Ask and ye shall receive

I grew tired of being 3rd silent dancing prisoner on the right. So yesterday after rehearsal, I gathered the Director and the Producers and told them I wanted lines, and equality with the other male prisoners since I was cast as a male prisoner, and they couldn't tell me that the audience would stop giving the production a willing suspension of disbelief as soon as I opened my mouth because Hey! That prisoner is a GIRL!

They won't give you what you won't ask for. Know your worth. Refuse to be marginalized! Rarr!

And they gave me my lines back. And allowed me to sing the prisoner song. And double as a servant in one of the fantasies.

Hooray! I am very pleased. Now I am a full prisoner with all the rights and responsibilities you would expect a prisoner to have in a 1970s Argentinian prison.

Le Accident

You know I was an Resident Assistant (RA) at the University of Tennessee, but did I ever tell you about the time one of my residents stabbed her boyfriend?

No?

Well. One of my residents was an exchange student from France. Let's call her "Collette." She started dating one of the other French exchange students in our residence hall, "Pierre." And the passions flew. Unfortunately for everyone involved, they were mostly angry passions. His RA and I spent most of our time separating the two as they tried to beat each other senseless. Correction: as she tried to beat him senseless. When my resident got angry, she didn't use her words. She used her fists. And Pierre just meekly took it, and refused to break up with her, no matter how many screaming fights they had in the quad or how many times she was written up for throwing a 25-gallon metal trashcan across the community kitchen at him.

By the end of the semester, all of the residence hall staff was worried about Pierre. Because Collette never hauled off and punched him directly (or so he claimed), we couldn't just throw her out of the hall like we wanted to. She was getting on up there in write-ups, however, and we were hoping to be able to transfer her. We had called her in for countless conferences, and warned her that if she had so much as another noise violation we would throw her out before she knew what hit her. And of course, we recommended ad nauseum that she should go to counseling to learn how to channel her anger into non-throwing/pushing/screaming/threatening activities.

Then one day, the desk agent called my room and told me to get up to the third floor, because "there had been an accident and an ambulance was on the way." When I asked what happened, the desk agent said that Collette had just come downstairs in a frenzy and said the Pierre had cut himself, and she needed an ambulance. I sprinted up to the third floor to find the hall director, a police officer, and our lovers a fou, one of whom was gushing blood. "What happened?!" we all exclaimed in unison.

But we were met with a stony wall of French. They refused to be separated to explain what happened independently, and if they were separated, would only speak in French. The only thing we could get out of them in English was "it was an accident," so as Pierre was bandaged by the EMT, the cop agreed to let them tell the story together.

Collette Story #1: It was just another day, and our snuggle-bunnies decided to make a sandwich in Collette's room. Her only knife is a steak knife, so they were using it to spread the mayo and mustard upon their bread of love. But as she was getting ready to put the knife back on her desk, she stumbled a bit, and accidentally slashed Pierre!

Pierre Story #1: It is just as she says.

.....

But waaaaaait a minute. Pierre's wound is an inch-deep puncture wound (through his jeans) in the back of his calf, not a shallow slash as would have been inflicted had she stumbled for a moment. And how did she stab him in his calf? The way she says he was sitting makes it almost impossible to reach the back of his calf. And there is blood on top of the bed, as well as the floor, and none on the side of the bed where his calf would have been touching. There's something wrong here.

Collette Story #2: It was just another day, and our tumultuous pair had just finished eating some sandwiches. Suddenly, Pierre was threatening to leave her. He didn't love her anymore, and told her he was seeing another woman. She turned around grabbed the steak knife off of the desk and waved it at him, just to scare him, but she tripped just as he was turning to leave, and accidentally cut him!

Pierre Story #2: It is just as she says.

Oh my goodness! You picked up a knife and threatened your boyfriend with it and then stabbed him because he was leaving you?! That's a crime, not an accident! And it still doesn't explain how you stabbed him in his calf, since in this version of the story, he is standing and about to walk out. Or the blood on top of the bed.

