Sunday, August 24, 2008

Puppies and Rainbows

I spent most of last year hoping I'd get an opportunity to speak at the new graduate student orientation this year. My first year of graduate school was an important one for me, and though I am still figuring things out, I wanted to help. This is partly due to the fact that I wasted a huge amount of time last year being unnecessarily scared. I was convinced that I'd been accepted as some sort of fluke - maybe the DGS put my application in the wrong pile? - and I tried my damnedest to fly under radar. In case that was the case, I didn't want anyone to notice.

Well, it wasn't the case. Though grad school does at times seem a breeding ground for rampant insecurity, by the time August came around and I found myself staring into a sea of new and curious grad student faces, I felt good. I felt good about the program and myself in it, and that is almost entirely due to the fact that after a year I have found my people. There are amazing scholars here who not only know my name and my work, but also know me. They are happy when I darken the doorstep of their offices. My colleagues are passionate people, and after a year (and a fortuitous freshmen focus pairing) I have a mentor so amazing it's almost miraculous. Grad school is hard. Everyone knows that. But it doesn't have to be impossible. The people make it better.

So that it what I said, when I spoke at orientation. In fact, that's what the entire panel said. And sure, perhaps we made it seem a bit "puppies and rainbows." Maybe I was overcome with happiness to be back from summer and amongst these people I admire so much. Maybe I was feeling too lovingful of the entire graduate process. But I don't think there's a way to be too into graduate school and the people around you. I think that's what makes for good colleagues, interesting scholars, and passionate teachers. Academia is about the people. It has to be, otherwise we wouldn't have this cult of celebrity around the top minds, the very best teachers, or the most compelling speakers. In this business, our thoughts control our destiny. And where do we get these thoughts, Clarice? We find out what we love. Or, as one of my colleagues said, "You find what lights you up." This is the humanities. You can't stop being human. And even if you can stop being human and still get away with it, I choose not to take that particular route.

The funny thing about adversity, or so about a million quotable people have said, is that it often shows you the truth about something. I am not saying that petty people show you the true nature of the world, but rather that with the bad ones come the really good people as well, just to restore balance to the force. I am disappointed in the actions of some of my colleagues, particularly because I have invested a near-absurd amount of energy believing these people to be...better. But mostly I am disappointed in myself, for getting so worked up about it in the past few days. I have the right to be angry, and I am. I have the right to be hurt, and I definitely am hurt. But I am letting the boogie men win when I avoid them because I'm afraid I'll cry, hurl, or explode. I am letting them win when I feel so overwhelmed with their toxicity that I want to leave altogether. Particularly when 95 percent of the people around me are wonderful, brilliant, professional people.

Well, my parents would say, that kind of behavior just makes me a silly bitch. So in the spirit of school starting tomorrow, and in the spirit of the thesis, coursework, testing, and PhD applications to come, I think it is a good time to stop being a silly bitch.

Saturday, August 16, 2008

Michael Phelps and I have a mutual friend on facebook

Impressive, no? I mean, it makes sense, since I have a friend who is also an athlete at Michigan, but I was nevertheless surprised when fbook delivered that little tidbit.

Ok, that is obviously not the point of this post.

Before the Olympics started, Laur and I had a serious roommate bonding moment over our mutual apathy for the Olympics. In fact, I was kind of even excited to NOT watch them. Which is weird, because everyone knows the summer sports are way better than the winter ones. (With the notable exception of figure skating.) But, I couldn't muster that much enthusiasm this year because Ian Thorpe is out. (He was my fave.)

Anyway, when I arrived home on Sunday, my mother was her usual adorable blend of terrifying efficiency and overwhelming cuteness. She'd just completed tearing a huge hole in our kitchen, thereby merging the kitchen and our garage. But she was also SUPER into the Olympics. Mostly she just likes it when the P.O.M.Es do any better than 4th. The Brits are ALWAYS coming in 4th. It's a source of huge entertainment for my father, but is generally less amusing to Mum. So we've been watching a lot of Olympics. Mostly on the Canadian channel, because they actually show the events live (unlike NBC, who has the weirdest definition of live ever). I love the Canadians because they will mention the Canadian athletes even when they are hysterically behind. ("The Canadian athlete is now in 57th place!") A while ago, they did that with Simon Whitfield (in the triathlon) and he somehow went from like, 73rd to 1st! It was so cool. But enough about the Canadians.

I am kind of in love with Michael Phelps now. Not in luuuuuuurrrrrvvvvve, but I mean, wow. Of course, it is easy to support someone when they're ridiculously talented. Although, it is more than slightly depressing that we're the same age. He's insane! Mostly though, I think his mum is so precious. She is such a midge. I am not sure how she birthed that orca, but props to you, Mrs. Phelps.

I'm really only paying attention to the swimming, since the gymnasts creep me out (they all look pre-pubescent) but I should say that I am kind of loving the racing. I am loving the hugging across lane dividers, I am loving the teeny Japanese man who beat all the super tall guys at the beginning of the week, and I am LOVING all the relay teams (even though I get flashbacks from relay practices from interminable erging winters). I really like it when America wins, even though I think the Yanks sometimes say really stupid things. Example: one of the relay team members saying that Phelps winning 8 medals is bigger/more impressive than anything else in sports, including the Tour de France. Um, what? False. Has this guy never seen the Tour de France?

Mostly I just like it when someone adorable wins. Which reminds me! I was so excited that Jamaica won something.

I will say though, I am not into NBC. First, they lie about things being live. Secondly, they have been MEAN to Ian Thorpe. As someone who teaches other people how to use sources, I feel someone should point out that what the Thor-pedo said about Michael Phelps was NOT as bitchy as everyone is claiming. Thorpe even said "I'd love to see [Phelps] do it [you know, win everything]" and THEN he hugged Mrs. Phelps when Michael whomped every single record Thorpe ever set. So let's not sass the poor man. Instead, let's calm the deuce down.

