You thought I gave up blogging for Lent! How wrong you were! I simply had to forsake the blog for a few days to prepare for my first conference presentation. Uh, we'll talk about that later...
Recent discussions have spurred me to consider the purpose of blogs. Mrs. D, an internet friend of mine (loaded statement, log that for future discussion as well) who has the most fabulous intellect and knock out sense of humor has recently been encouraged by her husband and other friends like myself to join the world of blogging. This begs the question - what do we see as the value in a blog, and what makes someone a good blogger? I think Mrs. D has the potential to be a great blogger - and what in tarnation does that mean?
The lovely Mrs. D is skeptical about her place in the blogverse. She argues that there are too many self-indulgent, navel gazing blogs out there; she doesn't seem to want to blog unless it serves a higher purpose. Well folks, you tell me: Is there a higher purpose in me spouting off at you? Does it fulfill some need of yours to read it? Because it certainly fulfills a certain need of mine, which is probably nothing more than a bit of catharis mixed with amusement (for the Aristotelians, here's a more modern definition). Someday, and it will be soon, I'll be comfortable to enough to start sharing some "deep thoughts," and who know, they may have profound effect on one lonely little person out there.
Which brings me to the second point I have been just dying to hash over, and that is the blogs out there that DO change the world. A segment on the Daily Show last night considered the new trend in blog journalism. It was bloggers that uncovered the Great Dan Rather scandal, and countless other issues that seem to get lost in the "real" journalism of the national press. See, sharing your thoughts/airing dirty laundry in a public and free forum CAN benefit the people.
But I contend that just because you can change the world, doesn't mean you must (argh, how badly did I just want to write "have to" in my extremely unrefined American grammatical way). Write irreverant stories, gaze at your navel, tell the world what you bought at the grocery store today. Because it makes you feel better. Because it changes your world. Because if you can plug into the great cybernation, you know you aren't alone.
Thursday, February 17, 2005
Friday, February 11, 2005
Disenchanted.
Oh, so many reasons to wake up disenheartened and disillusioned this morning. For starters, Austin was OUT of Project Runway on Tuesday. Secondly, I really might be starting to get old. I made a joke about going to the "old people bar" last night, and we arrived to find it filled with our friends. If your friends are old, you might be old. And...I'm so happy to realize...I'm the oldest one of them all.
It's the fact that the old people bar, where we can TALK to each other while we drink top shelf alcohol, is more fun the the young people bar, where you dance and make flirtatious eye contact while trying not to consume too much $2/pitcher beer, is what really makes me realize I'm further up the slow slide to old than I thought I was.
All this is simply an avoidance tactic before I get to the real deal. I am really more than just disenchanted right now. I'm, well, down right disgusted, and that's saying something. See, I attend a large, very selective Catholic university (The Catholic part had nothing to do with my selection, the best program JUST HAPPENS to be here). This, in a non-bizarro universe, should mean that the undergrads should be just a cut above your average 19 year old. They should be a little smarter, they should be a little nicer, they should be a little more determined. While the grad students are...lets say less than 20% Catholic...the undergrads are 90% Catholic. Shouldn't they have SOME SORT of moral code in place? While I was raised by a Protestant minister, I do have a FEELING that Catholics read the same or a similar Bible.
Ah, the naivité. They're little hellions. Morally reprehensible. (With the exception of the kids in my Latin class. How can you study Latin and not retain total dignity?) I can't stand the daily walk between rows of these "cut above" students, twittering on about clothes, shoes, number of shots consumed, and who's roomate didn't come home and was last seen with a football player. The fact that I derisively call them all children makes it quite obvious, yes, that I am old.
But let's get to why I'm REALLY offended. Yesterday I was walking to class, and there was sudden congestion on the sidewalk. There were red flyers everywhere. It turns out there were about 30 people dressed in black, with their mouths taped shut, handing out flyers to protest the silence about sexual assault against women. You know what those morally reprehensible little jerks did? Most of them threw the flyers on the ground after reading the first few words "1 in 4 women will be sexually assaulted in their lifetime." They called it bullshit. They laughed.
