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.

The Power of One: the one woman boycott

I have my causes, the things I care about, the things I'm not willing to put up with, the things I support. Then I have the things I will not support and the causes and things I boycott. It's the power of the one person boycott. (Bows head, outstretches right arm and raises hand into a fist)
I don't have many things I boycott, but I feel strongly about those that I have.

Wal-Mart. Truly, an evil empire. I refer to this evil empire as The Devil Store. I will not shop there; I do not support the evil empire in any way. Horrible, horrible store. Bad on the environment, treats their employees horribly, many of their employees are on welfare to subsudize their income, yet the CEO's of Wal-mart are some of the richest in the world. Boycott has been ongoing for over five years.

Blockbuster. In principle I just do not care for the store. However, several years ago they charged me repeatedly for late fees that I did not owe and claimed, repeatedly, that I did not return movies when I had. So, perhaps not completely justified, because it has more to do with bad training and store policies than anything else, I don't care. Boycott has been ongoing for over seven years.

A local grocery store chain: Has more to do with the fact that the pimple faced kids do not realize that we all have to work, we don't want to, working is not our favorite thing, but we like to have money, and "Hey, how are you?" is a rhetorical question. Boycott is off and on because unfortunately sometimes I do need to shop there, because, unfortunately I like food on Sundays. (My favorite grocery store is closed on Sundays.)

Ethanol gasoline: It's a horrible, horrible, horrible policy. Ethanol sprawl, water run-off, downstream pollution, still uses petroleum; it is not a cheaper fuel. The only reason it is cheaper is because of tax subsidies. Tax breaks for the gas station owners and farmers. It actually costs more and takes more energy to produce one gallon of ethanol than it does to produce one gallon of regular gasoline. Boycott is brand new, about a week. I've thought about it since this past fall, finally my Jiminy Cricket got to me. Do I like paying more at the pump, no. But regular gasoline burns slower, lasts longer; so really, I'm saving money.

PBS: Okay, I do not boycott PBS. I love PBS. But, I did realize, just the other day, that I listen, watch, and throughly enjoy PBS and NPR, but I never give them money to stay on the air. They are public goods and I am a free-rider. I should stop that. The next telethon I've promised myself that I will give a donation. Just seems like the right thing to do.

So, those are a few of mine. Do you all have any one person boycotts?

Where I'm Going, Where I've Been

I think it is time for an update on this here thing called my life. A bullet-point list if you will, of all the wisdom, book-learning, wonderful, and self-fulfilling life experiences known as grad school. (Sarcasm and snarky comments may, can, and will be included) (but no preservatives or partially hydrated corn oil.) (There may be some additives.) (This post will only contain the truth.) (Or at least the truth as I see it.) (which is the only truth that matters.)
At times It may also appear in the form of the third person.


Apartment: Still hate it. It's amazing that with all the cleaning products on the market, Madison Avenue has not come up with one that can make a fifty-year old apartment smell or look clean after several hours of cleaning. Notify Johnson & Johnson that they need to add "New and Improved Cleaning Power" to all of their products.

Shade-o-riffic tree: Still willing it to die. The tree is stronger than the powers of my will and subconscious. Number of house plants claimed: 3.5 (one is still hanging on. I don't give it much hope. Two-three more weeks, tops. Notify Earl May.) I have learned that the powers of a tree are stronger than the powers of house plants which need and love photosynthesis.

State University Shuffle: What I refer to my walking pace and speed to and from school each day. Apparently the greater State University area does not have a snow removal, sand, and salt disbursement budget. Thus, everything is covered in snow and ice in various forms of melt, remelt, and shoe imprints; thus I am too terrified to actually pick-up my feet when walking, a shuffle will do just fine.

Parking tickets: I'm convinced I've paid enough in parking fines to at least cover my State University shuffle foot path each day, but apparently I am wrong about that. Bastards.