Collette Story #3: Her English must be not so good, as that is not what she meant at all! It was just another violent day, and she and Pierre were in a screaming fight. He was threatening to hurt her, so she told him to leave. He wouldn't, so she tried to push past him to get away from him. He just grabbed her wrists and laughed at her and then pushed her backwards, hard. Seeing he was about to hit her, she turned around, grabbed the knife off of the desk, and told him to leave or she would defend herself by force. He grabbed for the knife, a tussle ensued, and she accidentally stabbed him in his calf!

Pierre Story #3: It is just as she says.

What the #*%&^?!?!?

Cop, exhausted: Who wants to press charges?
Hall Director and I: We do! We do!
Cop: Pierre? Pressing charges against her for stabbing you?
Pierre: No! It was only an accident! We have settled our differences now! No harm has been done (it's only a little inch-deep stab wound, nothing they can't party around). All is well. It was a lover's quarrel, nothing more. Have a good day!

And so, basically, everyone went home. We had Collette moved to another hall (finally!), and she left the University almost immediately thereafter. We never did get a story out of Pierre, and we never got one from Collette that made logistical sense. The walls were paper thin at the hall, but none of her neighbors, many of whom were home, heard the supposed "screaming fight" they claimed to have been having. One did hear her shout one sentence, but didn't do anything because, well, she always shouts at Pierre.

This is what I think happened: It was just another day in which Collette teetered on the brink of criminal insanity. They made sandwiches. Pierre was laying on his stomach on the bed, when he committed some boyfriend foul. Collette became hysterical, and started to scream at him. He did not respond to her, or perhaps said he was going to leave if she was going to shout at him. She whirled around, picked up the knife, and stabbed it straight down into the back of his calf. Enough pressure to go straight through his jeans and an inch-deep into his calf. He immediately started bleeding, and she realized what she had done and ran downstairs for help.

If only Pierre were here to fill in the missing line: It is just as she says.

Ich bin ein Berliner

In 1963, President John F. Kennedy made a now infamous speech in which he pledged the United State's support of West Germany as they tried to form a democratic government. To give the speech just a little more punch, JFK decided just before he took the podium to emphatically proclaim, "Ich bin ein Berliner!" which means, "I am a Berliner!"

What he did not know, however, is that berliner happens to mean "a little sugared donut" in German and is quite a popular little pastry. So really, he emphatically proclaimed, "I am a little sugared donut!"

I have long been proclaiming that "I am a fruit loop!" so I totally know where he is coming from.

Thumb Drives

I received a mass e-mail from the Registrar's office today with the subject line "Thumb Drives."

I had no idea what a thumb drive was, but it sounded terrible. Like a torture device, much like thumb screws. Oooh, I bet this was to remind us that some human rights commission was giving a speech at Harvard today to call for the end of using thumb drives in interrogations!

Or perhaps it's a reminder that they are taking donations to help kids get much needed hand prosthesis. And "thumb drives" is more catchy than "hand drives."

But alas, no. It seems the registrar thinks thumb drives are (yet) another name for USB drives. And they wanted to remind us that they still had some of ours from last semester's exams, and we should pick them up as soon as possible.

Lame.

Believe it or not, I was downgraded

Yesterday I posted about how despite the fact that I was merely a dancing prisoner, I was still going to give Kiss of the Spider Woman ("KSW") my all, and say my ten or so lines with all the conviction and ability God gave me when he knit me together in my mother's womb and said to me, "smc, thou shall be an attorney. Or a famous actress."

And then yesterday we had the read-through. And due to some of my very important dancing-prisoner responsibilities, I was no longer allowed to play the double that I was told by the Director that I would get to play. But no matter, there was still the prisoner song, and the doubles as orderlies and servants, and I had two or three prisoner-type things to say, right?

Wrong. It was announced that since there wouldn't be female prisoners in a 1970s Latin American jail for men, those of us cast as female prisoners would have no speaking lines. And probably not sing the prisoner song, although they hadn't decided for sure. And the doubles for the orderlies would probably be actual men, too. And I have to admit, dear reader, I felt even more disappointed. And confused.