Perhaps I should mention that I just graduated from Mount Holyoke College. Yeah, a women's college. Yeah, a liberal arts college. Yeah, liberal in general. One of the top five most diverse campuses, top five most accepting of race sex orientation. When February comes around and it's time to celebrate African-American heritage and to protest the treatment of women, we really go to town. So this is a bit odd (and that's an understatement) to me.
Last night my girlfriends and I went to the amateur comedy night on campus. We had a few laughs. Very few laughs. Most of the comics were down right disgusting and completely offensive to women. Literally stuff you don't even hear on HBO comedy specials. Because people know they can't get away with that stuff, even on cable. It's degrading and, well, morally reprehensible! And you know what the audience does? Laughs. Guffaws. Even the women.
They have so much to learn.
Simply because I feel the need to end this all on a lighter turn, so I don't depress myself too much and turn to the chocolate cupcakes, I will tell you the end of the tale. My friends and I left before the entire comedy hour was over, and went to the lobby to cool down. When the show broke, the comedians came out into the lobby. Two maxi-pads just happened to fall out of Ms. S.' pocket. We picked them up, and I got the brilliant idea to put them to good use. So we pulled the "excuse me, passing through" trick, and stuck them to the worst offenders back. And ran off giggling to watch his reaction from afar :)
This is why there is hope for me yet. If I can still get fulfillment out of acting like a 12 year old, I may not be so old yet. I'm still disenchanted, though.
It's the fact that the old people bar, where we can TALK to each other while we drink top shelf alcohol, is more fun the the young people bar, where you dance and make flirtatious eye contact while trying not to consume too much $2/pitcher beer, is what really makes me realize I'm further up the slow slide to old than I thought I was.
All this is simply an avoidance tactic before I get to the real deal. I am really more than just disenchanted right now. I'm, well, down right disgusted, and that's saying something. See, I attend a large, very selective Catholic university (The Catholic part had nothing to do with my selection, the best program JUST HAPPENS to be here). This, in a non-bizarro universe, should mean that the undergrads should be just a cut above your average 19 year old. They should be a little smarter, they should be a little nicer, they should be a little more determined. While the grad students are...lets say less than 20% Catholic...the undergrads are 90% Catholic. Shouldn't they have SOME SORT of moral code in place? While I was raised by a Protestant minister, I do have a FEELING that Catholics read the same or a similar Bible.
Ah, the naivité. They're little hellions. Morally reprehensible. (With the exception of the kids in my Latin class. How can you study Latin and not retain total dignity?) I can't stand the daily walk between rows of these "cut above" students, twittering on about clothes, shoes, number of shots consumed, and who's roomate didn't come home and was last seen with a football player. The fact that I derisively call them all children makes it quite obvious, yes, that I am old.
But let's get to why I'm REALLY offended. Yesterday I was walking to class, and there was sudden congestion on the sidewalk. There were red flyers everywhere. It turns out there were about 30 people dressed in black, with their mouths taped shut, handing out flyers to protest the silence about sexual assault against women. You know what those morally reprehensible little jerks did? Most of them threw the flyers on the ground after reading the first few words "1 in 4 women will be sexually assaulted in their lifetime." They called it bullshit. They laughed.
Perhaps I should mention that I just graduated from Mount Holyoke College. Yeah, a women's college. Yeah, a liberal arts college. Yeah, liberal in general. One of the top five most diverse campuses, top five most accepting of race sex orientation. When February comes around and it's time to celebrate African-American heritage and to protest the treatment of women, we really go to town. So this is a bit odd (and that's an understatement) to me.
Last night my girlfriends and I went to the amateur comedy night on campus. We had a few laughs. Very few laughs. Most of the comics were down right disgusting and completely offensive to women. Literally stuff you don't even hear on HBO comedy specials. Because people know they can't get away with that stuff, even on cable. It's degrading and, well, morally reprehensible! And you know what the audience does? Laughs. Guffaws. Even the women.
They have so much to learn.
Simply because I feel the need to end this all on a lighter turn, so I don't depress myself too much and turn to the chocolate cupcakes, I will tell you the end of the tale. My friends and I left before the entire comedy hour was over, and went to the lobby to cool down. When the show broke, the comedians came out into the lobby. Two maxi-pads just happened to fall out of Ms. S.' pocket. We picked them up, and I got the brilliant idea to put them to good use. So we pulled the "excuse me, passing through" trick, and stuck them to the worst offenders back. And ran off giggling to watch his reaction from afar :)
This is why there is hope for me yet. If I can still get fulfillment out of acting like a 12 year old, I may not be so old yet. I'm still disenchanted, though.