College aesthetic of beauty: I never really understood why the 18-24 year-olds love the sweatpants and sweatshirts so much. Is it really that hard to put on a stylish top and cute but comfortable pair of pants? I've since learned that this fashion trend serves a purpose. That purpose is that it is breath-freezing-in-the throat cold outside and sweatpants and sweatshirts keep a person toasty and warm. Plus, since it is booger freezing cold outside and a toasty 72 degrees inside, divided by the body heat of 50 college student, added into the sweat that is created from wearing enough layers not to loose limbs and ears lobes, multiplied by the power of a 30 pound backpack, by the square-root of the energy it takes to walk up a flight of stairs, well, I will be a bit glowy by the time I get to class. Hence, the "sweat" in sweatshirts. So, the college beauty aesthetic actually serves a purpose. Who knew, college kids really are smart.

Heels, skirts, matching sets of fun and funky jewelry: Yeah. Those haven't been broken out in awhile. For any confusion, see the above.

Job: I do not have one. I do not want one. I do not want to look for one. I have never had this much free time. I will never have this much free time again. I have enjoyed it. I am enjoying it. I will enjoy it. PG, the no-job-having-girl, I am.

Brazil: My internship has been approved for the summer; I will be spending eight weeks in Salvador, Brazil working with impoverished women and children. Six weeks are for my internship, two weeks will be for me to travel around South America. The organization is totally grassroots. Totally grassroots is government code for, unpaid internship, which means I need to come up with a crap load of money in the next few months. However, I will be doing the kind of work I know I need to be doing, which is helping with health education, sex and HIV/AIDS education, as well as teaching the local children how to read and write. I will also be helping with the making and selling of jewelry to help provide funds for the community. Now, that's not what my actual internship will be. No, I need to do a bunch and a whole lotta research for the actual requirements, but I am hoping to have all non-fun research and writing stuff finished by the time June rolls around, that way I can have the time to do all of the other schtuff while I am in country.

Learning Portuguese: Um, well. I've bought the CD's. I've made flash cards. It's similar to Spanish. ..... Yeah, I'm pretty far from committing any words, let alone phrases, to memory. Maybe I can just put the flash cards on a ring and when somebody says something to me I can just flip through my cards. That seems productive not to mention a great way to make friends and spread the American love.

Drinking: I'm German. That means I'm good at it. I also practice often. The kids here haven't learned that drinking isn't a race and that no matter what, we will all get to the finish line. But, one day they will have this wisdom and they will go far.

Dating: Blech. Boys and guys are stupid, men are not stupid. However, there seems to be more boys and guys than men in this town. And let's be honest, I'm not over the last man. So, I am on a dating break.

Art: A girlfriend and I started a Sunday sewing circle. It's just the two of us, so I guess it is more of a sewing horizontal line, but still, the stitch and bitch is there.

Classes: Oh, yeah, the reason why I am here. Classes and professors are better than last semester, but I don't know how much that is really saying. Taking 10 credits of grad and 3 credits of undergrad (missing a micro-econ requirement) plus, I had the wisdom and foresight to ask if I could audit the dreaded and scary Public Finance class that I will take next spring (apparently one of two classes that most everyone has trouble with and also one of two classes which people fail on the comps) so, 16 credits it is. Did I mention I don't have a job? Other than my Quantitative Research class (a.k.a. stats, formulas, and all things math-like) I am enjoying the classes and should do fine. Hopefully once we move to the computer for the stats class it will become less stomach burning, and tear inducing.

So, even though I've never had this much free time, I'm just as busy as I've always been. So, sorry for the lack of posting, but I've been busy killing trees and reading about all things fascinating and dealing with human rights and public policy. Sure, maybe not the most exciting stuff, but the professors keep telling me that I will actually need to know this stuff cause apparently I will be tested on it. So, there you go.

I had a big emotional breakthrough on my decsion to be here (I know, sounds hokey, but truly, wow, changed everything.) So, after six months of doubt, I'm finally feeling good about being here. Sometimes it's good to say things outloud to friends. Sometimes they can come up with five seconds of wisdom that finally allows me to see all those trees in the forest.

