Lesson # 477

Never trust a woman with drawn in eyebrow-penciled eyebrows to wax your own.

Give thanks, dammit!

Thanksgiving is a holiday of lethargy and blah. It's that time of the year we all gather together and give thanks we're not as fat as the that bald uncle who insists that he sit at the head of the table every year.

My aunt put it best when she plopped down on the couch after dinner and declared herself a "beached whale". Which was a completely appropriate description for many of us, on many levels. I consider myself much like a whale in the sense that I feel enormous, much like the mass of a whale, but also by the fact that I feel a little stuck.

I brought home 50 pages of ethics reading and a jarbled page of notes, hoping to get to work on that inevitable final paper that always comes too soon, and I can't do a damn thing. I'm convinced that I've become "beached" on the food, family, readily warm shower water, remarkably soft toilet paper, and overall roominess of non-dorm living. Similar to a beach in its luxuriousness, different in the sense that there is no sand.

I try to understand Republicans; really I do. George Lakoff opened the door for me a bit with an excerpt from his book (link!), but damn them all if they still don't befuddle the hell out of me. It's kind of like (and forgive me for generalizing and simplifying the crap out of this): "Look! There's a man over there who is working 12 hour days to feed his family, has no health insurance, and is still struggling to get everything paid some months. I think I should give him a lecture about the American Dream, and point to radical examples of people who seemingly came out of nowhere to become millionaires! Yes!" or "Let's give the people making a few digits more than him a tax break and wait for the rebates to trickle down in the form of country club golf rounds and italian leather shoes!" or "Hey! I'm a self-made person with an innocent upper-middleclass caucasian background. If I can do it, he can too."

And my theory is that this train of thought comes from over-thinking. Maybe, just maybe if we put that person in the same house or neighborhood as a struggling family, and asked them to stay there for a few hours. Get personable. Sit down, have some coffee. I think there would be some primal form of empathy that would rise to the surface and want this man to have all the means to succeed in life that were available to him. Maybe a tax break. Or some kind of health care he didn't have to pay a quarter of his salary for.

But people are immersed in their own lives. I'm immersed in the noble, self-righteous, typical college student one right now! Maybe what we're immersed in are like little pools. Kiddy pools, we'll say that have a three foot radius and are 7 feet deep. And we're working to stay afloat, but we can see other people's pools. Some closer than others. You can't really get a good feel for what is going on in the other kiddy pools, only what you can see.

So maybe it is better to be beached; to pull yourself out of your safe kiddy pool and flop on the group between the pools. You lose the comfort of immersion, but the view sure is better.

Oh dear...

Can we talk about the Gardasil vaccine for a moment. Just a minute, I swear. And I will try my darndest to avoid using such shallow terms as "sexist", "self-righteous", and "flaming fucknut".

Today we discussed the Gardasil vaccine in the Ethics in Medicine course I'm taking. It fell into a lecture about public health, and the true definition of authonomy and what it means to cause harm to others. And of course the subject always comes up about possible side effects, and the discussion is always the same: "They've only tested it for 8 years, what if there are side effects? What if a whole generation of girls is infertile and sickly because of a recommendation from doctors?"

Except it's never phrased like that. It always runs more along the lines of "But there has only been 8 years of clinical trials, and that's not enough, you know? And then there's this worry that there will be this whole generation of infertile females with terrible side effects."

So now it sounds like there is valid worry going around, and we should all be fretting for our lives and uteri because of some imagined health crisis that has only been postulated as a worst of circumstances.

It's not so much waiting for more data before deciding you want to inject something into yourself or completely shunning the vaccine all together that bother me. It's the science fiction/thriller rumors that people haphazardly throw out there that make me want to bludgeon something. I could spread all kinds of nasty rumors about all kinds of nasty things (flu vaccines, soy, flouride, diet soda, florescent lightbulbs, exposure to dogs, exposure to cats, pork, perfume [you would not believe what that stuff does to your ovaries!], salt, pepper, rap music), but I don't. Because for the most part it's silly. And inconclusive. And the studies are conducted by scientists backed by parties with special interests with particular agendas that they want to promote.

And don't even get me started on the "vaccination leads to permiscuous acts of sexy-time and evil!" argument. Because I'd rather have a healthy cervix than chastity anyday, bitches.

The Halloween Post

I went this entire Halloween without once hearing "Monster Mash". Part of me wants to be thankful that that godawful song has finally fallen from the position of esteem it once held on the Oldies and Light Rock stations that covetted it, but the other part of me (you know, I divide cleanly in two if you work hard enough) kind of misses it. I have no applicable analogies at this point. Go ahead and fill in your own here.