Why confused, you ask? Because I don't understand why they cast me. I mean, I'm a decent dancer. I learn the steps and execute them properly, and with some attitude. But I am by no means so great a dancer that the choreographer stamped her foot and insisted I be cast as a non-speaking, non-singing dancing prisoner or she was walking out. Trust me. My abilities are in acting, not dancing. Which leads me to think there are other reasons I was cast in this part:

1) The choreographer is a woman who will dance in the show, and they couldn't have her being the only (female) male prisoner, that might look weird. So they needed more (female) male prisoners to dance with her. So they cast two more, me and another woman who is as equally confused at her casting as I am.
2) I have become friendly with the creative team who is producing the musical, so even though I did not have a strong enough voice to play an actual female, they gave me the part of silent, dancing prisoner as a friendly gesture.
3) I am directing the Spring Parody, and the creative team was terrified that I would retaliate by giving them horrible parts in the Parody if they did not cast me in the musical. This is of course ridiculous to anyone who knows me, but perhaps an otherwise valid fear in the dog-eat-dog world of law school drama societies.

That's all I got. I guess what really frustrates me is that before auditions, I asked if there were any good non-soloist roles to play, and I was told that the Warden and prison guards were great roles that didn't sing. But if they didn't intend to have females speak as men, why did they say that role was open to me? Why didn't they just say, "No, we picked a musical that only has three female roles. If you aren't one of those three, you won't have any speaking lines." And assuming they decided after auditions to limit all speaking roles to men, why didn't they just cast men? I'm sure there were two other men who auditioned for this musical and could be trusted to say "I hope my girl is still waiting for me" while doing a box step.

Oh, I am trying to stay enthused. I am trying to remind myself that some people were not cast at all, and I should be thrilled that they wanted me to be a part of this musical so badly that they cast me in a completely mismatched role for my talents. And then told me not to say anything. And I am not saying that this role is beneath me, or I deserved to be cast as a leading female. Not at all. I'm saying I'm disappointed. And I don't know why they cast me for a role they won't let me fully play.

That's me, 3rd tree on the left

This fall, the Harvard Law Drama society is putting on a musical, Kiss of the Spider Woman. If you have never read the book or play, I'll give you a quick synopsis: The story takes place in the 1970s, in an unidentified Latin American prison. Molina, the main character, is serving an eight year sentence for "corrupting a minor." But in essence, he is in prison because he is a homosexual. To escape the horrible prison conditions (including torture and general abuse from the guards), Molina fantasizes about being cared for by his favorite actress, Aurora, who starred in all of these fabulous productions when he was a child. One day, Molina gets a new cellmate, Valentin, who is a political prisoner. Valentin is being tortured so that he will surrender the names of his political accomplices. The story is about friendship, escapist fantasies, love, betrayal and death. So all in all, pretty heavy stuff, though there are some laugh-out-loud quips from Molina from time to time, and the writing is quickly paced and interesting.

I auditioned for said musical knowing there were only three female parts (all of which included much singing), but I was assured that there were very substantial prisoner guard and Warden roles which did not require solos and would not be limited to men. So I was hopeful to still get a meaty part, despite the fact that I do not have the strongest voice of the women I knew to be auditioning.

And then I was cast. Third dancing prisoner from the right. I may also double as another character for a tiny scene, although this will not be confirmed until this evening at the first read-through when they work out the doubles once and for all. I am disappointed, I won't lie. I don't even consider it bragging to say that I am a good actress. Objectively, I am a good actress, and I am disappointed that this is my last opportunity to really act while at Harvard (I will not take on a large role in the Spring Parody, because I am directing it and I do not think the role of the Director is to star in the production) and it is being used as a dancing prisoner.

But before I get too mopey, I must remember that a quick Google search of the prisoners in this production reveals that they have a song in the opening scene, and they double as orderlies in the prison infirmary and as servants in one of Molina's fantasies. And there are 9 prisoners in the original play, but only 5 cast in the Harvard version, so I am sure to have at least one line. And probably two or three. And when you take into account that I am going to double as an extra character, well, I'm up to ten lines.

So I will act my heart out as third dancing prisoner from the right. The world has never seen a dancing prisoner so convincing as I! My prisoner will evoke so much angst and heartbreak and hopefulness in the face of despair as to bring tears to your eyes, even if all I do is sit in the background and moan. My moans will be the moans of justice denied and faith abandoned!