Thursday, February 10, 2005
Another kind of masquerade
Today, for many reasons I'm about to ennumerate, I wished I was wearing a Ski Mask.
The first reason was that although it's about 30 degrees today, the wind was blowing straight in from the Arctic. I was bundled tightly, with longjohns, two sweaters, a leather coat, ear muffs, a hat, and fuzzy scarf around my neck (I hear Eskimo's laughing in the distance at my 30 degree attire). But my damn eyebrows were FREEZING! I wished for either bushy old man eyebrows, or a ski mask.
Which made me wish I was in a ski mask for many a reason. Ah, the anonymity of it all. In a ski mask I could:
A) Rob a liquor store and have at least enough money to go out on the lam for a few weeks. (Lam? Lamb? Where the heck did that phrase come from) That would be better than stuck here in non-motivation land.
B) Run around airing those evil thoughts that I never dare to make public without fear of getting thumped or being given a really bad grade.
C) Cover both my extremely bad hair and quickly growing double chin, thus postponing both the overdue hair cut and allowing me not to feel guilty that there are four gyms on campus.
Yes, winter makes me extremely happy in just so many ways. I'm freezing, I'm bored, I'm lethargic, and I make up for it all by eating and drinking more than my share of calories. Makes me rethink my grand plans to land a tenure track job in the New England tundra.
The first reason was that although it's about 30 degrees today, the wind was blowing straight in from the Arctic. I was bundled tightly, with longjohns, two sweaters, a leather coat, ear muffs, a hat, and fuzzy scarf around my neck (I hear Eskimo's laughing in the distance at my 30 degree attire). But my damn eyebrows were FREEZING! I wished for either bushy old man eyebrows, or a ski mask.
Which made me wish I was in a ski mask for many a reason. Ah, the anonymity of it all. In a ski mask I could:
A) Rob a liquor store and have at least enough money to go out on the lam for a few weeks. (Lam? Lamb? Where the heck did that phrase come from) That would be better than stuck here in non-motivation land.
B) Run around airing those evil thoughts that I never dare to make public without fear of getting thumped or being given a really bad grade.
C) Cover both my extremely bad hair and quickly growing double chin, thus postponing both the overdue hair cut and allowing me not to feel guilty that there are four gyms on campus.
Yes, winter makes me extremely happy in just so many ways. I'm freezing, I'm bored, I'm lethargic, and I make up for it all by eating and drinking more than my share of calories. Makes me rethink my grand plans to land a tenure track job in the New England tundra.
Wednesday, February 09, 2005
Fat Tuesday
By the Power of Grayskull, I do solemnly swear to someday celebrate Mardi Gras in a city where it actually matters.
My Nowhere, Midwest town had little to offer by way of Carnival activity. I did have the semi-pleasure of attending a Masquerade party on Saturday. Ms. M. and I spent a few HOURS carefully choosing materials for our masks and then creating them in a frenzy of hot-glue. Then we spent at least 5 minutes randomly throwing glitter and sequins on a mask for my husband. This caused the three of us to arrive a fashionable two hours late. By then nearly all the masqueraders had given up their masks in their drunken stupor. The one highlight of the evening was the Dance Party USA portion, where two fabulously entertaining grad boys invented such moves as the "Sowing the Seeds" and "Milking the Cow." I helped them choreograph it into a glorious pastoral narrative cycle, which they followed with a cycle entitled "The Book: From the Page to the Public." Barring that, all I gained was the knowledge that my husband will leave without saying goodbye if he is sufficiently bored, and that I should never accept more than one martini made by Regina.