There was also a lot less candy in my life this time around. I wonder why that is. It's probably the busy-ness, and the fact that without trick-or-treating, you get much less variety. Sure, you'll go to the grocery store and buy yourself an economy-sized bag thinking you'll be able to eat the entire thing of Reese's pumpkins, but after the third or fourth or nineth, you realize you are human, and you just can't do it. Curse mortality and all its limitations!

A friend of mine (actually, he's not really a friend... more like "a forced aquaintance"; I never know how to describe those people) said that I would probably end up being something sexy for Halloween. Because that's what the college girls do these days, they dress up in a predictable (and occasionally unpredictable) outfit, but make it sexy. So I refused to be sexy, and dressed up as a candy corn (yellow t-shirt, orange pants, white knee-high socks and various accessories with candy corn hot glued to them [note: candy corn does not enjoy being hot glued to anything ever; if attempted the corn that tastes like candy will rebel and fly off of your homemade jewelry all night, and hit people in the eye]). And I have to admit, I felt pretty unsexy... all night long.

The day after Halloween I was at an event for my service fraternity (don't ask... just call me "Brother Lisa"), and a girl there was dressed up like candy corn too! Except her outfit involved a mini-skirt and a plunging neckline. I don't know what the means, or what lessons can and should be drawn; I just thought I'd throw it out there.

In conclusion, Halloween was a scary event in which I witnessed people having sex (or one very involved make-out session) on the Arts Quad and concluded that any costume (seriously, any) can be made in such a way that a college girl will look like a fruity tooty lil sex kitten.

Four down. Four to go.

Semesters, that is. It's kind of mind-boggling to think that college is half over for me. Granted there will probably be medical school or grad school in my future, it's still awesome/frightening to think about.

A random thought: how awesome would it be between undergrad and whatever comes after this is to take a year off and go work for a National Park? That would be pretty darned awesome, I tell you what.

This year, I'm cutting back on the classes, and increasing the life experience (because that's what the medical school advisor told me to do). I'm a Residential Advisor in the Ecology House, which isn't nearly as glamorous a position as one might think. It mostly involves being friends with everyone as part of the job, and a perplexing multitude of keys. I would put them all on one of those giant rings that janitors and prison guards get to carry around, but separation and secrecy are encouraged. So not giant rings for me this year.

Leo is large and whiney this year. He still has a repetoire of awesome guinea pig tricks, but I think what he really wants is a guinea pig-lady friend. Which he will not get, because I'm not ready for babies.

I have officially developed an obsession with The Office. I just felt like I should announce that somewhere.

And my lineup of classes include (but are not limited to... whatever that means):
Biochemistry
Nutritional and Physicochemical Aspects of Food
Social Inequalities in Health
Latin American Cities (more on this later)

... and possibly an ethics course if one of the above falls through. Only time will tell.

Chillin' in the Last Frontier

That's pompous, douche-bag speak for "vacationing in Alaska". I don't mean to do it; really I don't.

Currently, as we speak, I'm lounging in the... lounge (a fitting name) of an overpriced hotel establishment in outside of Denali National Park, taking advantage of the mediocre Wi-Fi connection. Ever 2 minutes or so when I have to wait for a page to reload, I'll contemplate stealing some of the rugged, nature-based furnishings that are scattered throughout the lounge. As far as I know, the place never closes, And I'm sure it would take a good day or two before anyone noticed it was missing, and heaven knows how long I've pined for a Caribou antler lamp to give my dorm room that rustic touch.

And now there are old men looking at me. I hate when that happens; your eyes are wandering, and they happen to settle on something (or, more often in my case, someone) and then they look over to see you looking at them. And then you look away, trying to break the awkward and unwanted contact, but the roudy old men keep looking at you (because that's just the way old men are) and then it's supa' awkward. Little do they know that you are quietly consoling yourself by recording the entire encounter in your blog.

Alaska is amazing. It makes me want to cry a little to know that the earth and all her eco-systems were so perfect at one time. I saw bears, and moose, and foxes, and caribou. And the only human-made creation that connected me to their world was the bus I was sitting in and the gravel road the bus was sitting on.

I find that I've actually equally (if not more) interested in the vegetation that was in the park. There was a lot of crazy black spruce and birch growing all willy-nilly out of the sides of hills. There are wild flowers mostly everywhere. And when the ground is too frozen for trees there are shrubs and mosses for miles and miles. And probably more miles after that. The park is 5 million acres. Wrap your mind around that one.