Moan!

Hey There, Delilah

By now, I'm sure you've heard Hey There, Delilah by the Plain White T's. What you might not have heard is the story behind the song.

Because it is a small, small world, it turns out that one of my fellow summer associates at Mobius is the good friend of the boyfriend of the real-life Delilah. According to him, it seems Delilah met the lead singer of the Plain White T's out and about one night, and after much flirting, he promised he would write her a song. And he keeps his promises.

Understandably, her boyfriend was not pleased when she announced that the singer had promised her a song, and even less pleased when the song came out several months later. Apparently, Delilah has used the limelight to her advantage, and has made somewhat curious remarks when asked if she had any romantic interest in the singer, considering she still has that pesky boyfriend hanging on.

Patto and I think the entire situation is hilarious, and have taken to making up alternative lyrics to the annoyingly catchy song. What follows is my little parody:

Hey there, Delilah,
Bet your boyfriend really hates it
That I'm singing you this love song
And he just has to take it.
It must be hard
But I've got free speech and my bodyguard
I bet he's charred

Hey there, Delilah,
You looked great in that last interview
I heard your boyfriend broke his fist
when Rollling Stone contacted you.
How opportune
That we met each other in that bar last June
So here's to you

Oh, this song is so catchy
Oh, this song is so catchy
Oh, this song is so catchy
Oh, this song is so catchy

Hey there, Delilah,
Hear you've milked this dedication
All your girlfriends are so jealous
That they weren't on your vacation
When you met me
How flirtatious you turned out to be
Although not free

Hey there, Delilah,
I've got to be getting on now
There are other girls to meet and
I don't know your last name anyhow
It was fun
And I've made some good money on this run
But now we're done

Oh, this song is so catchy
Oh, this song is so catchy
Oh, your man's got it in for me
Oh, this song is so catchy...

Ok, that's all I've got. I'll leave it to you to do the bridge.

Wellness Wednesday

Last year, Harvard Law started this program called "Wellness Wednesdays" ("WW"). In the beginning, it was really a pathetic little program, and consisted of a table set up in the Hark with a bowl of fruit. Some Wednesdays it wasn't there at all. Pretty much no one paid attention to WW. And that made the Dean of Students sad.

This year, WW came back with a vengeance. There are posters, and banners, and health professionals. There are four tables, with fruit, and Tylenol, and stress balls, and other types of good-for-you goodies. There are brochures on everything from the benefits of a brisk ten minute walk to directions to the nearest mental hospital. And there are chair massages.

I said, THERE ARE CHAIR MASSAGES.

You can bet that when I saw the sign-up sheet for a free ten-minute chair massage I threw down my bags and climbed over three students to get an open slot. And when it was my turn for the massage, I'm pretty sure that I only got out "do your worst" before sinking onto the chair and beginning to purr.

I loves me a good massage.

As the massage therapist began to work, he encountered the twisted knot of muscles that make up the right half of my spine, and after a startled gasp, started asking questions.

"Are you under a lot of stress?"
"Mmmm."
"Do you have pain in your lower back?"
"Mmmm."
"Do you sit for long periods of time in front of a computer?"
"Mmmm."
"Do you carry a particularly heavy bag?"
"Mmmm."
"Headaches?"
"Mmmm."

I'm not terribly responsive when I am receiving a back massage, but I think he could tell that those "mmmm's" were in the affirmative.

At the conclusion of my ten-minute massage, as the other masseuses told their clients to have good days, mine told me I could probably benefit from seeing a good chiropractor. Then he got out a brochure and said that the Harvard Health Center did therapeutic massages, and I would really benefit from regular sessions. And by lessening the amount of weight I carried, the length of time I sat in front of a computer, and decreasing my daily stress levels. In other words, I could benefit from quitting law school.

But back to the massages. If a massage therapist recommends getting regular massages, is it the same as doctor's orders?

Do you think I could present it that way to Patrick anyway?