Tonight was attempt #2 at Mardi Gras fun. A Graduate Student Union/Law School party. Yeah, I know the name bodes well for amusement. Ms. M. and I may have gone simply in hopes of heckling law students. Once again, we arrived two hours late - as even on Tuesday a good party shouldn't start til 11. We figured to get our groove on, since it was at the local dance club. Right. There were lots of nerdy guys hanging around, bartenders that actually measured the drinks, and three chafing dishes of undistinguishable food items. The dancing didn't begin for at least an hour - you can always trust it to be a drunk girl to go first - and just started to pick up at our two hour mark. This is when the DJ must have fallen and given himself a concussion, because he played a crap song followed by a completely unintelligible, undanceable string of song introductions. Literally, he could not hold a beat for more than 5 seconds. Our guess is that a free, nerdy student party on Tuesday (even if it is MARDI GRAS) doesn't deserve the attention of the REAL DJ. Musta been a rookie. In desperate hopes to get our groove on for once and for all, Ms. M. and I waited. And waited. At least 30 minutes for a danceable song. We actually decided we would prefer to be at home studying or sleeping. That is the sadness that was my Mardi Gras night.
So now it's 1:30, and I'm celebrating in the dark, on my blog, with some red wine and a Chicken Chow Mein Lean Cuisine. Dumbledore help me, next year's Mardi Gras better be something spectacular. At least I get a taste of the Carnivalesque for Spring Break, when we go to Nawlins. Who knows, the way I'm so tragically non-motivated for school, maybe I'll just stay down there until next Fat Tuesday.
My Nowhere, Midwest town had little to offer by way of Carnival activity. I did have the semi-pleasure of attending a Masquerade party on Saturday. Ms. M. and I spent a few HOURS carefully choosing materials for our masks and then creating them in a frenzy of hot-glue. Then we spent at least 5 minutes randomly throwing glitter and sequins on a mask for my husband. This caused the three of us to arrive a fashionable two hours late. By then nearly all the masqueraders had given up their masks in their drunken stupor. The one highlight of the evening was the Dance Party USA portion, where two fabulously entertaining grad boys invented such moves as the "Sowing the Seeds" and "Milking the Cow." I helped them choreograph it into a glorious pastoral narrative cycle, which they followed with a cycle entitled "The Book: From the Page to the Public." Barring that, all I gained was the knowledge that my husband will leave without saying goodbye if he is sufficiently bored, and that I should never accept more than one martini made by Regina.
Tonight was attempt #2 at Mardi Gras fun. A Graduate Student Union/Law School party. Yeah, I know the name bodes well for amusement. Ms. M. and I may have gone simply in hopes of heckling law students. Once again, we arrived two hours late - as even on Tuesday a good party shouldn't start til 11. We figured to get our groove on, since it was at the local dance club. Right. There were lots of nerdy guys hanging around, bartenders that actually measured the drinks, and three chafing dishes of undistinguishable food items. The dancing didn't begin for at least an hour - you can always trust it to be a drunk girl to go first - and just started to pick up at our two hour mark. This is when the DJ must have fallen and given himself a concussion, because he played a crap song followed by a completely unintelligible, undanceable string of song introductions. Literally, he could not hold a beat for more than 5 seconds. Our guess is that a free, nerdy student party on Tuesday (even if it is MARDI GRAS) doesn't deserve the attention of the REAL DJ. Musta been a rookie. In desperate hopes to get our groove on for once and for all, Ms. M. and I waited. And waited. At least 30 minutes for a danceable song. We actually decided we would prefer to be at home studying or sleeping. That is the sadness that was my Mardi Gras night.
So now it's 1:30, and I'm celebrating in the dark, on my blog, with some red wine and a Chicken Chow Mein Lean Cuisine. Dumbledore help me, next year's Mardi Gras better be something spectacular. At least I get a taste of the Carnivalesque for Spring Break, when we go to Nawlins. Who knows, the way I'm so tragically non-motivated for school, maybe I'll just stay down there until next Fat Tuesday.
Tuesday, February 08, 2005
Oh my, are you completely disappointed in me now?
Have I forsaken my newfound blogdom by skipping 5 entire days? :)
Today I'm going to discuss internet stalking, since it a current favorite outlet for procrastination. While I do find it fun to google myself - and for Ms. M, NO it is NOT a self gratifying exercise! - I find it much more fun to google others. I have been a victim of googling by others, and found it to be a strangely disturbing and titillating experience all at once. Imagine my surprise to find an email from a high-school friend in my mailbox at my new university - waiting for me before I even registered! Disturbing to know that it's fairly easy to find me, by first googling to see where I go to school, then checking the school directory for me. Alas, since I am destined for a life of fame and fortune as a professor and writer, I should probably get used to seeing my name plastered all over university websites, right? As long as I get good ratings at rate yourprofessor.com.