The whole "feeling bad about being human, and killing anything and everything in the way of economic prosperity" was kind of dampened by a book by Douglas Adams called "Last Chance to See", in which he frolics around the world exploring the state and stories of various endangered critters. I love this book. If I could kiss this book, and the book would derive any kind of pleasure from my acts of adoration, then hell yes there would be one very bizarre make-out session going down. Right here. Right now.

It's nice to (finally) read something that so gracefully combines elements of humor, history, nature, and insight into 200 pages. Glorious. I won't ruin any of the insights for you, but it might just make you look at your own role in the world a little more closely. Plus, it's Douglas "Frickin'" Adams. You can't top that.

Summertime... and the livin' is easy.

Except... you know, that it hasn't really been so far.

I'm currently in Ithaca, living in a house with some friends, taking two classes, doing 15 hours of research a week, and (trying to) studying for the MCAT.

And there's a Beta fish named "Gelato" looking at me right now. I'm fish-sitting him over the weekend, and he is currently living on my desk. So when I'm sitting at my computer, he is always looking at me. If I put my finger up to the glass, he looks at it and then backs away. But if I put a pen up to the glass, he flares up and starts getting all aggressive with the thing. Very strange.

I can't tell whether or not I should feel bad for him. He lives in a flower vase with shiny rocks at the bottom, he gets fed everyday, and lives a fairly peaceful life (except when I accidentally kick the desk or make any sudden motions). But he has no friends, and exists for the sole purpose of being big and pretty and fertilizing eggs and then dying. The only interactions he's programmed to have are fighting and fishy sex (which isn't nearly as exciting as it sounds). Frankly, I think he's kind of pathetic as far as creatures go, although mildly entertaining to watch.

Coffee makes everything better. Why is that?

I'm taking micro and macro economics this summer (two separate classes). I'm learning and enjoying micro more than I ever expected to, but am failing (as far as grades go). And I haven't learned a damn thing in macro yet (2 weeks in to the course), but will probably make out with an A. I hate Cornell.

As far as research, I'm working with my advisor (who specializes in infant cognitive development) to see the effects of a herpes virus on cognitive abilities in 4 to 8 month-old babies. What that roughly translates to is me sitting in a lab for many hours and carefully tracking the eye movements of many many many babies. But it's fun.

So that's my summer. It's kind of expensive, and not all that productive, but it beats sitting on my ass in Michigan being bored out of my mind anyday.

Holy cow! It's Coldplay.

They have a new album out... today... seven minutes ago, actually. Considering they are one of the few artists whose album releases I actually look forward to (and they happen but once every two years), this is a momentous occassion. Momentous, I say!

I'm journeying back to Ithaca tomorrow where I will spend the rest of my summer studying economics and tracking baby eyes (infant cognitive research) and playing chimes. I'm still not 100% confident that I actually need to be in Ithaca this summer, but I figure I'll be at least 5 times more productive/less depressed there than I ever would be in Michigan. I'm kind of sad to be leaving my parents (never thought I would say [... or type] that). But I think I'm leaving at just the right time where I'm rested, but not bored.

This album only has 11 tracks... that makes me sad.

I spent a few (lovely) days in Tejas, mostly in the company of my sister, but for a few glorious hours with Jeff and Bellami and Matt, and for a few minutes with Denise. I'll probably be lightly berated for even thinking this later, but does anyone else feel anxious when they're meeting up with highschool friends after not seeing them for a while? It's a very strange social habit for me, but I'm always just a tinge nervous that there will be some terrible awkward moment or nothing to talk about. It's extra strange because that never actually happens, but the fear is still there.

And of course, nothing is ever awkward with Bellami, and there is always plenty to talk about with Jeff.

Anywho, I'm six hours away from being off on my journey through Canada (sans passport... *gasp*). I'll let you know how that goes...

Summer Insomnia

This is what I love and hate about summer: the fact that if you don't have to be anywhere by 9 am, you will probably be sleeping until noon. And then, because you didn't wake up until noon, you can't go to bed until 2am (at the earliest). But because you're not used to real sleep schedules and not climbing into bed every night completely exhausted, you can't sleep until you've laid in bed for an hour (at least).

And thus begins the cycle of Summer Insomnia. Beautiful, really, in its simplicity. Yet tenacious and vicious in the way it screws with you.