Okay, so, what is new with all of you?

You could use a laugh today

I was all prepared to write a sad little post tonight; then I remembered Mitch. Mitch Hedberg and how my guy friend and I went back and forth the other night quoting his lines. I then spent the last hour watching old clips of his. I am no longer sad.
Score one for Mitch.
I thought perhaps you could use a laugh as well.
Cause really, no matter what kind of day you are having when can we not use a laugh break?

Always.

We can always use a laugh break.

Enjoy: Hee-lar-e-ous

...and yes, I know I've shared before. Don't be persnikity, just enjoy.

Power of One: Gandhi

One man who gave his life for freedom and for peace.
Gandhi

inner dork: Milwaukee's best

As some, dear readers, so kindly pointed out to me last week, uh, where's Milwaukee in all of the beer love?

So, here are some factoids as to why Milwaukee was at one point, the king of bad beer.

Speaking of bad beer, remember Hamms and the Hamms bear? Man, I had a baseball T as a kid that I LOVED. Wore it all the time. I loved those little beer commercials with the Hamms bear. He had so many misadventures. He was so silly...
Do you suppose the Hamms Beer Company was marketing to kids? Huh, do ya?

So, did you know....

Milwaukee did not enjoy any significant advantages as concerned the price or availability of raw materials such as hops and barley.

Labor was not noticeably cheaper in Milwaukee than most other brewing cities.

Milwaukee's water supply did not offer any special advantages for brewing. The nineteenth century myth that Milwaukee water produced a superior brew was debunked by early chemists.

There were no particular advantages associated with transportation of freight in or out of Milwaukee.

Although cooperage (barrels, vats, casks, etc.) was inexpensive in Milwaukee due to the large Wisconsin lumber trade, the savings were not significant enough to provide a major advantage. And anyway, the Milwaukee brewers consumed so many beer barrels that they were often forced to buy them from suppliers outside Wisconsin, thus incurring transportation costs. In fact, frequent barrel shortages in Milwaukee finally compelled the Pabst and Schlitz breweries to join forces and establish the Delta Cooperage Company to secure a constant supply of barrels.

Cheap, abundant ice from Lake Michigan certainly favored brewing before the advent of artificial refrigeration. Ice also stimulated long-distance shipping of beer, since rail cars needed to be packed with enormous quantities of ice to prevent spoilage of the beer en route. But all Great Lakes cities -- Detroit, Chicago, Cleveland, etc. -- also enjoyed the same advantages. Thus, Milwaukee's ice supply can not alone be credited with the developing city's brewing prowess.

What, then, caused Milwaukee to become the "brewing capital of the world?"
The best answer is that it was a combination of a diverse set of factors:

1) Conditions in Milwaukee were just as favorable for beer-making as they were in most major cities. Yet, compared to many nineteenth century brewing centers, Milwaukee's population -- and that of its outlying regions -- was relatively small. Thus, Milwaukee brewers were forced to turn to outside markets to expand sales. This unique problem ultimately transformed Milwaukee's breweries into "nationally-minded" organizations. Once begun, the strategy of long-distance shipping did not cease for Milwaukee's brewers until their beer was being sold in every corner of America.

2) Proximity to the large beer-consuming population of Chicago -- and the easy and inexpensive lake transportation thereto -- was always a boon to Milwaukee's brewing industry. For example, the Great Chicago Fire of 1871 boosted sales of Milwaukee breweries enormously. Schlitz's frequent shipments of beer to the devastated city earned it the slogan, "The Beer That Made Milwaukee Famous." Schlitz enjoyed a 100 percent jump in sales immediately after the Chicago fire.

3) There is no question that certain of Milwaukee's brewers were extraordinarily talented businessmen. While their particular circumstances may have accidentally lead them to aspire to greater markets than most brewers, it can not be denied that the men behind the breweries were savvy, aggressive industrialists. And much of their success was achieved through vision, hard work and sound business sense.