It's always entertaining to google your friends and neighbors to see if you can find out what awful stuff they've been up to. Maybe you'll find their name in an online newspaper article, after having robbed the local gas station because they never left your deadend hometown. Googling professors is especially fun, because you can pick up all kinds of info to use for brown nosing purposes. And, googling recently paid off to discover the true identity of the hot manboy referenced under William Had A Headache Day. This one may become an actual case of internet stalking, if we're not careful.
Oh, and as great as it is to learn interesting tidbits about others by googling, it's even more fun to learn things about yourself. I may say that my current most proud achievement is that if you google me, I show up on IMDB.com. With two entries. Did you know I was THAT cool? :)
Today I'm going to discuss internet stalking, since it a current favorite outlet for procrastination. While I do find it fun to google myself - and for Ms. M, NO it is NOT a self gratifying exercise! - I find it much more fun to google others. I have been a victim of googling by others, and found it to be a strangely disturbing and titillating experience all at once. Imagine my surprise to find an email from a high-school friend in my mailbox at my new university - waiting for me before I even registered! Disturbing to know that it's fairly easy to find me, by first googling to see where I go to school, then checking the school directory for me. Alas, since I am destined for a life of fame and fortune as a professor and writer, I should probably get used to seeing my name plastered all over university websites, right? As long as I get good ratings at rate yourprofessor.com.
It's always entertaining to google your friends and neighbors to see if you can find out what awful stuff they've been up to. Maybe you'll find their name in an online newspaper article, after having robbed the local gas station because they never left your deadend hometown. Googling professors is especially fun, because you can pick up all kinds of info to use for brown nosing purposes. And, googling recently paid off to discover the true identity of the hot manboy referenced under William Had A Headache Day. This one may become an actual case of internet stalking, if we're not careful.
Oh, and as great as it is to learn interesting tidbits about others by googling, it's even more fun to learn things about yourself. I may say that my current most proud achievement is that if you google me, I show up on IMDB.com. With two entries. Did you know I was THAT cool? :)
Thursday, February 03, 2005
Frumpy? Dowdy? Hmmph.
You know what? I AM NOT OLD. I don't care what you say, I don't care what you think. I am NOT to be greeted as Ma'am. If you are 20 years younger than me - and that puts you in half-day kindergarten - you may call me Ma'am. If you are a 21 year old grocery-bagger, you are SO not allowed to say it. Some of my friends try to make me feel better, and say I get "Ma'amed" because I'm married. Married = Old? Yes, ladies and gents, in this day of sex and the city, apparently that's true. You know, since you should be able to mess around til you're almost too old to have children THEN get married, married = old.
If old = uncool, then I'm totally not old. I think. I hope. I lay awake at night sweating about.
Married is not equal to old is not equal to uncool. Sitting around and doing logic equations about coolness might, however, be uncool. Therefore I will just step back and say:
Do not "Ma'am" anyone who is not female and visibly ten years older than your grandma. You will make more friends and better tips, and save yourself the wrath of some perfectly young woman in her mid-twenties.
If old = uncool, then I'm totally not old. I think. I hope. I lay awake at night sweating about.
Married is not equal to old is not equal to uncool. Sitting around and doing logic equations about coolness might, however, be uncool. Therefore I will just step back and say:
Do not "Ma'am" anyone who is not female and visibly ten years older than your grandma. You will make more friends and better tips, and save yourself the wrath of some perfectly young woman in her mid-twenties.
Wednesday, February 02, 2005
Insomnia?
Tonight I have an interesting point to ponder. It's 3:15 AM and I don't appear to be tired. I've just returned from an fun filled evening with the girls, and I can't sleep. Now, I've known for some time that I like to go to bed late and sleep in the next day - my optimum schedule is the 10AM to 2AM. Not a particularly "normal" schedule, but chances are I can get the classes I attend/teach to conform to this. Is it a problem? Not necessarily, since I've chosen a profession that scoffs at the 8-5 timetable.
