smidge past mid-term, half past done

Goodness, when you type your life out in updates, it sure goes by quickly. Well, actually, it goes by quickly anyway, but it waxes more poetic to say it the other way.

I've made it past mid-term, past spring break, and there are only a few (short, yet, long) weeks left of my first year, second semester of grad school. Whoo-whee and
gol-lee, I cannot believe it either.
I like the bullet-points, don't you? I mean, it's nice, neat, tidy, you know what the topic is, what it will cover and it just simply goes so much smoother for my quick wit, charm, and sarcasm to fill in the bullet-point blanks that way. So, bullet-points, it is.

Social organizer: I should be in PR. I can get people to organize, rally-around, give time, and themselves to causes and to things. Sure, some of these things have to do with causes such as breast cancer and the food bank, and some of these things have to do with St. Patrick Day celebrations, but still, the point is I can gather the group and give to causes. Those causes may be in the fight to save boobs and those causes may be in, how to damage your liver with green beer. Still, the motivation and power to persuade is there. (Note to self: think about running for some sort of office and use my powers for good.) (Done.)

Sewing horizontal line: Hmm, my stitch and bitch has sort of fallen away, so my horizontal line has become a dot. This does not bode well for the art projects, nor for the quilt that I have been working on for eight years.

Quantitative Research: a.k.a stats: Somehow I am pulling an "A" No, trust me, I am just as surprised as you, probably more so. However, the grade and the class is not the point of this bullet. No, the point of this bullet is about the professor, Ramona. Poor, Ramona. First, her name is Ramona. Poor, girl. Let me tell you about her back-story. Once again, her name is Ramona. I'm guessing she was picked on, a lot, as a child and more than likely spent her lunch hours with her nose in a book. Absolutely nothing wrong with having your nose in a book, just as long as a person pulls it out of the book every now and again to look at, take in, and enjoy some of the world around them. I'm gonna guess Ramona did not do this. Not a lot of social skills. Sure, she thinks she has social skills, she also thinks she has a keen sense of humor, she would be wrong on both counts. Oh, oh, so very wrong. Ramona, thinks she is funny, no, she's just mean. Mean, sense of humor, mean wit. Again, I think this goes back to her childhood, lack of social skills, and eighty-five too many boys knocking the book out of her hand during recess in the fifth grade. (All of life can be traced back to fifth grade. True story.) Ramona's voice also has the sweet, sweet sound of cat nails on a chalk board mixed into the worst possible electric guitar feedback you've ever heard in your entire life. Yep. Not painful at all. We just nonchalantly wipe the blood from our ears as she is being witty and calling us all idiots. Yep, not afraid to ask questions in her class. Mixed in with her voice, her humor, and her teaching style is also the debate over whether or not she is wearing a bra. If she is wearing a bra, it has clearly lost the battle. The bra has given up and the boobs are merely resting on her stomach at this point. I know. I know. I shouldn't make fun, it's not nice, but it gets me through class, and I am managing to get an "A". So, do not critique my mean mocking style, just accept it and move on to the next bullet-point.

Spring break: Already over and gone. I have no idea how it happened either. Somewhere between going out on Thursday, Friday, Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday, it just flew by. Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday I was sick. It is a mystery.

Shade-o-riffic tree: We've made peace. The tree won. Because I decided to let it win. Moving on.

Dating: There was someone who had potential.(Math Teacher) (Notice the past-tense) Then, then, he said a fateful sentence, "you're very guarded." (Knock the wind out of me, ricochet my brain around my skull, dust self off, pick self up, cue evil music.) Da, dun, daaaaa! Kiss of death. For him, not me. Pay attention. Sure, I know I'm guarded, but here I thought I hid it so well with my boundless sense of humor, wit, talent, sarcasm, and ability to actively listen and pay attention. Damn it. Those charms, my magic lasso, and invisible plane had worked so well for me over the past decade or so. Now I have to find a new dating superpower. Crap.

Classes: See bullet-point on Ramona, otherwise, they are going okay. In one class, which is supposed to start at 11:00 and finish at 12:15, the professor shows up around 11:07, talks about something completely not relevant to class for about 15 more minutes, rambles about the topic of discussion, kinda, sorta, but not really for about 25 minutes, talks about the discussion topic for about 13 minutes, let's us out of class 15 minutes early. Yeah, I feel I am getting my tuition dollars worth.

GPA: Unless something goes horribly wrong, and well, it is me we are talking about, I should receive as close to a 4.0 without actually receiving a 4.0 and without going over a 4.0 this semester. This is substantially better than last semester, but we don't like to talk about that.

Brazil: I leave in 10 weeks. I leave in 10 weeks!!!!!!!!! I leave in 10 weeks (!!!!) Crap, I leave in 10 weeks. Yep, say that every hour or so and you pretty much have my brain and my sleeping pattern summed up. Slowly, slowly it is all coming together. I am planning on purchasing my ticket this week (the round trip plane ticket costs as much as my entire trip to Budapest. Not quite sure how that math works out, but whatever.) and from there it is getting my visa, apartment there, and everything (EVERYTHING) else together. I am nervous, excited, scared, excited, nervous, and scared, and scared, excited, and nervous.