Next week: why beer and cheese make a lovely combination of co-mingling tastes on the buds.

Paul the Penguin

When I walked to school today I encountered Paul. Paul the Penguin. Nice guy. I thought it was a bit odd to see a penguin out and about in these parts, so I asked him about his relocation to the northern side of the planet. He said that his home in Antarctica was getting a bit warm and he and his wife, Deloris, had heard how cold and blustery the Great White North could be*, so they decided to relocate. As he spoke with some snow blew into my eyes, so I could see his point. Well, not so much see, as my eyes were filled with freezing ice, but I could certainly understand the relocation plan of his family. As we spoke, he told me about his wife, they’ve been married 25 years, two kids, a son Marlin, which I found to be an unusual name for a penguin as it is part of the fish family, but he said it was a an old family name going back to the Mesozoic area. Sure, sure. A daughter, Samantha, Sam for short, who has met a seagull during the relocation program. Paul is trying to accept the interspecies love match, but Deloris is just sick with worry over what the neighbors must be saying.

It was at this point in the conversation that I had to interrupt Paul and asked, "Paul, have you seen my nipples, cause I think they fell off." He shook his head in a sad little way and admitted that he had not, but wished me luck on my search. Personally, I think Paul was lying; I think he had seen my nipples. Perhaps he had only seen them pointing like rock hard diamonds through my coat before they had fallen off, but he had seen them. I just don't think he wanted to embarrass me. Paul is a good man. He seems to be a little too preoccupied by the interspecies dating of his daughter, but he's a dad and his job is to worry. Before I left our conversation, I told him that sometimes there are good things that come with interspecies dating. He asked me to name a few.
The Zorse.
The Ass.
Those were all I could name.

I knew he would spend the rest of the day muttering to himself over the thought of his daughter giving birth to a Pensgull.


*Current temp: -2.
Windchill: -28.
Snow: The snow? It's currently snowing sideways.
How far can the eye see: Not very fucking.

The joy of being a grad student:
my day is "officially" over, I am on my couch, beer by my side. Ahhhhh. (Unofficially my ass needs to be doing homework.)

inner dork: cheers!

Yay! It's Thursday!

Did you know...

In America 69% of men and 57% of women drink beer.

Beer was often served with breakfast in medieval England.
(As it should be.)

The oldest recipe in existence is a recipe for beer.
(Is in in hieroglyphics?)

Germany has a beer ice cream in Popsicle form. Its alcohol content is lower than that of normal beer.
(Hmmm, ick.)

The makers of Old Grandad whisky produced their product throughout Prohibition by marking the bottles "for medical purposes."
(so, why wasn't everyone that smart? Where were the other PR peeps?)

The coiffe is the metal wire basket that holds a champagne cork in place.

In making bourbon whisky 51% of the grain that is used must be corn.

Jacqueline Kennedy had the recipe for daiquiris pinned to the wall of the White House kitchen; it was the couple's favorite drink.
(As it should be.)

As it is -6 degrees with a windchill of -25, today I think I will make a hot totty to warm my soul, and hands, and nose, and feet, and mind, and....

I want to laugh until I cry

I met with my professor today to see what I did wrong on my final from last semester.

He was very kind, sympathetic. He gave me six additional points and apologized for not reading my answers more closely.

He sympathized with my problems at mid-term (with the weird guy who claimed he lived in my apartment previously and resulted in a call to the police and an additional lock being put on my door.) He told me I should have told him about the issue at the time and he would have let me take the test at a later date. However, it is now too late to do anything about that test.

He told me I did very well on all of my papers and they dealt with interesting subjects.

I asked if there was anything I could do to improve my grade; any papers, reports, anything? No, but only because others had asked and he told them no; he couldn't make a concession for me. But, I could tell he wanted to.

He could tell I really studied for the final and that I cared. He hemmed, he pondered, he was searching for other ways to help me.

He told me I could ask for the class to be dropped and I could retake the class in the fall.