An Open Letter to Endnotes

Dear Endnotes:

Listen, I can appreciate wanting to be the center of attention as much as the next girl. I can even appreciate the value of interrupting someone for the sole purpose of providing largely useless information. All I'm saying is, I feel your timing could use a little work.

Take, for example, your taller, smarter, better-looking sibling, the footnote. The footnote provides the same information, but saves the average graduate student the trouble of flipping back and forth. I understand that Renaissance English requires a little clarification, from time to time, but seriously man, you are ruining my flow! Or rather, you are ruining Webster's flow. So cut it out, punkface. There is a distinct difference between being fashionably late (at the bottom of the page) and not showing up until people are passed out on the couch.

Sincerely,
Toria

Thursday, August 7, 2008

Tardy Party

Wow. I am very late in posting for this one. Anyway, before I jump right into my turtle post, I would like to point out that PAUL has not responded to his own prompt. That's right Paulo, I am calling you out.

Anyway, turtles. I actually have quite a few turtley things. Not the real live ones, you understand, but keychains, desk accessories, stationary. My family keeps purchasing them for me, and it's all because of my big mouth.

In my family, people either get married pretty young, or they go totally nuts (in a charming way, of course) and become spinsters. Not joking. I thought spinsters only really existed in the 19th Century. (Ok, practically speaking I knew this wasn't true. But don't you just always imagine spinsters dressed up like Queen Victoria? I do.) Anyway, we Dalstons have our very own spinster. Auntie May. I never met this woman, because she was older than God when my mum was a little girl. I have been told that I am essentially a clone of May, personality-wise. Kindred spirits, if you will. Or maybe I'm the reincarnation of Auntie May. Either way, this does not bode particularly well for me. Plus, I seemed to have inherited every crappy gene from both sides of my family. The allergies, the boobs, and MAYBE, the spinster gene. And, because my family is just like this, they think it's totally hysterical to make fun of me for it. As if my spinster concerns weren't legitimate! It's science, people.

Well, the way I figure it, anything worth doing is worth doing right. I don't want anything to sneak up on me! How embarrassing would it be to be a sub-par spinster? So I figure I need a big house, lots of weird art projects, and a bunch of cats. EXCEPT, I am deathly allergic to cats. So you can imagine I was pretty disconcerted when I remembered that. I immediately called my mother.

Me, in my most dramatic voice: MUM! I am doomed to fail at spinsterhood!
My mother: Toria, you silly bitch, you are 21 years old.
Me: Yeahbut!
My mother pauses, as if she's waiting for me to make an actual point. She has a tendency to do this.
Me: Yeahbut, shouldn't I be prepared for this? What am I going to do? I can't have cats! Which means I'll have to have a turtle, or something. A turtle? How naf!
My mother: A turtle? (I can't really explain it in writing, but she said "A turtle?" in a voice that could only mean "How did I, the most rational person in the world, birth this crazy mofo?")
Me: Yes. It can only be a turtle. And I shall call him Habib. (Um, Toria, wtf?)

The conversation pretty much withered from there, what with my mother being exasperated with me, and calling me a silly bitch a few more times. And that year for Christmas, I received no fewer than four turtles. My mother the joker. At this point, I'm not sure if the turtles represent my future, or my blatant detour from the patented family rationality. If they redid Bridget Jones, I do feel little Habib would figure in prominently. At least he would in the first half of the movie, before Bridget sorts things out with Mark Darcy (rar!). But until Renee Zellwegger starts packing the pounds on again, I will be more than happy to be the Pullman-area supplier of turtle-themed goods.

Saturday, August 2, 2008

Sea Monkeys, Milk Money, and James McAvoy, oh my!

Yesterday, Julie proposed that we go to Lewiston to see Wanted at the Orchard (for a dollar, no less!). Obviously, I said yes, because I am currently pursuing a TOE (theory of everything) specifically geared to James McAvoy, which basically states that everything he's in is amazing. Seriously. There was The Last King of Scotland, Becoming Jane, Penelope, and Atonement. They were all good. So when I saw the trailers for Wanted, I was both excited and anxious. Because let's be honest, it didn't look that good. But I refused to believe that James would let me down. Anyway, I can happily report that Wanted was exceptionally enjoyable. Guilty pleasure...maybe. But, rar! Something for everyone. Hopefully something for our 104 students as well, because we're showing it for class. Before anyone gets all nervous, we found no fewer than eight philosophical problems in the film. So it's totally legit!

We also went to the casino. I will admit that in previous years, slots held little to no fascination for me. Mostly because my only experience with them was one failed effort in the Vegas airport. But the baby casino in Lewiston is pretty rad. I probably only feel so positive about this because I made fourteen dollars. The "Milk Money" machine was particularly awesome, mostly for the bonus rounds. If you get a bonus, you pick a cow (Hefina or Bovina) and they go into a little barrel, wherein they swivel their hips around (which is, I guess, how you milk a cow in slot-machine land). Then, depending on what kind of milk comes out (triple points for chocolate, double for strawberry, and extra prizes for egg nog) you get money! Equally charming is the fact that both cows speak with a Jamaican accent (I didn't even know they had cows in Jamaica!) I could give or take the actual slot machine part, but the bonuses are amazing. Julie got a bonus round on the sea monkey machine, and she made 18 bucks! ON A PENNY SLOT!

I am pretty sure, when I have to go into Gambler's Anonymous, this blog post will be integral in one of the steps.

Sidenote: "Betti the Yetti" sucks, even though it's a funny name for a slot machine. I didn't win ONCE. I lost five bucks in approximately 2.5 minutes. Were it not for a second pass at "Milk Money" this whole post would have been a lot more negative.