Harvard Law: The New Class

Remember when they had squeezed the last bit of plausibility out of Saved By the Bell and introduced Saved by the Bell: The New Class? I swear that's what is going on at Harvard.

Either my contacts are out of date, or Harvard has introduced a new class of 1Ls who look and act like the recently graduated 3Ls (4Ls?). Everywhere I turn, there is an incredibly familiar face, ready to embark upon the same zany adventures of their predecessors (updated slightly as technology and hair styles continue to improve, of course). I have been fooled on more than one occasion by these doppelgangers. I wonder if eventually I'll be laughing along and wondering what section love triangle is going to pop up this time, or how the kids will make it in Evil Professor's Socratic method-only class. Until then, I remain suspicious.

The more things change, the more we desire an ill-advised sequel to mimic the past.

Misfit

I very rarely feel socially awkward, but tonight was one of those nights. All I could think of was how long until I could run away without looking like a complete moron. Or, better put, more of a complete moron.

Tonight, one of Harvard's professors (and the one I am trying to solicit to be my thesis adviser) was honored with an old and prestigious endowed chair. After her brief lecture, there was a reception. The three students I knew at this thing left immediately after the lecture, but I stuck around, because I wanted to 1) congratulate the professor, and 2) remind her that I exist so she will agree to be my adviser. But of course, my professor was immediately flanked on all sides by colleagues, and I didn't want to interrupt their animated conversations with my paltry greetings. So I was left to roam for a bit. A bit that lasted 15 minutes. I didn't know anyone else in the room except for other professors I had had throughout my tenure here, and I didn't feel particularly inclined to wander up and play the fun game of "remember me? What are you working on these days?" One professor did catch my eye and wave, so I walked over and began to speak to her, but no sooner than we exchanged pleasantries did another professor come up and begin to speak to her. They were talking about the Brookline neighborhood and their families, and I know nothing about the Brookline neighborhood or their families. I stood on the fringes, awkwardly, until both professors started talking about heading out, since they were going the same way.

I knew how I looked and I hated it. I was hovering, clumsily, not able to contribute to the current conversation and not feeling able to steer it back to a topic to which I could contribute. I didn't know one of the women, and the other I had only the most cursory of relationships with. She must of wondered why I continued to stand there for so long, when the conversation obviously no longer included me.

Finally, I spotted an opening in the honored professor's circle, and I stepped up and congratulated her. To my delight, she remembered me. No mention of my pending request for her to be my adviser, however. I plan to schedule a meeting with her via her secretary later this week, so all is not lost. As soon as she had greeted me she was congratulated by another colleague, and turned her attention to him. I quietly slipped away again and hit the door.

Ugh. I am thankful that I am able to act gracefully and confidently in almost all social situations. This one, however, completely got away from me, and I felt miserable. It was probably a good exercise, however, since so many people suffer from the complete fear of a cocktail party, and it's good to remember that they aren't just being sissies. Sometimes, wandering into a group of strangers who are not your peers and trying to blend in is, plain and simply, horrible.

Delicious crabcakes, however.

I would do anything for love, but I won't do that

As you know, Patto's and my first anniversary was earlier this summer. Unfortunately, I was still living in Chicago, so while we did many fun things, we did not eat the top layer of our wedding cake.

Indeed, the frozen cake was still chillin' (heh) in my parent's deep freeze, so on our next trip back to Tennessee, we retrieved it. It was wrapped up in a cardboard box, and then sealed in a generous helping of plastic wrap.

After letting it fully thaw on the kitchen table for a couple of days, I opened it with giddy anticipation. Besides the bite I had for the pictures, I didn't eat any of my own wedding cake. I have heard that this is often the case with large weddings. The couple that experiences the least of the ceremony is the bridal couple. Anyway, I was told it was delicious. The top layer was red velvet cake. Come to me, fruits (cakes?) of my labor to love and cherish the adorable Patto till death do us part!

Opened at last! Here it is!

Oh. Ewwwwwwww. I... I don't even know what happened here. I can see that the icing walls have fallen off (probably due to some scientific principle about the freezing method of icing. Mom?), and I know that the large and ugly gash on the top is from where our little cake topper sat, but... This thing is hideous.