I asked if the syllabus would be the same and could I just turn in the same papers?

Laughing, he said, the syllabus would be the same in the fall.

I told him I would not ask for the class/grade to be dropped from my report.

In the end, the six additional points was about all he could do. I knew he wanted, he wished he could do more.

What did those six little points do for my overall GPA: it went from a 2.85 to a 2.9.

What does my GPA need, have, to be? 3.0.

I find that 2.9 REALLY freakin' frustrating and I believe it is laughing, nay, mocking me.

I will be laughing until I cry for the rest of the day.

... if you need me, I will be at the bar.

Or, hiding under a blanket on my bed.

Definitely one of those.

...and perhaps muttering about stupid rules and regulations and why exceptions should be made for really smart and cute people....

The Power of One: Those who believed in the dream

Martin Luther King may have had the voice, but he needed people to believe in and follow the dream.

The power of one man who had the leadership.
The power of each person who was and is a believer.
Together they were powerful.
Together they made a movement.

This is for all each person who have, and continue to, lose their lives and their voices for a cause.
This is for all of those who never had, nor will, be recognized for their sacrifices.

the two words I am longing to hear

What are those two little words?
Are they; love you, like you, call you, call me, see you, fuck you, fuck me, eat me, dinner, tonight?, you're awesome, you're adorable, you're intelligent, you're beautiful.
Nope.
None of those.
The two words I long, yearn, to hear from someone; more specifically someone who I am dating, are "...and you?"

So simple. So easy. So un-self absorbed. Yet, yet, those are two little words which I rarely hear. Rarely.

Perhaps I am part of the problem, but my attitude and thinking are, if you're not interested, or if you do not care enough to ask, then I do not and will not care enough to tell you.

I know, how silly of me. But truly, if a person cannot muster the verbiage to ask, "Hey, honey, how was your day?" Then where is my motivation to tell you? To me it says, "I don't give a damn about you or about your day."
Perhaps that is wrong, but that's what it says to me.

Where is this coming from?
Oh, why, let me tell you.
After a second date with the Guy Who Does Not Drink, and not being asked one, not one, not one tiny, little, small, smidgeon of a question about myself, my frustration has hit a wall.
I saw the writing on the wall before the first date, but I am trying to break old ways and old habits and see past things and past old behavior of dismissing people before I have a chance to get to know them. So, I went out on a first date. First date was enjoyable, but the only reason there were any words and vocal chord usage on my part is because I would interject a story or a witty anecdote here and there.
Writing on the wall was screaming at me say, hitting me on the head if you will, but I went out on a second date on Saturday. After two hours of no questions being sent my way and several stifled yawns on my part, I knew there would be no third date.

Now, I can see how perhaps this doesn't seem like a big deal. I understand that in a long-term relationship the "...and you?" can go to the wayside. I understand. I've been in a few long-term relationships. But, if the "...and you?" is not there in the beginning, then there is no hope that it will be there in a month, six months, or a year. It just won't happen.
I can also see where you may be saying, "Hey, why don't you just say something to him..." Also an excellent point. However, it's not as if he is the first person that I've encountered this with. It is also not a gender specific issue. There is also the point of, he is in his mid-thirties and if he doesn't know the proper way to carry on a conversation I don't think it is my job to teach him. Hell, I don't want to teach him. There's enough training (from both people) that comes into play with dating, the proper way to carry on a conversation is not one more thing I care to add to the list.

Again, I can still see where you might be thinking, what's the big deal? Sure, I understand. Let me explain: Say you're in school, there is no question as to what I am in school for.
Say, you're new to town, there is no question as to where I am originally from.
Say, you've been to a few countries outside of the U.S., but there is no question as to why, where, when, how, with whom.
Say, you've had a really interesting day, but there is no question as to why it was interesting (or bad, or good, or sad, or happy.)
Say, you went to see a band the night before, but there is no question as to who, where, what.
Say, you're thirty-three years old and left a pretty decent life to pursue the above, wouldn't you be curious as to why? Yet, there is no question to the why.
Say, you are a really interesting person with some really great and lively stories, but the person doesn't know how to get to those stories.
Sure, I interject and provide some of those stories and win the person over with my stunning personality, but my point is that I would like to be asked to inject. I would like the person to care, to be interested enough to ask about me.