Saturday, July 26, 2008

Do the D-I-S-C-O (BB Fanboy post)

Here's the problem with me "revealing" myself as a fanboy of something: I am obsessed with essentially everything, and am also very vocal about said obsessions (Lauren just read that over my shoulder and immediately said "it's true!" so you know I'm not lying). Here is an abbreviated list of things with which I am publicly obsessed:

1. So You Think You Can Dance
2. Harry Potter
3. Shakespeare
4. Henry VIII and his four thousand wives
5. Bad movies (Like The Mummy, and P.S. I Love You, and The Phantom, and a bunch of others)
6. Dashes
7. Existentialist philosophy
8. Select people
9. Aromat
10. Slurpees

Okay, I think you get my point. I am an excitable person. So when I read this post I was like, "Crap. Should have played things a little closer to the chest. No one's going to be surprised now!" But then I remembered disco. Only Lauren really knows how much I love disco.


Now, before anyone gets too excited about how dorky this is, and starts making jokes about John Travolta, etc. I would like to point out that I mostly mean the style of dance. Here is an example of what I mean. Also, if anyone watches this and isn't immediately obsessed/immensely impressed, please don't tell me, because I will just be devastated.

So anyway, we all know that my current number one obsession is So You Think You Can Dance and that I value it over the property and overall happiness of all Spokane residents. (Juuuust kidding!) The people with whom I watch this blessed television event (Lauren and Ju-Ju-Ju-Julie and the Trouts) know that I get super stoked every time Dorianna Sanchez (the disco lady) choreographs something (even though the dancers this season haven't quite achieved the Sara-Neil perfection of the afore-linked video). I LOVE IT! It's so pink and shiny and smiley (which would be my chosen words if I ever had to write another one of those college admission essays about three words that describe yourself). Technical dancing skills are all very well and good, but approximately no one would be impressed or at all entertained if you busted out some contemporary dance in a club.

Need more proof that I love the dorky disco? Please reference my overwhelming adoration of Mamma Mia!


The Abba montage outfits were admittedly heinous (see above, from the broadway show), but how much fun was that movie? I've always had a soft spot for Abba, which I inherited from Jo. When we saw the movie, people were singing in the theater, which in my estimation is proof of a good time. Since I secretly wish life was more like a musical, I was super into the sudden musical outbursts. Here's one now:


Who wouldn't want to be friends with people like that? I have already informed Lauren that she will be expected to sing, and dress in ruffles, should I ever find myself wondering which of three incredibly attractive men is the father of my charming bastard child.

And here's something you probably didn't know, which further proves my commitment to disco: if you were to stop me any time in the next couple of weeks, I think you would find that my ipod is playing any one of about 8 songs from this movie. Oh, or the song from the SYTYCD disco routine. If you're really sneaky, you could probably find me dancing in the stacks at the library during work (because I like to provide a soundtrack to my book-finding efforts. It lightens things up, since I'm usually looking for books with pictures of dead bodies for the Stiff exhibit.)

Thursday, July 17, 2008

Danger, Will Robinson!

Do you ever have that moment, where all of a sudden, you realize that you have unwittingly put yourself in a totally non-negotiable position? You are bopping along and then you pause, come out of your fog, and think "Oh shit. If this were a movie, everyone in the audience would be saying 'yeah right, as if anyone would be stupid enough to get themselves in that situation.'"Like in horror movies, when they run upstairs, or wander into the woods at night.

I don't often find myself in these situations, but I am a little Pollyanna-ish about the world, so it's happened once or twice. I frequently imagine how mad my mum would be if she could reviewmy actions on film. Approximately half the things I did in France would have earned a "You silly bitch" from one (or both) of my parents. (Sidenote: that is an affectionate term in my family, I swear. It even sounds cute in my mum's accent. The Johnsons are very into using completely unsavory names as terms of endearment.) Spending the night in the Bordeaux train station in the company of a particularly un-charming, crazy homeless man (obviously not by choice) was admittedly not the smartest decision I've ever made. Wandering around a rough Parisien neighborhood at 4 in the morning, also not especially sound judgment. I was alone for most of my month-long Interrail experience, so I can tell you that some pretty suspect characters enjoy loitering around Italian and Belgian train stations.

My first thought for this post was to write about accidentally stumbling into a protest (with police, and tear gas) in Budapest. Now, I know what you're thinking. How is it possible to accidentally find yourself in a protest? Because there are a lot of people, and they are yelling, you might think they would be easy to avoid. Well. It just so happens on that particular day they were ALSO holding a candlelight vigil to mark the 50th anniversary of the Soviet tanks pulling in. So there were a bunch of people standing around, quite peacefully, when my friends and I went into the House of Terror (both the Nazis and the Soviet secret police occupied this building, at different points of time, and it's a museum now. God, it's horrible in there. But I will have to save that for another post.) We came out, and the masses were moving along, so we figured it was something of a parade. We went to dinner (Indian, and delicious, in case you're wondering) and when we came out again, there were more people! We assumed they were the same people, and they'd just wound their way back to that part of town, so we didn't really think anything of it. They were going our way, so we just fell in with the crowd as we made our way back to the hostel. Sure, they were way louder than before. I just kind of assumed it had taken them awhile to get into the full swing of things. Maybe like, phase three of the vigil? Obviously I don't speak Hungarian, so I had no idea what was going on UNTIL some man stopped me and asked for my pashmina. RUDE! I was completely confused, and tried to explain to him that a) it was freezing, so I was disinclined to acquiesce to that particular request b) it was brand new and c) pink was not really his color. After a very long pantomime between the two of us, and approximately two words of english on his part (which I think were "gas" and "police") we determined he wanted to use it in case the cops (who were apparently up a few blocks) decided to gas everyone. As you can tell, this guy was not especially concerned about my respiratory health. We decided that it was a pretty good time to find an alternate route to the hostel. Except for Ande, our resident Peace Studies major, who wanted to actually join the protest. Typical.