Like just now! I was laying in bed (1:45 am) about to begin the dozing process, when I suddenly realized that I didn't have anyone to take care of Leo while I'm gone this weekend. And then it ocurred to me that I don't really have any friends or neighbors that I know too well here.

So I'm laying in bed, wide awake, racking my brain for people that could take care of Leo or the possibility of designing some kind of automatic feeding contraption or just filling his dish to the top and hoping that he doesn't eat himself to death. As soon as I think of a friend who could possibly take care of him, I rush onto Facebook to message her. And then, of course, it's Facebook, so you're obligated to stay there piddling around for at least another 20 minutes, which I did. And then I realized I was hungry, so I got a 2 am snack.

So here I am now, blogging (because I don't anticipate sleep for another hour or so) and eating cold leftover macaroni and cheese off a napkin with my fingers. And I'm hearing these strange beeping noises, like bad sci-fi sound effects or the noise that the electronic Simon game makes when you press the colored lights.

I used to get these bad bouts of "Facebook Envy", especially my freshman year, when I would see other people who were tagged in over 1000 pictures or who had some obscene amount of friends. But now, I realize (and use as a method for reinforcing my self-worth) the fact that most of their pictures are them standing around posing for the camera. That's not a good time! That's not adventure! That's them going to a party and taking pictures of themselves 90% of the time.

And I hate this new trend of everyone gathering around the camera immediately after the picture is taken. And then doing the whole damn thing over again if someone's eyes are closed, or they aren't in profile enough to make them look 20 pounds lighter.

My family is slowly evolving into the kind that only keeps condiments in the refrigerator. When I went to get my 2 am snack, I reached for a bag of veggies that definitely needed some kind of dip. And we had no dip! What good, worththeirsalt American family doesn't have a bottle of Ranch dressing in their refrigerator? And I know I'm complaining about the lack of condiment in the refrigerator right now, but that is beside the point! Ranch dressing should be moved above the food pyramid. It should just hover there, like a diety of food-dom.

Or there should actually be a picture of Ranch dressing being poured over the food pyramid whenever one is drawn. That's the way it oughta' be.

In conclusion, a quick book review:

Middlesex: Glorious read, well-written, well-planned, beautiful and kind of freaky all at once.

The Historian: Barmy, cobblers, poxy, and any other British slang that encompasses the general idea of BAD! This is going to be one of those books that I rant about how terrible it is until the end of time. And on my gravestone they will write "She really hated that book."

Lincoln at Gettysburg: I'm not sure I took from the book what the author would probably want me to, but I did get something (which is saying something for a history book). I'm still digesting it, let us say. It's a decent read in the sense that it covers just about every detail that had any bearing on Lincoln's delivery and planning of the Gettysburg Address. It's a slow (ish) read in the sense that there seems to be a lot of "historical fodder" mixed in with the good bits.

This is also the "incoming freshmen, orientation" book that Cornell requires its freshmen to read and use as discussion material during their first week on campus. That's the primary (read: only) reason I read it.

On Books and Hair

I've been reading The Historian for the past week which has gotten this reputation of being suspenseful and awesome, and I just can't get into it. The author is so repetitive and so slow with her story, I can't read it for more than 30 minutes at a time. She's just flapping her gums on the page. And while the mental image of gums flapping (like in those slow motion internet clips where people get slapped across the face and you can see their skin rippling) is quite hilarious. The fact that this book is 642 pages long and I'm on page 343 and it still sucks is not hilarious.

I just want to go back to the days of the first Harry Potter books. When it wasn't a race to the finish and they weren't the size of the Bible. Where you would just sit in bed on the weekends and read all day, and never get tired of it. And then after dinner, you were actually excited to get back to reading. I haven't really read a book like that since I was 12 years old.

On a completely unrelated note, I'm getting my hair cut tomorrow. The plan (for now) is to just let it grow while I'm at school, because it's easier that way. But deep down inside my cold, stony heart, I want short hair. Crazy short hair that makes people do a double-take to place your sex. Because short hair kicks so much ass, ohmyGodletmetellya. It's easy and androgenous and stands out. Kick ass.

But in the part of my heart that isn't so stony, I still long for those long curls that hang down your back. Or bun-ing it all up on the back of your head (in strategic chaos) and then sticking a pencil in it.

We'll see how I feel tomorra'.

Later that night....

I've been thinking about feminism for the past week or so, and, granted, I'm not too keen on the history of all the revolutions and movements that have taken place this century, but I'm thinking those didn't work all that well.