So, men, women, all others who read this here blog, please, for the love of god and for all healthy relationships, ask your significant others, whether they be lovers or friends, "...and you?" I can guarantee it will make all the difference in the world. Because everyone likes to talk about themselves. Everyone has stories. Everyone has something to give. And everyone likes to be asked to give a witty story and everyone likes to be asked, "...and you."

inner dork: snow

As it has snowed, again, here last night, today, and will continue through tomorrow.

As we have reached 18,000 inches in the white fluffy stuff.
(Okay, that may be a smidge of an exaggeration.)
(A smidge, a tad, of an exaggeration, but not by much)

As the windchill is currently -14.

And as I just walked two miles to and fro in the white, non-shoveled, non-plowed, crap of white fluff in that windchill, yet when I got to school I was sweaty. (Dressing for the winter months is a conundrum. Must be bundled-up so as not to freeze, but I will be sweaty by the time I get there, but fingers, ears, nipples, will be numb.)

So, here are some "fun" snow facts.

Based on National Weather Service records for 1961 through 1990, Rochester, New York averages 94 inches of snow annually and is the snowiest large city in the United States. Rochester has a population more than 200,000 and annual municipal snow-removal budget of $3.7 million.
(Good, Lord. See, some place does get 18,000 inches of snow.)
(Again, perhaps an exaggeration.)

Almost 187 inches of snow fell in seven days on Thompson Pass, Alaska in February, 1953.
(Getting closer to that 18,000 mark.)

Each year an average of 105 snow-producing storms affect the continental United States. A typical storm will have a snow-producing lifetime of two to five days and will bring snow to portions of several states.

In the early 1900s, skiers created their own terminology to describe types of snow, including the terms "fluffy snow," "powder snow," and "sticky snow." Later, the terminology expanded to include descriptive terms such as "champagne powder," "corduroy," and "mashed potatoes."
(What, not a term for, sick-of-this-blinding-white-cold-snow-powder?)

In the western United States, mountain snow pack contributes up to 75 percent of all year-round surface water supplies.

Nationwide, the average snowfall amount per day when snow falls is about two inches, but in some mountain areas of the West, an average of seven inches per snow day is observed.
(Huh, I had no idea my state had mountains. Imagine my surprise that my state may, in fact, have mountains based on this "fun" fact.)

The Power of One: Beads for Life

This was a good weekly feature. It shouldn't have stopped. I need to keep it going.

We forget how powerful we are. How good we are. How good and powerful we can be. One person can and does make a difference. One person in the lives of many and in the life of one, it all matters. Sometimes that person is good, sometimes that person is not so good. Sometimes we harness the power in the wrong ways.

For the most part this weekly Wednesday feature will be about the good in humankind, but sometimes it will be about the bad in humankind, just to serve as a reminder. A reminder that evil can come in the human form and in small ways just as the good can come in good and powerful ways. Sometimes it will be a feature story, other times a link to a cause or a website which I think is trying to do good things in small ways. You may not agree with all of the choices, that's fine. At the very least I would hope, I want, it to generate thought, feelings, emotions, and perhaps action on your part. Big action or little action, either way it is an action and that's all I hope for. That's all I want. I want us all to remember and to know that whether we believe it, think it, or want to recognize it, we all make a difference. Big, small, little, huge, and many times in ways we don't know at all, we all make a difference in this great big giant world of ours and I want us to remember that we make a difference more than we forget that we make a difference. Even if we only remember for a moment once a week on a Wednesday.