So that was probably one of the most dangerous situations I've been in. But I can't say it felt dangerous, because nothing happened. Except, I almost lost my pashmina. I mean, for most of the experience I had NO idea what was happening. I probably would have been more freaked out if I spoke Hungarian. But isn't that always the way? Ignorance is bliss? My friends were around me. I (probably rather stupidly) assumed everything would be okay. Strength in numbers, right? Besides, everyone loves Americans! (Just kidding.)

At any rate, it seems to me that it's not so much the place that's dangerous, but the people. When Hobbes said life is "nasty, brutish, and short," I think he meant that we make it that way. Except for some places like Australia, where every plant and animal is trying to kill you (another story for another post), mostly it's the people that make a place safe or dangerous. Which is perhaps why when I think about dangerous places, I immediately think of the crazyhead in Bordeaux, or creepers in the train station, or a mass of angry Hungarians. I also think of this guy I encountered on a bus once. I was going home from downtown Bellevue (the yuppie capital of the world). As I waited at the transit station, he came up behind me and repeatedly tapped on the glass behind my bench. Then he got on my bus. He smiled at me (in a not nice way) all the way home. After I got off the bus, he continued to smile at me, through the window as they drove away. And then he got off at the next stop, just down the road. I have never been more terrified, or more concerned for my overall well being, even though my house was less than 15 minutes away. I grew up in that neighborhood. We buy corn at the Red Apple market there, and last-minute birthday cards at the Hallmark. My dad and I used to go to the Dairy Queen after tee-ball games. My elementary school is just up the hill. But in that moment, it was the most dangerous place in the world to me.


As a happy p.s. though, I called my male friends and they quickly came to my rescue. Captain Creeper went away without much fuss.

Wednesday, July 16, 2008

as lauren would say, nom nom nom

Julie and the Trouts are the best! Aside from turning us into big hippies and teaching me the purpose of a crisper drawer (as it happens, not where the butter is supposed to go), they also BAKE. And they bake very, very well. First, there were Julie's cupcakes:


How perfect are these bad boys? I think they are really highlighted by Lauren's considerable Vanna White skills. And even though these cupcakes look too good to eat, you eventually get over it and discover they are offensively good. There is a cherry center. It's like a gusher, but also a cupcake. Which makes this cupcake eating experience like, the best day of elementary school EVER. (Get it, because when I was in elementary school, Gushers were hot lunchtime trading commodities, and you got cupcakes whenever it was someone's birthday? Speaking of elementary school, did anyone else have that whole day where you brought a sleeping bag and snacks and just read all day? I LOVED that day. But that is entirely beside the point.)

And then Karen made banana bread for tonight's viewing of SYTYCD. With no nuts! (And noooo high fructose corn syrup.) She and Jim had all these fancy toasting/buttering tricks to make it a particularly bomb banana bread experience. I wish I'd thought to actually take a picture of Karen, since she's the one who actually made it, but instead I took a couple of awkward pictures of a half-eaten slice on a plate, and one of lauren eating her piece. And that picture includes Jim looking more comfortable in our kitchen than I do (but we're working on that).

Sunday, July 13, 2008

You Devil Syrup!

Well, yesterday we went to the farmer's market. We, in this case, is me, Julie and the Trouts. (In case you're wondering, I like saying "Julie and the Trouts" to the tune of "Bennie and the Jets". Try it. It's fun!) Anyway. I have always been pretty nonchalant about food. Like, I don't think about it too much, unless I'm hungry. Which technically is all the time, but then I'm not thinking about how it got in front of me, or what's in it. I know, I know. I am one of those Americans.

Fortunately, I am also a rower. Or at least, I was for seven years. The main function of a rower is to sit in the boat and do whatever the coxswain/coach tells her to do. Anyway, my point is that I'm good at following directions. I just need someone to directly give them. For example, I always turn the lights off when I leave a room, because I once went to see the Dalai Lama speak and that's what he told us to do. I'm very obedient.

So when Jim and Karen explained that high fructose corn syrup is the devil, and that I probably should stop eating it approximately 3464710308231 times a day, I thought "No way dudes, I am sure I don't eat it that much."

Um, false.

So this is what I've been doing all weekend: I eat, and then I think "I wonder if THIS has hfcs." Then I find out that it does. Then I wander around the apartment swearing, and try to find something to recycle (to make up for it). Holy crap, people! It's EVERYWHERE. This high-fructose thing has officially rocked my white bread world. And that white bread is probably laced with...well, you know.

Friday, July 11, 2008

BB post 7 - "fireworks"

If you're looking for a way to seriously mess up my Thursday night, fire works.

Last night, Jim, Karen, Julie, Lauren and I were settling down to watch So You Think You Can Dance. We were greeted cordially by Cat (the host) and the dancers started performing the opening number, which involved tracksuits and black lights. It was kind of weird, to be honest. But, I'll never be able to form an educated opinion about the performance as a whole, because RIGHT IN THE MIDDLE OF THE DANCING, fox news (those bastards) interrupted to present "breaking news" about the fire in Spokane. A fire which I'd like to point out is only moderately larger than that produced by a zippo lighter. Ok, that's a lie. But someone should tell Fox news that a "breaking news" segment does not last OVER AN HOUR LONG. We got interviews, about twenty minutes of the same STILL picture, and several particularly riveting segments in which a woman read her email. Or rather, gestured to it as if we could read the screen ourselves.

Thank God for my mother, who focused all her texting energy on providing a blow-by-blow account of the action. It was pretty cute, actually. She was abbreviating left and right (though I'm not sure if that was intentional or the byproduct of technological frustration).

So, I'm mad at Fox news and Spokane in general. Oh, and if you're wondering if I called the news desk to bitch about it...I did. I was ready to give them what-for too, except they didn't answer the phone. Typical.