Nevertheless, I cut a small triangle and ate it. Mmmmm, stale red velvet cake. But it tasted like it might have been delicious.

Last year.

Oh, well. That ruins my vision of candlelight, champagne and feeding each other little bits of red velvet without the photographer pushing in to rearrange us. But ever the trooper, I will press on. Maybe the next time I'm in Tennessee, I will just buy a little cake from my baker, fresh, and eat it right then.

Oh, and special shout-out to my sister, who planned to eat her cake top for her FIFTH anniversary, to occur in April, 2008. Might not want Tony to read this post...

Overreation

I reacted very badly to the pumpkin arrangement disaster. After I picked up the flowers from the floor and tossed them back onto the mantle, I burst into sobs. And I sobbed for ten, hard minutes.

It quickly became apparent to me that I was not crying over the ruin crafts project. It was just a craft, after all, and not really that badly ruined. The pumpkin frame had not broken or bent, and even though the flowers were all pulled out and lightly nibbled upon, the whole thing could be restored. It would probably only take 20 minutes or so to rearrange it. But I couldn't even stand the thought of starting over last night. So instead I sobbed.

What, then, did the ruined craft represent for me? After smearing my mascara all over Patrick's shoulder, we tried to talk it out. Was I too stressed? Overwhelmed? Did I feel as though I wouldn't be able to get ahead or stay ahead? Were we spending enough time together?

This is the best I have come up with: I have a lot of work to do. Hours of reading, classes, and a major paper to write over the next 10 weeks. And I had just come home from a really fun evening with friends. I was at a high in the midst of a mountain of stressors. And to come home and find my efforts ruined (efforts on a project I was so proud of because it was something new and hard for me to do well) it came like a punch to the stomach. The contrast was too much. It doesn't matter how hard I work or how well I think I'm doing, it all falls apart.

I think that's what the arrangement meant to me. Tonight I will try to put it back together again, like I always do.

Robbed

I had the best evening tonight. I went out with the Harvard Law Drama Club while Patrick was at the gym, and I had so much fun. I met up with Patrick after his workout and I couldn't wait to get home and tell you all about my evening.

And then when I walked in, I saw my pumpkin mantle centerpiece in pieces.

While we were gone, the cats jumped up on the mantle and destroyed perhaps the only successful crafts project I have made in years.

And I felt...

Robbed.

And then I didn't feel anything much at all.

I am probably my mother's cousin

It is autumn in Massachusetts, and autumn is my favorite season. It makes me want to bake spice cookies and put out Harvest-themed decorations. Emphasis on the words want to.

I am not as craft-able as my mother and sister. They make really cool things, like incredible centerpieces and flower arrangements and custom-made potting sheds. I make the occasional lopsided ornament out of glitter and construction paper. I have great visions of what I want things to look like. They just don't turn out to be what I envisioned. Or even close, for that matter. It's enough to make a gal wonder if there is any truth to my sister's claims that I was purchased from a flea market.

So mostly I do not try the crafty stuff. But this year, while wandering through the craft section of a large super-store, I decided to try. I decided to combine a lovely bunch of artificial fall foliage with an iron pumpkin frame. I have seen my mom do this with great success and much oohing and ahhing from family and friends, myself chief among them. So I thought, "history of poor arts and crafts grades be damned! I am going to make a pumpkin/flower arrangement thingie for my mantle!"

Here is the finished product:


I'm very happy with it. It looks even better in person than in the picture. I know it's a little dark here, but I didn't like how the pictures with the flash on came out. The whole thing was too stark, too focused. And that's not autumn to me.

So, while my one success at craftiness probably does not qualify me as my mother's daughter (or my sister's, uh, sister), I am at least a distant cousin.

Back on the tree, baby.

We run for cupcakes

This evening I had dinner with a couple of fellow law students, and at the end of the main meal, my friend Jess suggested splitting dessert with one of the guys, whom I shall call Sparkles. Sparkles is always very excitable, and even when he is at his worst, he can be picked up again with the spotlight and a good show tune. Anyway, Jess asked Sparkles to split some carrot cake, and Sparkles declined. In his words, "Oh, Sparkles does not do dessert." Why not, his table mates ask. "Ugh, we just don't. Especially because we already had a cupcake for breakfast." (It is important to note that Sparkles often speaks in the royal plural). Anyway, we pressed him until the story of the breakfast cupcake came out.