Because I'm starting to thinking that any kind of social movement has to occur on the grassroots level. And by "grassroots level" I mean at the level of the individual. Sure, there can be solidarity and companionship amongst people going through the same "turmoil", but it's not the marches or the bra-burnings or the crazy bitches with bullhorns that get people to change, it's when they meet someone who doesn't fit into the neat little stereotype muffin pan they have drawn out in their mind. Then they have to redraw, and then they have to accommodate that new view into their daily workings.

So then I thought about all the kickass women out there working for the cause. And then I thought about how for every one of them, there are probably 10 other women who "counteract" them. For every lady engineer/firefighter/CEO kicking ass and taking names, there are 10 women who nestle themselves deep within the stereotype and shoot out a handful of babies. There's nothing wrong with having lots of babies or fitting a stereotype, but when you run to the stereotype of weak/needy/nurturing womanness because acceptance and adjustment is just easier that way, then it's a sad day.

And I still believe the world is run by men, and will be for a long time because there's still a lot of resistance to gender equality. But sometimes women ask for too much...

Damn, now I've confused myself. Bugger-nut.

Bitter.

Like dark chocolate... but without the chocolatey goodness. And the cardiovascular benefits.

I just spent the last hour putting together a jigsaw puzzle, and wowee! Let me tell you how exciting my life is...

So I was doing this damn puzzle (I did the sky section) on a whim, because it's 2 in the morning and I'm tired of reading and writing, and I've reached this Guitar Hero plateau where I just can't get any better and don't really want to because the game has nothing to do with skill or music or anything that could possibly be useful anywhere outside of a 10 foot radius around the TV, and I realized how much you can probably tell about a person by how they approach a jigsaw puzzle.

Like me, for instance (because I have very little exposure to jigsaw puzzles and the doing of them by others), at first I was just bored, but kind of being stubborn about finishing the part that I had set out to do. After about 20 minutes of futilely trying to match up the colors (which was quite impossible in my situation), I realized that the little jigsaw bits had distinct shapes. And then I started focusing on the shapes of the little corners and nubby bits more than color. And it worked! I pimp slapped that sky (and by "pimp slapped", I mean "finished) in a very unimpressive span of time. But I finished it nonetheless.

Where as my dad, for another instance, comes over to a puzzle, looks at the general idea behind the picture, and then places the piece solely based on color and general layout. Mind-boggling.

In conclusion, I only have two styles to go on and, therefore, can not really expand on this blog post further. And as I'm fairly certain that people with lives don't actually do jigsaw puzzles much, no one will probably add to/expound on my theory, except for Maca who is awesome.

Home again, home again, jiggity-jig.

I have no idea what nursery rhyme/childhood saying that goes to. All I can think of is "This little piggy went to market..." and I know that's not right. Oh, the frustrations of summer.

No! I'm not going to Google it. Google is for quitters... which I am in most cases... but not today!

Packed up my dorm, moved out, and drove home. It went surprisingly well. Although I have come to the realization that I have a lot of crap (most of which is clothing), and I should probably think about giving some of it away. But it's so hard to let go...

It's always somewhat of a culture-shock (with a very loose utilization of the definition here) leaving Ithaca. Hearing new songs on the radio you haven't listened to in 4 months. Seeing new commercials/TV shows/products. The biggest shocker (to me) is seeing people that aren't upper-middle class and in their twenties. Like babies. Babies are freaky when you're leaving a college setting. Very small children are also strange, and toddlers are the worst of all.

But other than adjusting, it's nice to be home. And have a mommy cooking for me. And not have a roommate. My summer projects (for the month I have before I return to Ithaca and start summer classes) are as follows:

-read books
-learn to make hair curly

The latter of which sounds kind of silly, but lemmesplain: I have wavy hair (yes, is true). But sadly, when I try to tap into this waviness, I only come up with frizzy, tangled-looking, white-trash hair. Hence, me wearing my hair straight and suppressing the wave. Most people have overly-curly hair and have to product it up to make anything of it, but I have slightly underly-curly hair (yes, I am making up words now) and need to figure out a way to reap the most curl I can off this lousy head of mine. Suggestions are mighty welcome.

For your procrastinating pleasure

Ha! Pun... kind of.

I don't know how many people are still taking exams, but here is a good 15 minutes of distraction for you.

Green Porno

My favorite is the spider.

Freedom!

Isn't that what Mel Gibson screams at the end of "Braveheart"? I don't remember...