Portuguese: "Quero uma cerveja." translation: "I would like a beer." Ta dah!(Thanks, Limpy) An American girl in Brazil success story. Hey, if it can work here, I think it should work there. No? Fine. I'm working on it, okay,? Maybe not working on it enough, but I'm working on it. I have ten more weeks to put it off, err, I mean, commit it all to memory, receive a gold star, and charm the locals.

Yellow fever vaccine: That will be part of the next bullet-point list. Something tells me there may be a story about that little live vaccine. That something would be, Hello! Have you met me? It says, "may cause illness." Something tells me there won't be any "may" about it. It's a live vaccine of yellow fever being shot into my body for god's sake! Parents, friends, neighbors will all be put on alert to feed me ice chips and to make sure I don't go running naked around the greater Small State U community screaming, "I lost my invisible plane! I lost my invisible plane!"

So, tell me all about yourself.

a drunk man's words, are a sober man's thoughts

If only the random phone calls and text messages I receive at 2a.m. had the same courage to be made at 2p.m.

the power of one

After deleting three different titles to this post, I decided to just write it out here.
The power to both pick-up the phone when it rings and the power to dial the phone. I know, not Earth shattering things, but when you've dated and been hurt (crushed) as much as I have, well, those can be kinda big deals.
As the phone dialer, it takes courage to punch the numbers. As the receiver of the call, it takes courage to not screen and actually pick-up the phone. Again, not changing the world here, but possibly changing the world of one.

Yep. If you haven't already figured it out, I've started dating someone. Still pretty new. (about three weeks) (and if history has taught me anything, admit I am dating someone on the blog and dating someone will end, so.)(but I hope that curse can be broken.) Still new enough that I am trying to not revert back to old habits of sabotage. Not doing so well on that front, as Monday (ala, St. Pat's) I went home with a guy I met that night, after flirting with my guy friends all night, and while dating the formerly mentioned man. Not proud of that moment, but it happened and I didn't do anything morally wrong, maybe just stupid, but not wrong. Issues, who has issues? Get your issues, here!

Last night the dating man, we shall call him, Math Teacher, and I just told each other that we liked each other and that this is a pressure free situation. (Cue sappy music.)
Math Teacher also knocked me on my ass last night (no slap, just a knock) when he told me I am "very guarded...he hasn't figured out why yet, but I am." Ah, yep. Amazing how one sentence can knock the wind from me. I told him I had been hurt a lot and there is time for him to figure it out if he is patient. So. We shall see. (cue, music)(again.)

So, anyway, this week it's about the power of being able to pick-up the phone, maybe make a drunk dial or two, ask someone out, tell them that I like them (sad, but that's kinda a big deal for me. I know, sad.) and to have the courage to not be the cat-lady. Cause, it is a short line between being a happy-go-lucky single gal to being the woman who is bitter and owns at least three cats. Let's just be honest about that. It's about having the courage to not become the cat-lady.

overheard and said

Overheard: Me in bathroom stall number 1 overhearing girls in stalls 2 and 3
Girl 2: Those guys are really hot. (pause) I wish I would have worn better underwear.
Girl 3: (pause) Ah, I'm wearing Hanes Her Way.
Me trying not to laugh at the girls while looking down at my Victoria Secret. Lesson: Always be prepared.

Said: conversation between myself and a guy I've gone out with a couple times.
Him: "So, what are you doing tonight?"
Me: "A girlfriend and I are supposed to be going out tonight." (I went out Monday, Thursday, and Saturday.)
Slight pause. "Do you go out a lot?"
Slight pause from me "Um, well, that's kind of subjective."
(I mean, I don't think I go out a lot. ya know?)

Overheard: Walking across campus, guy behind me on his cell phone, I assume talking to a friend.
Him: "When are my student loans due?"
Assume the other person says, six months from the day you graduate.
"Yeah, that scares the shit out of me. I cannot even tell you how much."
Me thinking and nodding knowingly, yeah, you and me both, buddy. You and me both.

Said: Last night at the bar when I attempted to leave at an ungodly early hour.
A round table of guy friends. "Holy hell! PG! You are not leaving! Where do you think you're going? Sit your ass down!"
"Okay, I'll stay, but I refuse to have any more fun."
My best guy friend to the waitress "Get this girl a round of shots."
"Oh, okay. If I must."

Said: Best guy friend to me.
"PG, If I pay you $50 will you punch me out with your right breast?"
"Hell, for you, I'll do it for two easy payments and one difficult payment of
$49.99."

Overheard and said:
Said: by my date upon realizing I knew, and love a band he used to do security for. As a matter fact, it was the first bar band I ever saw. "Wow, you just elevated yourself to a whole new level."
Me: "Yes!"
Overheard: by the radio DJ in the room, "Well, that sounds promising."
My thoughts, "Yes, yes it does."