Where this all turns into something important - only to me, have no fear - is that it means I am apparently going to ALWAYS be the one that says "One more drink?" or "One more song!" or "One more 3.5 hour long movie!" around 1AM. While I wish that immediatlely meant I would never be the party-pooper, my innate un-coolness may act as a counter measure. What I fear is that I will be seen as the desperate girl who is the last to leave a party and keeps her hosts up WAY past their bedtimes.
Please, if you ever think I'm being uncool simply because I don't want to sleep, kick me in the shin. While a kick in the shins might have many interpretations, after 11PM it will forever mean "Let's get the heck out of here" to me.
Where this all turns into something important - only to me, have no fear - is that it means I am apparently going to ALWAYS be the one that says "One more drink?" or "One more song!" or "One more 3.5 hour long movie!" around 1AM. While I wish that immediatlely meant I would never be the party-pooper, my innate un-coolness may act as a counter measure. What I fear is that I will be seen as the desperate girl who is the last to leave a party and keeps her hosts up WAY past their bedtimes.
Please, if you ever think I'm being uncool simply because I don't want to sleep, kick me in the shin. While a kick in the shins might have many interpretations, after 11PM it will forever mean "Let's get the heck out of here" to me.
Tuesday, February 01, 2005
I promised you a story...
And now I must fulfill that promise. Shall I entertain myself - and the poor person who clicks on Next Blog - by writing it as a screenplay?
INT. FIDDLER'S HEARTH, A COZY IRISH PUB IN NOWHERE, MIDWEST. NIGHTTIME.
Scene begins as our hapless grad student enters, fashionably late. She sidles up to the table and is greeted by two friends, two strangers, and one weirdo. Greetings are had all around.
Our grad student orders a beer - because the bottle looked cool - and settles into the middle of a philosopical conversation. The friends, students of English literature, were entertaining the others with baudy poems from "The Essential Wordsworth."
MS. M
Ooh, ooh, read Nutting!
MS. S
Forcing my way, I came to one dear nook
Unvisited, where not a broken bough
Drooped with its withered leaves, ungracious sign
Of devastation; but the hazels rose
Tall and erect, with tempting clusters hung,
A virgin scene! (continues)
GRAD GIRL
Hmmm...that's really...what is that thing with
all the penises?
A resounding cry of "PHALLIC!!" comes from the other grad students at the table. MS. S. continues to read, but our grad student begins to fade slowly away from the conversation into her beer.
GRAD GIRL
(voice over)
I began to think I might be entirely too rowdy
for the likes of this bar on this night...I realized
couldn't help but cause some trouble...
WOW. While I find this extremely entertaining I suddenly realized it would take me until next Tuesday to finish off even the first ten minutes of shenanigans in screenplay form. I'll spare myself, my piling homework, and my loyal fan and cut to the rest of the evening:
So the whole point of the evening was that is was the eve of "William Had A Headache Day" - wait for it, wait for it - a holiday which I am now proudly commited to commemorating. Apparently, according to Ms. M and Ms. S and the English lit experts they are, Dorothy Wordsworth - the emminent poet's sister - kept a journal of her brother's exploits. Fascinatingly enough, on Jan. 31 1802 she records that William "slept ill, and had a heachache all day" (no, I am not to be bothered to find out what she actually wrote and cite properly). Therefore, the holiday involves drinking excessively in order to create a similarly uncomfortable day afterwards. Oh, and the aforementioned recitations of his poems.
Unfortunately for the memory of dear Mr. Wordsworth, the evening degenerated quickly. For an unknown reason, I found myself declaring ad vocem - ad LOUD AS ALL GET OUT vocem - the hotness of a particular manboy we believed to be an Irish musician. After the third time said manboy gave Ms. S the once over, I began a merciless campaign to bring them together. Which mostly consisted of using excuses for us to walk past him and blatantly pointing at him and talking.
You can imagine the joy experienced by all our male companions as we three ladies discussed the merits of manboy's hotness. And their mortified faces when I couldn't stand it any longer and just went and talked to the guy. See, Ms. S. made the mistake of saying that if I brought him over that she would talk to him, but she did not believe I would really do it. Ahh, how underestimated is the power of disbelieving me!