Monday, July 7, 2008

Bloomsbury Post 6.2 - Hand

I figured, since I put forth two prompts, I should at least do both of them. I'm not really sure what possessed me to open the palm-reading can of worms, as I (like Lauren) am a little iffy on the whole thing. I recall once at a company picnic they brought in a tarot card reader. I was just about to leave for France, and had a whole round of grad school applications on my horizon. I asked the woman about my career - that is, I asked her about my intention to become a professor. She said - I still remember it verbatim, which is funny since I JUST said I don't really buy into this kind of stuff - "I'm sorry, sweetie, but I just don't see that working out for you". First - rude - don't call me sweetie. Particularly when you've just casually shrugged my future off. Secondofly, maybe she just knew the job market for professors sucks. Maybe she herself was a failed PhD! So maybe ten years from now I'll be reading tarot cards at company picnics. Which means I'd better take this palm reading post pretty seriously.

I picked my left hand, even though it's my dominant hand. Because I like being left-handed, and also because I like being a girl.

The Heart Line: 
Begins in the middle: Falls in love easily.
(Not sure I agree with this.)
Smaller lines crossing  through the heart line: emotional trauma. 
(Oh hey! Faaaaabulous.)

The Head Line: 
Curved, sloping line: Creativity! 
(That almost makes up for the crappy heart line)

Deep, long line: Thinking is clear and focused. 
(Fantastic. Except, I think anyone who has ever had a conversation with me would likely disagree. Ben, for example, spends most of our conversational time trying to tie up the loose ends I leave scattered all over the place.)

Multiple crosses through the head line: momentous decisions
(Doesn't everyone have momentous decisions to make?)

The Life Line: 
Long, deep: vitality
(here's hoping.)

Swoops around in a semi-circle: strength and enthusiasm
(I think this is true. I mean, anyone who sits near me during So You Think You Can Dance can plainly see I have oodles of enthusiasm. Possibly too much enthusiasm, considering it's a tv show. But I am enthusiastic about other things too, like Socrates, Shakespeare, and buying DVDs.)

The Fate Line: 
Ok, none of the descriptors matched my fate line. It breaks, but does not continue in different directions. So maybe that means I'm prone to many changes in life from internal - rather than external - features? But really, I just made that up, because it seems to be more accurate. 

My hand seems to be a Fire hand: 
Square or rectangular palm, flushed or pink skin, and shorter fingers; length of the palm greater than the length of the fingers.
-Spontaneous, enthusiastic, and optimistic
-Sometimes egoistic, impulsive, and insensitive
-extroverts
-do things boldly and instinctively

I...kind of agree with this. I wouldn't particularly consider myself an extrovert, since I am kind of ridiculously shy. But the rest of it I think is pretty accurate. 

So that's it. Also, I would like to mention that as I sat here in the AML writing this post, Jim was laughing at me pretty much the whole time. I would say something like "Never let it be said that I don't suffer for you guys" but this whole thing was my idea. So it's my own damn fault. 

Sunday, July 6, 2008

delicate

I don't know if any of you have noticed, but I'm pretty girly. I have hot pink pants, for pete's sake. I like to paint my nails, and read about celebrities, and buy shoes. I heed Mindy Kaling's blog the way some people heed the Bible. So you would think I would have very little trouble finding something overwhelmingly delicate in my life. Nevertheless, I am struggling. I can find a lot of indulgence, perhaps. A significant amount of fluff, but nothing particularly delicate without getting into some stuff I'd rather not discuss on the internets. However, since some of my blogging compatriots have been so generous with themselves this summer (ie, since I essentially tear up every time I read Rachel's blog) I would like to offer something a little more substantial than just some bullshit story about how my bones are more delicate than I realized (hence the metal plate in my arm) or the lace bobbins in my grandmother's house or my eyeballs (as I am currently peering at this computer screen through new glasses).

I started off with the dictionary entry for delicate, since that seemed as good a starting point as any. And you know what? I was surprised. I was expecting the first definition to address the easily wounded, or the intricately designed. But the first definition was:

Pleasing to the senses, especially in a subtle way.

Fascinating.

The very first thing I thought of was air. The smell of the air has always been oddly important to me, which seems kind of like a bizarre characteristic of some sort of Disney villain. Can't you see it now? Cruella DeVil, teetering down the street in sky-high stilettos and baby seal fur, bitching about the smell of the air? I can see it, at least. And I'm not talking about when you're driving along the highway and you catch a whiff of skunk, or when you drive into Moscow. I'm talking about a subtle scent, so subtle that it seems less like a smell that's bothering you, and more like the place itself is just giving you the creeps.

The inverse of the creepy-air smell, of course, is warm and inviting - just a generally content smell. Real estate brokers will tell you that it's baking bread, or something like that. But again I think that's a little too obvious, don't you? My favorite is the smell the air takes when it's about to rain. Or, the odor right before a big electrical storm. These scents are almost imperceptible, but so lovely. These smells are a quiet assertion of presence, and in those moments before the storm I feel like I too am more present. Those are wonderfully calm moments, and I love them for their quiet dignity.

Ok, that's probably more on my love affair with smelly air than any of you really needed. But, it kind of sets the groundwork for my larger, original point (also known as the point I was going to make before I actually looked "delicate" up in the dictionary).

There is something subtle in the way the air changes as you move from place to place. My home in Bellevue, as I've mentioned, pretty much always smells as if it's going to rain. The air in my temporary home - Pullman - smells like heat and humidity (at least, it seems to these days). The air at Jo's house - yet another home - has the weird, tingly current you inhale just before a really powerful sneeze. (I don't think it smells like this for most people, but I am, tragically, really allergic to Bampton. It is like Pollen Land there.) So I suppose it's fair to say that I've collected this weird affinity for delicate shifts in air scents because I have this impulsive need to keep moving. I've been thinking about my pack-up-and-move bug a lot recently, because I've been here in Pullman for a year now. That means it's time for me to get antsy again. I'm like Juliette Binoche in Chocolat, but not in any of the cool mistress-of-chocolate ways. Just in that move-every-time-the-wind-changes way. I've only got a year of this chunk of my life left, so now my vision of the future is once again kind of an inchoate, shifting image. Generally speaking, this is the way I like it. It's exciting to think about the way the air will smell in my new home (wherever that may be). But, in this case, what is exciting is also incredibly selfish. I leave. I leave all the time. It was recently pointed out to me that I have about a billion best friends. The English student in me recognizes, immediately, that "best" is a singular superlative. But Lauren, who in fact is the one who pointed out this "best friend in every port" situation, is totally right. I can in fact, off the top of my head, think of seven people I'd classify as best friends. Best friend from high school. Best friend from college. Best friend from my sorority. Best friend from the crew team. Best friend from Scotland. Best friend from France. Best friend from Pullman. And I adore these people so, so much. And what I'm wondering is, when will I stop leaving these people? Isn't the ability to stay put a mark of adulthood. And if it is...when will that bug...bite?




