go figure.
It smells like lamb in my office. I think someone bought one of the lamb empanadas they sell up the street.
Lamb is one of those smells that is not entirely pleasant.
I didn’t have my computer with me at the SuperBowl last night—I’m a geek, but even I know what is appropriate and what isn’t—but I did take some notes on commercials and the like. Here’s my post-game wrap-up.
Pre-Game
This isn’t really about a commercial, but it’s fitting: since when are Bush, Sr., and Clinton such good pals? Suddenly they’re all over the TV on the tsunami spots and they’re walking into the SuperBowl looking like best buds. I even caught GHWB whispering to WJC over his shoulder at one point. C’mon, wasn’t politics a lot more fun when these two guys just hated each other?
Commercials
I have to say that I thoroughly enjoyed the GoDaddy.com commercial, if for no other reason than that I registered my domain name with them. It was a little tame, but had some of the vulgar spirit of the best SuperBowl ads.
My vote, by the way, for the best set of ads? The Ameriquest, “Don’t judge too quickly” ads. The guy on the cellphone saying, “You’re being robbed! Robbed!” was pretty funny; even better, though, was the guy with the cat, tomato sauce and knife. Seriously wacky. Enjoyable.
There was some commercial with monkeys in an office, which I didn’t watch, but I recall someone yelling out (and that someone may or may not have been Mr. Angst, I’m not telling), “Monkeys in people clothes! The first rule of comedy! Monkeys in people clothes!”
And then it was halftime and Paul McCartney and someone else yelled (and this time it was not Mr. Angst), “I want to see boobies! Where are the boobies??” I, for one, did not want to see Paul McCartney’s boobies, so I was pleased with the halftime show in that respect.
Finally, the single WORST ad: the one for the new Mustang. Um, some guy frozen in his car in the middle of some icy wasteland…well, that’s just not funny. Freezing to death=nightmare territory for me. My notes read:
Frozen mustang=no buy mustang
Yeah. That about sums up my feeling about that.
I think there were probably more ads, but I stopped paying much attention because the first half ads were so awful. Just sad. Bring back the good old days. Who remembers the really funny Ann Richards/Mario Cuomo Dorito ads? Or even the Budweiser frogs before they were really overexposed?
Hoping for a little more fun next year. And I’m also glad the Eagles lost. But the Pats need to be taken down. Hear me, Parcells? Whip the Cowboys into shape—maybe they can go all the way next year!
Update: I forgot to mention the other “ad” I liked: all the players and coaches NOT in the SuperBowl singing “Tomorrow.” Gruden was hysterical. “Tomorrow, tomorrow….cut it out!….tomorrow…”
This is a list of some recent searches that have led to this blog:
I’m curious about the second one; I’m disturbed by the last.
Today is Super Bowl Sunday. We are attending a party where the only rule is that every guest must wear a sports jersey of some kind. It’s likely that none of us will really watch the game—I believe we all deeply dislike the Eagles, and none of us have any real love for the Pats.
But it’s Super Bowl Sunday, so we have to party.
Last year, Mr. Angst and I were getting up at 4 am, Italian time, to prepare for our very early back-to-the-US-end-of-the-honeymoon flight. He was in the shower while I watched the game-winning field goal. We both missed Janet’s boob. Italian commentary on American football is funny. I didn’t really understand any of it, but it was early in the morning and I was deliriously tired, so I recall it being very funny.
Finally, the title of this post is a reference to one of my sports-nut cousins: when he was very little and my dad would go to my aunt and uncle’s house to watch football, this cousin of mine would go crazy. He knew that, since my dad was there, football would be on the TV and everyone would be yelling and jumping around and having lots of fun. So as soon as he’d see my dad, he’d yell, “Utball, utball, Awa Toom!” (Football, football, Uncle Tim!)
Damn, that’s cute.
(And thanks to E. Spat for directing me to the Puppy Bowl. I’m getting a little mushy right now. Mr. Angst might have to drag me out of the house when it’s time to leave.)
Per general request from ai, I have produced my own work of art.
Enjoy!
OK, I think is the last of the requests until I get the Tahoe thing written.
Fitz asks for the story of how Mr. Angst and I met.
We actually met on July 4th. We were both at a mutual friend’s pool party. I was in the pool, sipping a margarita, when I wandered over to the edge where Mr. Angst and a friend were sitting. Tequila makes me chatty, so I introduced myself. We had a nice conversation, but for some reason Mr. Angst didn’t get my number. I am pretty sure alcohol was involved in that oversight—on my part. I should have just tracked him down and written it on his chest. Ah well.
A few weeks later I was at a bar with some friends when Mr. Angst walked in. He called me Katherine. We laughed about that and started talking—until a (female) friend of his showed up. She tapped him on the shoulder from behind, and when he turned around to see who it was, she completely turned him around and I was suddenly facing his back. Now I was alone, so I turned to his friend H. and, unfortunately, H. got my number on the pretense of including me when they all went to see X-Men. And then Mr. Angst couldn’t get my number, because that’s, you know, not cool to do to your friend.
Opening weekend of X-Men, H., as promised, called and invited me to see it. Not sure Mr. Angst would be there, I brought my own friend as insurance, just to make it clear that I was not on a date with H. Mr. Angst was there, but wicked hungover and hardly conversational.
Finally, about a month later, Mr. Angst, out with H. one night, asked him to call me, to see if I wanted to meet up with them. I think he was trying to figure out what was going on with H. and I—he was pretty sure nothing was going on, but wanted to make sure. So H. called me and I met up with them for a few minutes. I didn’t stay long, but I that night decided I couldn’t wait any longer for Mr. Angst to figure things out. I had his number because H. had used his phone to call me, so the next night, I polled some of our mutual friends, to see if I should ask him out. They all said, emphatically, “YES!” so I marked my calendar (yes, I actually marked my calendar) to call him Wednesday. (This was Monday.) I figured Wednesday was the soonest I could call him without seeming too pushy. I had never asked a boy out before and I was nervous—but VERY excited.
The next day, Tuesday, was my birthday. Somehow, Mr. Angst found my email address on a friend’s party invitation and—men, never do this—sent an email asking me out.* The email also wished me happy birthday, and I still have it saved on my computer. Yes, I admit it, I saw the email and my heart did this funny jumping thing in my chest.
So we had our first date that Friday and we’ve been together ever since—coming up on five years now.
*I said yes, but I repeat: don’t ask a woman out via email. Call her.