Unfortunately while we chatted with the lovely - apparently Canadian not Irish and apparently dancer not musician - manboy, Ms. M. was accosted by one of our table mates. No, no, he didn't accost her in that way. He commited the social faux pas of asking-out-a-girl-in-a-really-cheesy-way-in-front-of-other-people. Ms. M. tried to wade her way through the Swamps of Polite Rejection but we, of course, had to spend the next two hours at Steak and Shake hashing out what she coulda woulda shoulda said. The jury is still out on whether or not he got the multiple glaring hints, or if she needs to use the "before we go any further, you should know I'm transferring to University of Georgia (the country) next week" excuse.
All in all, much fun was had, and though the late night food run meant we DID sleep ill, I don't think any of us had an actual headache. Next year.
INT. FIDDLER'S HEARTH, A COZY IRISH PUB IN NOWHERE, MIDWEST. NIGHTTIME.
Scene begins as our hapless grad student enters, fashionably late. She sidles up to the table and is greeted by two friends, two strangers, and one weirdo. Greetings are had all around.
Our grad student orders a beer - because the bottle looked cool - and settles into the middle of a philosopical conversation. The friends, students of English literature, were entertaining the others with baudy poems from "The Essential Wordsworth."
MS. M
Ooh, ooh, read Nutting!
MS. S
Forcing my way, I came to one dear nook
Unvisited, where not a broken bough
Drooped with its withered leaves, ungracious sign
Of devastation; but the hazels rose
Tall and erect, with tempting clusters hung,
A virgin scene! (continues)
GRAD GIRL
Hmmm...that's really...what is that thing with
all the penises?
A resounding cry of "PHALLIC!!" comes from the other grad students at the table. MS. S. continues to read, but our grad student begins to fade slowly away from the conversation into her beer.
GRAD GIRL
(voice over)
I began to think I might be entirely too rowdy
for the likes of this bar on this night...I realized
couldn't help but cause some trouble...
WOW. While I find this extremely entertaining I suddenly realized it would take me until next Tuesday to finish off even the first ten minutes of shenanigans in screenplay form. I'll spare myself, my piling homework, and my loyal fan and cut to the rest of the evening:
So the whole point of the evening was that is was the eve of "William Had A Headache Day" - wait for it, wait for it - a holiday which I am now proudly commited to commemorating. Apparently, according to Ms. M and Ms. S and the English lit experts they are, Dorothy Wordsworth - the emminent poet's sister - kept a journal of her brother's exploits. Fascinatingly enough, on Jan. 31 1802 she records that William "slept ill, and had a heachache all day" (no, I am not to be bothered to find out what she actually wrote and cite properly). Therefore, the holiday involves drinking excessively in order to create a similarly uncomfortable day afterwards. Oh, and the aforementioned recitations of his poems.
Unfortunately for the memory of dear Mr. Wordsworth, the evening degenerated quickly. For an unknown reason, I found myself declaring ad vocem - ad LOUD AS ALL GET OUT vocem - the hotness of a particular manboy we believed to be an Irish musician. After the third time said manboy gave Ms. S the once over, I began a merciless campaign to bring them together. Which mostly consisted of using excuses for us to walk past him and blatantly pointing at him and talking.
You can imagine the joy experienced by all our male companions as we three ladies discussed the merits of manboy's hotness. And their mortified faces when I couldn't stand it any longer and just went and talked to the guy. See, Ms. S. made the mistake of saying that if I brought him over that she would talk to him, but she did not believe I would really do it. Ahh, how underestimated is the power of disbelieving me!
Unfortunately while we chatted with the lovely - apparently Canadian not Irish and apparently dancer not musician - manboy, Ms. M. was accosted by one of our table mates. No, no, he didn't accost her in that way. He commited the social faux pas of asking-out-a-girl-in-a-really-cheesy-way-in-front-of-other-people. Ms. M. tried to wade her way through the Swamps of Polite Rejection but we, of course, had to spend the next two hours at Steak and Shake hashing out what she coulda woulda shoulda said. The jury is still out on whether or not he got the multiple glaring hints, or if she needs to use the "before we go any further, you should know I'm transferring to University of Georgia (the country) next week" excuse.
All in all, much fun was had, and though the late night food run meant we DID sleep ill, I don't think any of us had an actual headache. Next year.
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