Monday, June 23, 2008

And the Money Kept Rolling In

Well, in true Toria fashion, I started this post on Tuesday, got all excited about the timeliness of my posting this week, and then promptly forgot about it until today. Oops. But anyway. If there's one thing I'm good at, it's spending imaginary money. So here goes!

Dalston Hall:

This, technically speaking, is my ancestral home and a point of vague heartbreak for me. My mum's family are Dalstons. Dalston Hall (conveniently located in the town of...Dalston. I don't know if we're named after the town, or just really egotistical. Probably the latter.) But we don't own it anymore, and since then it's become a luxury hotel and a...caravan park? Ok, obviously I am in no position to be snobby, because I could never, ever buy this place. However, it just makes me a little sad that, you know, the sprawling grounds of my ancestor's home now backs onto...a trailer park. And the antiques are fake! Made in China! I know this isn't that big a deal. These are minor offenses, in the grand scheme of things. Really, this is more about a general discomfort with leaving my family's history to a group of strangers. Oh my god, did I mention that in the tower room - also the honeymoon suite - they're planning to put mirrors on the ceiling? Jesus. There's so much potential there, but it would require a) a crap ton of money, and b) a willingness to live in the most haunted house in Britain. Not that I can blame my ancestors for haunting the place. I mean, mirrored ceilings? I would haunt the crap out of the people who did that to my house.

When we went to visit, when I was on the way to college, the owners actually made us sit in on a ghost tour. Because, apparently, having original family members would persuade the ghosts to come out and frolic. It didn't, for the record. No frolicking with ghosts. Probably because my mother was SUPER not into it. I have never seen her so uncomfortable/whiny/rude in my life. But that's kind of to be expected, since she is really into practical things. Anyway, if I had all kinds of money, I would love to buy Dalston hall and wrap my arms around it and make everything okay again. Except, I am HUGE wuss. So it's not really a practical purchase, because I would probably get scared. (Rachel and Lauren can attest to my overwhelming cowardice.) So, in case I need a backup residence, I would pick...


A windmill! Oh come on, everyone already knew I'd be the weirdest rich person ever, given half the chance. Seriously though, the windmill/house from Chitty Chitty Bang Bang? AWESOME! I've always been into really unique/slightly quirky buildings being fashioned into homes. As a special bonus, I think the churning of the mill would be like having a giant fan going all the time, which could be soothing. I mean, it could also be really annoying, but if it is, I could always move to a lighthouse, or an abandoned fire department or factory or something.

Ok, enough real estate. What else could I buy?

Maybe...this!

I fully aspire to one day be cool enough to ride around on a Vespa.

Anyway...I'd probably devote the rest of my money to emulating Peggy Guggenheim. What a pimp! I totally forgot about her, but I would like to formally, and retroactively, invite her to my dinner party. She could be in charge of the drinks - Bellinis, obviously. Aside from the fact she named her children the weirdest things ever - Sinbad and Pegeen - she was really committed to art, and threw fabulous parties with all the best and most interesting people. I myself don't actually know anything about art, but I really admire the way she decided to be the protector of her generation's artists (she single-handedly kept Jackson Pollock alive, for example) and then followed through. I suppose you can have that kind of commitment when you're obscenely wealthy. But let us take some executive notice of the fact that good old Peg used her money extremely well. Aside from assembling one of the most important art collections ever, she also bought a gondola (don't worry, she lived in Venice. It's totally rational). She and her friends would get deliciously intoxicated on prosecco and take the gondola out on the Grand Canal. If that alone doesn't justify this woman as the premier role model of the 20th century, I don't know what does.

Sunday, June 22, 2008

bōl



bōl. Initially, I was going to call my restaurant "Bowl Me Over!" Because, as Lauren said, it's the kind of name that says, "Just try to have a bad time here. We dare you." But, I am going for more of a cozy vibe than a perky vibe. I mean, okay, I am pretty perky anyway. So my restaurant would also likely be perky and smiley and generally bubbly. But I want my restaurant to be plush, with rich colors and comfy furniture. My restaurant will have the same overall feel as a really good nap. It will be cozy and intimate. And everything will be served in a bowl. Because I LOVE bowls (please refer to my favorite bowl, above, from Ikea. It fits in my hands perfectly). Eating out of bowls is so comforting. So that's the twist for my restaurant. I'd like all my customers to bask in the warm embrace of eating from bowls. Also everything will be bite sized, so knives won't be necessary. I myself like to eat with forks, but spoons will also be available. I'm not here to judge.

Oh also, there will be no tables! Well, not dining-type tables. There will be some low coffee tables, next to deep couches covered in old, worn leather (you know, for when the meals are served/finished. Oh, also for the wine. Obviously wine will flow at my restaurant like Willy Wonka's chocolate river. Not actually though, because I don't think there's any real benefit to churning wine). Patrons will be encouraged to take their shoes off and curl up on the couches, bowls in their laps as they engage in deep philosophical conversations. Oh, and there will be a huge brick fireplace in the middle of room, and wood floors. Music will play softly in the background, and will vary anywhere from Badly Drawn Boy (I think "Something to Talk About"
is like a musical hug. I'm really into hugs, or things that produce hug-like feelings) to Lesley Garrett (her "Song to the Moon" is heartbreakingly beautiful. If you haven't heard it, let me know and I'll send it).
Here are the couches:

Makes you just want to curl up with a bowl and a philosopher/dining companion, doesn't it?