Ahh, sweet freedom... from physics anyway. Today I took my last test, got a B in the class, and sold my book for one hundred bucks. 'Twas glorious. I forgot how liberating the end of spring semester is. And now I'll never look at physics again... except when I'm taking the MCAT... and the GRE. Damn.

And I think I'm getting sick. Bugger. I have this one pissed off, swollen lymph node on the side of my neck the size of ... *touches to check*... a skittle (not as impressive as I originally thought...), and I can feel my throat starting to get more sensitive. But just one side of it! Very strange.

So that's my life. Study. Test. Study. Another test. Sell books. Clean out room, and then I'm gone!... for a few weeks. And then I come back!

Sometimes I wonder what will become of my roommate. Because she doesn't have classes anymore (her next two weeks are also devoted to studying and testing) she doesn't leave the room anymore (except for dinner). She spends two-thirds of her day at her desk watching anime/doing homework/studying?/watching more anime. She's a linguistics major. I'm not really sure how much work that entails, but for most of the year she has only been on campus for (at most a few hours a day) and then comes back and sits at her computer.

The point of this rant is that I worry for the future of civilization (the United States, specifically). And I secretly (and... for the most part... silently) wonder what will become of the hundreds of thousands of youths who do what needs to be done, but then spend the rest of their time on the internet or playing video games.

Maybe it's a phase they'll come out of. Or maybe they won't. Or maybe (just maybe), their mentality will become the norm and that will be the lifestyle of the majority of the population 10 or 20 or 50 years from now. I shudder to think...

I'm not one to criticise (okay, yes I am), pero with a such a huge active campus to explore and only 4 years to do it, I would hate to spend the majority of that in front of a computer. I'm not the most socially active person (yes, there have been entire weekends devoted to movies and episodes of Scrubs/House, M.D.), but I get out. Every once in a while...

Num num num num num

At the grocery store yesterday, I caved in to my inner-child and made myself one of those little bags of candy where you pick and choose from the bins.

Mostly because I'm in love with Bulls-Eyes. They are the greatest candy creation of all time, what with their chewy carmel outer ring and their deliciously arificial inner creaminess. (Apparently,) they defy my usual tastes in food (too sweet... way way too sweet), but I will overlook their unruly sweetness for the amazing consistency. Amazing!

And upon further examination of the wrapper, I find that they are made by the company "Goatze's"... eww.

But they're still delicious! if I just censor my brain from certain thoughts...

The African American program house is having some kind of picnic over at the Africana Library and they're playing rap music. It's not that I don't like rap music (which I don't), it's just that when you listen to it from a distance and through a window, all you can hear is the base. So there is no melody or words, but this annoyingly steady beat constantly going on. But I have my giant bag of assorted candies to comfort me.

Yesterday was Slope Day at Cornell. They festive day that marks the end of classes with boozing and general college debauchery. This year Gym Class Heroes, Hot Hot Heat, and... some other one-hit wonder band came and performed to the masses. The performance was considerably better than last year (T.I... bleh!). And thus my sophomore year (almost) ended, in one 24 hour haze of drunks and lukewarm pretzels (can solids be described as lukewarm?) and one failed physics tests and a rockin' chimes concert.

(P.S. Apparently "Umbrella" has been arranged for chimes... excellent.)

Here Comes the Sun!

Doo-ba-doo-bee! It's the Beatles, dammit!

I just wrote less than a page of script in Spanish, and I suck so hard at writing in a foriegn language that I had to write something in English just to validate my own self worth... yet again. That is where this blog post comes in. I swear, it was only 200 words, but it still took me an hour and half. Spanish compositions are to constipation as English compositions are to _________.

a. a jar of almonds
b. Judy Bloom
c. diarrhea
d. ubiquitous

Remember those?!

Today it rained. The concept of non-Texas rain is still strange to me. It goes like this: a light drizzle that eventually evolves into an almost intangible mist followed my more drizzling with the occasional fat drop hitting you right in the eye. This continues for no less than 24 hours.

After living in Tejas for a number of years, I expect every raincloud to bring torrents of downpour and lighting and thunder and tornadoes watches. That crazy rain that goes sideways and throws itself up against the window so hard that your mother comes bustling into the room in a frantic tizzy (poorly concealed) and shoves you and your sister into the closet under the stairs without explaining anything. And then after 15 minutes of madness, it clears and there is sun again.

Damn, I miss Texas.