And so follows the narrative of Sparkles:

Sparkles: Well, almost every morning we run down to this particular Back Bay bakery (which is about 4 miles away), and as a reward we eat all of the icing and a little of the top of a cupcake, and then we run back.
Me: What about the bottom of the cupcake? (I am always concerned for the bottoms of cupcakes, the marginalized cupcake class).
Sparkles: Oh, we don't eat the bottom. Anyway, so we eat the cupcake and then run home. So since we ate the cupcake for breakfast, we can't eat the carrot cake for dessert.
Table Mate: Don't we get a side stitch from eating cupcake icing in the midle of an 8 mile run?
Sparkles: Oh no, we're fine. We love butter. We LIVE for butter!

But apparently, not carrot cake.

If I were Sparkles, and I was telling this story, it would go something like this:

Me: Oh, smc does not do desserts.
Table: Why not?
Me: Well, almost every morning we make our darling husband drive us to the corner bakery where we consume one entire cupcake (as long as it does not have too much icing. And we savor the bottom). And then we jog half a block to the supermarket where we buy a carton of milk. And then we jog back to the bakery and have another cupcake. And then our husband drives us home.
Table: So you can't split any cake?
Me: Well. Maybe if we split it...

We would make a pathetic Sparkles.

Back to School

Today is my last first day of school.

I have my pens and pencils and highlighters at the ready. I've purchased all of my books. I cleaned out my book bag from last year and created new files for this year's classes on my trusty MacBook. I'm ready.

But I'm nostalgic. Last week I gave tours to the brand new class of 1Ls. And I remembered how excited I was to start law school. Harvard law school! And I suddenly missed all of the fun orientation events and welcome cocktail hours and having a "section mom"- a professor who watches our for your section and makes sure you are adapting well (Of course, this professor is not usually a woman- but mine was, so the term "section mom" kinda stuck).

Then, over the weekend I watched the Undergrads move in, all toting a mom and giant shopping bags from Bed Bath and Beyond. And I missed college, and toting those bags with my mom, who helped me pick out all the best animal print accessories for my dorm room (because I was 18 and insisted on having an animal print-themed room). And I missed home football games, and painting my face with my sister and the other girls on my floor (and the time Amanda painted UT on her face using a mirror, and when she pulled away realized she had actually put on "TU"), and playing billiards at the UC or the Strip.

And then yesterday I popped into Target. And you guys know that Target in September is like going back to grade school. And I missed buying new markers and glue sticks, and I missed new back packs and reams of loose leaf college rule paper (limit two per customer!), and I missed being nervous (were any of my friends in my class? Who did I have for home room?). And I really missed getting dressed for the first day of school. Because first impressions count.

Although, thinking back to some of the things I wore in grade school, I have to wonder what impression I was trying to make.

And one day I will probably miss today, the last first day of school I will ever have.

That's what friends are for

Folks, there are good friends, and then there are good friends.

A good friend calls you and chats about the Labor Day sales she happened upon and asks if you did anything fun with your long weekend. A good friend perceives that you may have been caught up with studying and cleaning and calls you early enough that you can throw down your laundry basket and make it to the mall with three hours to spare so you can catch those sales yourself.

Thank Heaven for good friends, or else the most stunning black velvet blazer ever to grace this earth might not be hanging in my closet right now.

Appalachian State University is HOT HOT HOT

If you are a football fan like me, you may have noticed that 5th ranked Michigan was upset by Appalachian State University today. This video is an actual promotional video released by App State a few years agao.

HOT! HOT! HOT!

I tink I'mb sick

I have been hit full-force by a summer cold. Stuffy nose, stuffy head, sore throat, and general patheticness.

And I'm a total grump.

Hopefully I can keep the cold at bay with Tylenol: Severe Cold capsules long enough to enjoy the long weekend. And start school next week.