This week: Beads for Life

soapbox: politics and sex

Soapboxes. I like them. I don't have very many causes that I get rallied up for, but there are a few. Also, one thing you should know, I don't yell. I hate yelling, yellers, and people who speak over others. I hate it. Just because someone talks louder that doesn't mean I hear them any better. Frankly, once a voice is raised in anger or stupidity I will stop listening altogether. Also, I believe if a person gets angry, upset, their panties in a bunch over everything, then when something really and actually matters to them, I won't know that it really matters to them because of all the time they were angry, upset, and panties were bunchy over all things petty and small. So, I choose my battles and I try to choose carefully.

However, if a person has an issue that they can speak passionately and intelligently on, I will actively listen as long as they will actively and respectively listen to me in return. That's what these soapboxes will be. Me, getting behind something, asking something, or feeling passionately about something and hoping, wanting, an intelligent conversation to come of and from it. No yelling. No badgering. No name-calling. Just some things I would like to talk about and see how others feel and think about them.

With the latest batch of winners and casualties from the process known as the American electoral process, I have to say there is something that has been bothering me for about a year now. Something that has been simmering and brewing and I finally think it needs to be said: the language that is used in the electoral process. The language that is used to describe a candidate and their ideas, values, morals.
Specifically it is the sexist language that has been used in this campaign because (gasp!) a female candidate has been so audacious to make it so far into the electoral process. How dare she! She, that evil, power-hungry bitch! She married for power and she is hungry for more! That, that ladies and gents is the only reason she has gone after the White House!

(Sigh.)

How quick we are to go to the lowest denominator when it comes to describing someone, whether they are male or female. However, it seems to me, that when it comes to a woman we are much quicker to revert back to the school-children on the playground telling the others to meet us at the bikes at the end of the day.

Why? Why are we so quick to jump to the sexist language? Why do we believe that a woman who wants to go for the greatest job this country has to offer that comes with a pay-check that they are going after the job for different reasons than all of the men who have came before?
Why do we care? Why do we care so bloomin’ much why she and Bill were and are married? If…if they married for power are they any different than the Roosevelt’s, the Kennedy’s, the Lincolns, or the Washington’s just to name a few. I hate to break it to you, but people married for alliances of money, name, power, not for love; especially when it comes to political campaigns well into the twentieth century. As this was a common practice, these politically aligned marriages are not any different than the marriages that happened for centuries where kingdoms were aligned because this king married that queen. Power marriages happen all the time; just as power friendships happen. I’m pretty certain that without those power “friendships” Washington, as we know it, would not exist.

We are so quick to go to the sexist language, but we would never, openly, go for the racist language. Why, because it is so much more acceptable to go for the quick laugh, the easy quip of calling someone a bitch than to spend the extra second it takes to try and come up with a more intelligent word. Also, we do not think anything about calling someone a bitch, but we would never, ever call someone a nigger. Why, because society has come to realize one is acceptable and one is not.

But, why? Why has one become acceptable? I’m not saying we should regress to saying the “b-word” or the “c-word” and on and on, that doesn’t get us anywhere. I am saying that we need to stop being sophomoric about these issues.

There is also the issue of Republicans being quick to throw the jabs at the Democrats and the liberal are quick to throw the jabs at the conservatives. These open-air verbal matches do not get us anywhere, either. We've made the word liberal and conservative words that we want to wipe our shoes with. Throwing a low-blow my way does not make me respect your side, your ideas, your thoughts anymore than if I went to this playground tactic and threw sand at you about your side.

With the present president I think it is easy to say we, as a nation, as a whole, have become even more divided than we were in the past, we need a candidate that can bring us together. But more than that, we need to grow-up and bring ourselves together and stop with the name-calling and the childish sandlot fights. It’s ridiculous and we are better than that. At least I would still like to believe we are. I may be cynical, but I am still an idealist. How about we all try to be better than the other guy and stop; stop with the name calling, the bi-partisanship the sexist language towards everyone. Just a thought. However, if we keep on this attitude of that side and this side, we are not going to get anywhere politically. If we keep with the sexist language, we really are not going to get anywhere in terms of progress towards the future.