But the rain felt right today. After a straight week of delicious weather (sun, clear skies, high of 74), there just had to be a break from the beauty. It was kind of eerie how perfectly the good weather coincided with "Cornell Days" when all the parents/prospective students come and journey around campus taking in the history and listening for that secret loophole to beating the admissions game and getting a free ride in (yes, I've been there too).

I still wonder why more people don't shout truths at the touring groups, like "Don't come here! They average everything to a B-!" or "I lost my will to live months ago!" or "'Ivy League Prestige' attracts more pompous assholes than any other group!". I guess there's a kind of respective restraint. The mentality is that if we badmouth the school, we badmouth ourselves for choosing to come to the school. And if we badmouth ourselves, well that just doesn't mesh well with our pomposity and assholeishness.

But now that they're all gone, the rain is back. Still, I'd rather have sidewalks marred with rain puddles than clusters of meandering tourists...

The Most Depressing Post

I really need to establish a regular posting schedule...

But I'm going to go ahead and be honest here, life hasn't been that exciting this semester. Or has it? You be the judge.

Life Summary (complete with complementary bullet points!... mmm, love me some bullet points)

-Still at Cornell, still living in the Environmentally-friendly dorm
-Still sucking at classes (specifically Organic chemistry with an added level of suckitude in Spanish and Physics!)
-Got an RA position in the environmentally-friendly dorm next year. Wootah!
-Was accepted for a study abroad program in Ecuador over the summer
-Deferred study abroad trip to NEXT summer (travel, beaurocratic issues)
-Planned to stay in Ithaca over the summer and take a couple of classes and get a lab position (still workin' on that...)
-Became a chimesmaster!
-Still have no clue what I'm going to do with my life...

Really truly and deeply, all I want to do is write and read... all... day... long. It's plausible. I could live in my parent's basement and be a no-good moocher, but something inside of me just won't let me do that. We Passmore's are the fightin' type.

So I will continue on my pre-med, Human Biology, Health, and Society-studying course. And I'll tack on a Global Health minor and mislead everyone into thinking I'll do something exciting and unexpected with that, but I probably won't. Honestly (at this point in my disillusioned life), I could see myself applying to a slacker med school (if such a thing exists) or going into dentistry.... which are pretty much one in the sameOOOOHHHHSNAP! (sorry, dentists).

I'm really not that depressed, just tired of school. I'm kind of burnt out. Not just on classes, but also on ambition and ambitious peoples. I just want (for once) to be inspired for some extended period of time without having my dreams dashed to shreds by a failing grade or someone saying something pompous and silly ("I got below the mean on one test in this petty class that no one will care about after this semester! Now I'll never get into medical school.") But I'll always be there, consoling and giving hugs. I guess that's the woman in me.

I've decided that I'm always going to have a guinea pig companion. Hell, I'm going to have a farm! Where pigs will be free to frolic in the grass and scuttle about in funny little way. That's what I'm going to do with my life.

Dove Chocolates

This is the first day in a long time that I don't have bookoos of work looming over me (there is still work to be done, it's just not looming... yet). So I've decided to devote this next... period of time... to the eating and analyzing of Dove Chocolates.

If you don't eat Dove Chocolates, you are lame. But you are also unaware that each chocolate has a sassy little message of wisdom (or something that sounds like it anyway) written on the foil wrapping. If you have ever eaten an entire bag... by yourself... in one sitting... you know that there are really only 5 or 6 messages per bag and they start to get redundant pretty fast (depending on how quickly you eat your chocolate).

But for now I'm on my first 3 in a new bag and their inspiring little messages are still magical. I like to think there's a saucy middle-aged woman (divorced once, no children, poorly dyed red hair) that lives in the Dove factory and just wanders around jotting her thoughts down in a little notebook. And then they print them on the foil, and pissed off women like me open them and think "Now that's a cheeky little thought. That inspires me to be cheeky myself and eat another handful of chocolates."

Actually, I can really only handle three. They be so rich and smooth and delicious.

So the last one I opened read: "Test your limits and keep going."

Which is interesting because (at this moment) I am about riding on very little sleep (3-5 hours for the last three nights) and whole lot of exaustion. Whine. Whine. Whine. (Yes, I know. I'm terrible.) I've actually discovered (or spent enough time in to notice) this state where I have so little sleep that I actually feel physically nauseous, like every movement I make has this dizziness and added resistance to it. I call it... sleepy sickness.

Very exciting. Profound discovery.

So I'm going to go to bed now. Even though the Dove wrapper encourages me to test my limits and then keep going. I don't think the Dove wrapper really knows what it's asking of me. And I don't really want to test this one anymore than I already have.