Said: to my table-full of guy and girlfriends:
(My building shares a hot water heater and my water will mysteriously, and without warning turn from a nice, wake-me-up-in-the-morning-temperature to scalding-melt-my- flesh-off and I have a hand-held shower head.) "So, the other morning, while in the shower, the water turned to scalding and I just about burnt my clit off..."
(Yeah, It was worth the reaction at the table.)

inner dork: randomness

I know, bad PG. No inner dorking, no outter dorkings, no dorkings at all, so bad, so wrong. Bad blog slacking PG.

So, without further ado, here is your inner dorking:

Did you know....

In 1956 the Physical Culture and Sports Commission of communist China recognized the sport of hand-grenade throwing.

During a hundred-meter race, a top sprinter makes contact with the ground only about forty times.

The only sport that takes place on a triangular race-course is sailing.
(I had no idea ponds and lakes came in triangle.)

Eosophobia is a fear of dawn.
(I think I suffer from this disorder.)

A duffle bag got its name because the thick wool originally used to make the bags came from the Belgium town of Duffle.

The difference between a nook and a cranny is that the nook is a corner and the cranny is a crack.
(So, boys, always make sure to cover all the nooks and crannys. Just sayin')

In native Greek, Utopia means "not a place" or "nowhere."

Women's hearts beat faster than men's.

Men get hiccups more often than women do.

Women blink twice as often as men do.
(It was recently pointed out to me, that when I am thinking about something I "blink hard" or, to phrase it better, I close my eyes for a long second. Hmm, I don't think I cleared that up at all.)

A cubic mile of seawater contains, on average, more than $117 million worth of gold and $11 million worth of silver.
(Let's go diving!)

Winters were colder a thousand years ago. In 1063, the River Thames froze for fourteen weeks.
(Yeah, well, I think this winter classifies as "colder". Good Lord, but I am glad spring is almost here.)

The average lifespan of a slug is eighteen months.
(Gosh, but I feel I can complete my day now.)

and last:

Some ribbon worms will eat themselves if they cannot find food.
(And I know some men who wish they could.) (Eat themselves.)

Ta dah! Now, go enjoy your day.

just sayin'

Cell phones have become the new pocket watch.

Lost the war, concede the battle, win a small victory

The Shade-o-riffic tree is laden with a thick transparent coat of ice and a fresh blanket of snow, the weight of both forces the branches southward.
As I sit on the middle cushion of my big-ugly-comfy couch, blanket wrapped around my knees and feet, holding the over-sized powder blue coffee mug steaming with a freshly poured cup of heavily creamed coffee, I stare. I stare at the branches through my patio doors and will the wind to blow harder. I murmur my secret evil chant to the Global Gods, “blow, wind, blow.” Hoping against all hope that these words will reach up to the snowy, blustery, heavens and the power of my will combined with the powers of my subconscious will make the heavy branches come crashing down to the ground and I will win a small victory against the
Shade-o-riffic tree.
Fall.
Stare longer.
Will the braches to come tumbling down.
See it.
Will it.
Want it.
If I want something bad enough, I need to see it, envision it, isn’t that what all those psycho-babble Oprah-sheep are always espousing? See it, want it, will it.
Wait, am I supposed to write it down? Is “write it down” one of the things they “bah” about?

In my tunnel-vision determination to bring the tree to a shattering cold death, I realize I am missing a crucial step. I place the powder blue coffee mug on a coaster and I search my crappy apartment for a pen and a piece of paper. In my search I wonder if this is how it started for Jack Torrance. How soon did he go crazy after he and his family moved into the Overlook Hotel? How soon? With the vision of “Heeeeere’s, Johnny!” crashing through my door; the crazy one, not Carson, the word “redrum” pours scarlet in my mind. With shock and horror at what I’ve become, a tree hating grad student, I abruptly stop scribbling my missing affirmation on the shredded cover of last semester's environmental public policy book where the crucial words of "wanted dead, not alive," the last step needed to finish my crucifying bullet, falls harmlessly to the floor. I let out a sad, short, disgusted whimper of shame as I shake my head and lower my gaze to the living room carpet where I notice a few lonely speaks of salt and sand combined with several small balls of black sweatshirt fuzz and I realize that in my all consuming one woman staring contest, it has been awhile since I last vacuumed.

I decide that it is time to concede my battle with the Shade-o-riffic tree. It has obviously been here longer than I and it will be here long after I leave, this is victory enough. I raise my coffee mug in a salute and shout, “Live on, you stupid humongous tree! Live on!”

Moments later I dump the corpse of the .5 houseplant into the garbage and change yet another burned-out light bulb in a vain attempt to brighten my perpetually dusk apartment. During the houseplant burial ceremony I vow to kill trees in another more vigorously sinister way; with the printing of research.