Thursday, June 12, 2008

BB Post 5 - Mix Tape

I finally made it to St.Andrews in the Fall of 2004. Applying to St.Andrews has kind of become a hobby for me. It's a long story, with it's final (hopefully happy) chapter coming up sometime next year. Anyway. St.Andrews is cold, windy, and completely perfect. Minus the haggis. Actually, I don't know about that, because I've never eaten it. They serve it in the dining halls though, which I always thought was pushing it just a bit.


Here are some pictures of St.Andrews, which will probably serve as a better explanation for my obsession. Suffice to say that my mum, when she dropped me off, seriously contemplated stealing my identity for the semester and taking my bed. But who could blame her? My room in Eden Court had huge picture windows overlooking St.Andrews Bay. The ceilings were like, 20 feet high. My father, when he saw the pictures, pointed out that Eden Court was probably the nicest place I'd EVER live. And he was definitely (and kind of depressingly) right.

Here are my St.Andrews songs:
Run - Snow Patrol
Take Me Out - Franz Ferdinand
Don't Look Back in Anger - Oasis
Some Girls - Rachel Stevens
Green Eyes - Coldplay
Somebody Told Me - The Killers
The First, the Last, My Everything - Barry White
Perfect Gentleman - Wyclef Jean
I can't actually decide if I want to write about these, individually. But since I was so grossly late on the last post, I thought I should post while the jury's still out.

Wednesday, June 11, 2008

Dinna Paaaaartay

I'm late. I know. I did a bad, bad thing. In my defense, my computer won't pick up the rogue wireless signal in our apartment. Come June 16th, I will be blogging all over the place, I promise.

My dinner party! I have been thinking about this for a long time, but this partnering thing is throwing me for a loop. I could only think of two people I reallllllllly wanted, but they are HARDLY going play nice with the group. But whatever, I will just be happy if my (hypothetical) house is still standing at the end of the evening.

Dinner Guest Number One: Henry VIII.

I know. I KNOW! Hal was not exactly a peacemaker. He probably, in real life, is a big fat meanie. But I love him. I have such a crush on him (not when he was obese and had gout). What a pimp! I would like to have a younger version of Henry, maybe pre-Anne Boleyn (even though I am totally inviting her too). I don't want him all drunk with power. Drunk with wine is okay though. I just don't want him beheading the other guests.

Henry's pair would be...Mary Kingsley. Weird pairing, I know. She definitely wouldn't put up with any of his bullshit. But as everyone from last year's 521 knows, I am totally obsessed with her! She is funny as hell. Someone who can make deepest darkest Africa amusing, I think, might convince Henry to lighten up. Or she could break the tension if Henry got out of control and ordered someone's head off.

Dinner Guest Number Three: Anne Boleyn. I know this is probably a risk. Anne Boleyn was probably a class-A beeyotch. But there's a chance she's not! Ok, a very small chance. But I feel like she essentially invented feminine wiles. I would love to see her interact with the other guests. She'd probably manipulate everyone out of their dessert. And it'd be worth it, just to watch her work.

I was really torn about A.B.'s dinner partner. Part of me just wanted to invite someone like, I dunno, Paris Hilton, or Jessica Simpson - someone who'd be totally outclassed. But I don't want them at my dinner party, and I feel Anne would want a challenge. I want someone with unbendable will. Someone with a quiet resolve, capable of containing such a forceful woman. He TOTALLY doesn't match, but I think I'll pick Nelson Mandela. I think he's capable of doing just about anything. Both Nelson and Anne have conviction of steel, but met their obstacles in entirely different ways. I wonder who would come up trumps in that pairing. At any rate, maybe Nelson could bring some class and dignity to the joint.

Dinner Guest Number 5: Audrey Niffenegger.
I don't know anything about this woman, personally. I know some of her art is pretty wacky, and I know the plot for her next book is totally weird. But she wrote The Time Traveler's Wife, which in my opinion is the most perfect novel I've ever read. It has the most remarkable effect on me. Every time I go into a bookstore, I want to buy it. I have at least four copies. I know I have at least four copies, but I always want to buy another one, just to have it in my hands RIGHT THAT SECOND. I've never been that way about anything else. She writes about love in a way that breaks my heart and then puts it back together again. So even if she's totally weird, I just want to be around her. I want to bask in the warm embrace of her talent.

Audrey's partner: Charles Barry. Does anybody know who this guy is? Because I didn't, until I googled him. So obviously, this is another person I don't know anything about, personally. But he also created something I love: the Houses of Parliament in London. The HoP is, without question, one of my favorite things in the world to see. I smile like a big idiot anytime I see it. I never get tired of looking. When I was living in France, I'd come home to my grandmother's house often. To get there I had to get to the train station, go to the Austerlitz station in Paris, get on the metro, go to the Gare du Nord, get to the Eurostar, go to Waterloo station in London, take a taxi to the bus depot, go to Oxford, then take another bus to Carterton, where Jo would pick me up and take me home to Bampton. It was a long day. It involved a lot of lugging of cases (always unreasonably heavy). But there was always one perfect moment in that whole process: when the taxi pulled out of Waterloo station and the HoP clicked into view. I dare you to be unhappy when you're near the Houses of Parliament. I seriously don't think it's possible. At least not for me. It's perfect in the rain. It's perfect in the fog. It's perfect in the sunshine. So thank you, Mr.Barry.

Dinner would be provided by Fleuron from La Mangeoire, because his rumsteak is probably the thing I miss most from Orleans. You know, other than people. With the cubed potatoes and the peppercorn sauce! Amazing. Food like that could keep the peace, even with all my bitchy guests. Sartre would serve as sous-chef, not because I think he'd be any good at it, but because I am kind of obsessed with him and I want him to come, even if I have to cheat a little bit.