(Leo Update: Leo survived his great fall and was fine the next day. Although the collision with the ground did succeed in knocking out his front teeth (unfit mother!). But is okay, because they grow back (the benefits of being a rodent) and he is making a glorious recovery.

Parachute training is in progress... (that would just be damn awesome).

Thank God there are people in the world like you, Bellami, to drop babies on their heads for the rest of us who just don't have the balls to do it.)

Unfit Mother in the Making

I totally just dropped my guinea pig (a.k.a. Leo) on his head. I was holding him and he was jittery and I shut the door and it make a loud noise and he started squirming and fell two or three feet. And now he's angry with me. If you were here, you would hear him angrily cooing in the background.

I've assessed the damage, and so far it looks like he just has one pretty badly broken nail. Not too much blood. But he's still seems pretty pissed off. I'm just worried that I broke something inside of him...

This is one of the many reasons I will never have children.

Lessons in Futility

Hi.

I’m eating Triscuits right now, and I’m not really sure why. I’m not hungry. But I just had one of those moments where you get up, get food, and start eating before you realize what you’re doing. And I think it’s because of the AIDS pandemic.

Yes, AIDS is bringing out the compulsive eater in me.

I’m taking this global health course (as a requirement for the global health minor that I am steadily working towards) and the first 3 weeks of the course cover HIV/AIDS. So tonight, I get to read 20 pages about how racism and sexism and poverty and drugs and desperate acts of sex contribute to the spread of the virus. And let me tell you, there is a whole hell of a lot of contribution. Oh my goodness…

So I’m supplementing my depressing reading assignments with the strategic implementation of a salty-sweet-salty snacking regimen (with sporadic gulps of water interspersed). It’s working rather well, I think.

The professors in charge of this class tell us not to be depressed or feel guilty about what we see. They say we should be grateful for what we have and learn not to take it for granted. And then they show us a picture of a man in Zambia who hauls thirty pound sacks of rice back and forth all day for some ridiculously small amount of pay. Meanwhile, I sit typing at my laptop, eat eat eating away at my arsenal of consumer-whore snacks and not being hungry. Ever.

I could stop eating. And I could start cleaning my plate more efficiently every time I eat. I could scrape every last bit of remaining condiment off my plate and lick all my utensils and marvel at the fact that no one in Africa will ever starve again because I’ve done my part to reduce waste (and consumed an extra 300 calories in the process). But there will still be problems in infrastructure and transportation and distribution. And powerful men will still hold high school grudges against one another and choose silly miscommunications over reason.

“Cleaning your plate” is just a cure for post-industrial guilt.

Boo.

"Chaaarlie! That really hurt."

Holy shit, I want a British baby... right now.

"Back to school, back to school...

... to prove to Dad that I'm not a fool."

The day Adam Sandler stopped making mindless, immature, hilarious-when-only-when-you're-drunk movies was the day a bit of my soul died. It flaked right off and floated to the cold, hard earth. Then it produced a single tear before being swept away by a rogue wind from the east.

I hate the first day of classes (which was today) because I hate going over syllabuses and doing ice breakers. I have done more ice breakers since I came to Cornell than you can shake a stick at. Go ahead. Try and shake that stick at them all. There is no way you'll be able to do it. No. Way. I think I'm going to rely on blatant lies if someone asks me about myself again.

Two truths and a lie.

I once killed a man using an electric toothbrush and ball of yarn.

I keep his severed thumbs in the glove compartment of my El Camino.

I have a kitty named "Mr. Boogaloo".

That would send them all... into an awkward state. Really that's all I've ever wanted... along with wealth and power... and a mistress or two.

*throws list of classes at you to give this post a purpose*
-Physics
-Organic Chemistry (and lab... *vomit*)
-Macro-economics
-Introduction to Global Health
-Spanish for Health and Medical Professionals

Lustings

It's funny, because Michael Cera doesn't really fit in with my other man-crushes (Bear Grylls, Leonidas). But I would still have his dorky little Canadian babies if he asked me to... nicely. And we would name them dorky Caucasian names, like Edgar and Simon.

Learning About the Female Body: Lesson 1

Boobs suck because boobs hurt. Randomly. When you least expect it. It doesn't matter if you let them be free or strap them down under multiple layers of sports bras, they will still be whiny little bitches.

If all the parts of the female body were actually different female personalities, boobs would be the high-maintenance, New Jersey girls.

(Oh yeah. I went there...)