Thursday, May 29, 2008

culinary anarchy

Ok, not culinary anarchy. But, I have got to post because Rachel (or big brother!) is watching. Today while I was at work, waiting for someone to call me about their academic deficiency, I wrote out this whole long post about french toast and ketchup (which I eat. all the time. and it's awesome!). But then, I don't know, I didn't want to post it. I'm a really big fan of food, after all. Picking a favorite meal would be like picking a favorite child. And I don't have children, but I'm pretty sure you're not supposed to do that.

So, in honor of Mindy Kaling, a blogger I completely adore, even though she never updates, I am going to do a list. Things I've Eaten That I Love.

1. Aromat :
Fact: Aromat is not a food; it's a seasoning. But, it is probably the most important thing in my life, barring family, Shakespeare, and the E! hollywood channel. I am fairly certain that my body is 65% Aromat. (I can only think about stuff like body composition because I just finished reading Stiff today). I put Aromat on everything. Everything. I put it on french toast (which kind of legitimizes the ketchup). I put it on popcorn. I put it on vegetables. All I'm saying is, the South Africans are going directly to heaven for making this stuff. Ok, maybe they'll need to come up with a little more than seasoning salt to make up for apartheid. But this, I think, is considerable progress.




2. French fries and Brown Gravy
Sadly, I cannot find a picture of this glorious food experience, because the Canadians are being particularly pushy with the Poutine pictures. But realistically, there is no need for cheese curds, you silly Canadians. The fries and the gravy don't need any help. They are perfect. The last time I went home, I requested this for dinner, and it literally cured my father of the common cold. Probably because it was so delicious.

3. The Code Red Slurpee
I am so pro-Slurpee, I cannot even describe it in words. I am addicted. I come by it honestly though, because my father is a hard-cord devotee and he is a full-blown grown-up.

Code Red is by far the superior Slurpee flavor. It is like, the Aryan race of Slurpees. It CITRUS and CHERRY. Oh my god you guys, it is so good. And 7-11 has obviously discontinued the flavor, because they are intimidated by its greatness. I could seriously consume multiple jumbo slurpees of this stuff. Fact: I have been known to drink 80 oz of this stuff within a 24 hour period. It's that good.





4. Walker's Prawn Cocktail Crisps
These things are so good. I cannot even believe I wasted so much of my life eating salt and vinegar crisps. (Note: I am not trying to be pompous by say crisps, I only call the food items created by Walker's "crisps". Normally, I say chips. Especially if they are made by Americans.) Anyway, my mum has always been a big fan of these, and for a really long time I made fun of her for eating fish chips. I mean, seriously? Gross. But as it turns out, the fine gentlemen at Walker's aren't making fish chips. They're making cocktail sauce chips! Which I don't know, seems a little bit better at least. Anyway, whoever came up with that idea is a genius, because they are salty deliciousness come to life. Yum.

5. Marmite
I could write a whole post about Marmite. Now, I realize I am one of like, twelve people who find English food to be good/tasty/generally awesome. But I mean, come on people. The Brits know good food. The sausage roll? The mince pie? MARMITE?

Many people actually use marmite to prove the British inability to create appetizing food. Well, they use marmite, and haggis, and black pudding. I'm not going to go to bat for haggis or black pudding, because that stuff is Scottish, and no one can really be held accountable for the Scots. It's very cold up there. They should be able to do whatever they want. But I would probably be willing to fight to the death to protect the honor of marmite. I am pretty sure you have to be raised on this stuff to be a fan*. Now, granted, marmite looks like tar. I am pretty sure it's scraped off the bottom of Guinness barrels (or was, originally). But it is absolutely delicious. It's really hard to describe the taste, other than it's salty (um, everything in this list is salty. except for the slurpee. that would just be gross. But I think it's pretty safe to say I have a salt-loving problem.) Here are a few reasons why marmite is awesome:

a. there is no expiration date. it lasts forever. in fact, marmite was a major staple in the bomb shelters during WWII. You literally sat in the tube stations and ate marmite sandwiches! I'm sure that made everyone feel better about being bombed.
b. you can eat it at any time of the day! marmite toast is a breakfast staple, which has been really convenient for me, because I don't like most breakfast foods.
c. you can use marmite to make so many things! Marmite sandwiches, marmite on toast, and even marmite broth (which in fact is very comforting when you're sick. Unless you don't like marmite, in which case it would probably only make things worse.)
d. The marmite TOASTIE! Ok, that is something you can make with marmite, but it is so good, it deserves to be set apart from the rest. It's like a grilled cheese, but with marmite instead of the cheese. OH MAN! It's like a hug, but food.



____________________________________________________________________

*I've only encountered one exception to this rule: Lauren Clark. My mum gave Lauren like, a marmite sandwich or something, and she actually liked it enough to buy some marmite of her own. This is certainly not the only reason we're friends, but it does make Lauren one of the most awesome people I know.

Friday, May 16, 2008

home is everywhere.

It's easy to miss the beginning. Sylt, the teeny-tiny island where I made my beginning, comes up out of the water at a steady crawl. It's so gradual, so subtle, that you actually can (and do) take a train from mainland Germany to this island nestled in the icy waters of the North Sea. And you have to watch closely, nose pressed up against the window, for the moment when Sylt begins and the sea ends. That is how I go home - with my nose pressed against the window the whole time. Because I'm wondering if this is still a home for me, even though I can't speak the language anymore, and we no longer live here. Is it still a home, even if I am unsure I'll remember the woman waiting for me at the station, or look of the Kampen lighthouse perched along the grass and sand of the dunes? So I wait to meet Sylt again. I am anxious to see if we remember one another. And when that moment comes, the moment when the island comes out of the water and into its own, I smile. I exhale. I snap a picture of home.