A text, from Paul, after he found out he had to work tonight:
Miss you. Oh, the pains my tender soul has inflicted upon it every second we are apart. (He's probably been reading Jane Austen again.)
A voicemail message at work:
"Hi. This is Barbara. I talked to you earlier. You said you were going to early cancel me. I CAN'T COME TO CLASS BECAUSE I'M COUGHING UP YELLOW GUNK. I just got an email that you late cancelled me. WHY DID YOU LIE TO ME. (Barbara's voice is Long Island accented, and coated with about thirty years worth of cigarette smoke and whisky. I replay the message twice before calling Barbara back to apologize for the mistake, after which she thanks me and calls me a doll. Twice.)
A second voicemail at work:
"Hi. This is Floyd Clerkin. I live in Indiana and sometimes I get these faxes from you guys. My daughter is an instructor and she teaches. Anyways you have this picture of this lady on your fliers and she looks like a poor man's Jacqueline Kennedy. She's got sunglasses and a black dress and she's biting her teeth or something. It's really unattractive is what I'm trying to say to you. Really you should do something about this- SHE LOOKS LIKE A POOR MAN'S JACKIE KENNEDY. This is Floyd. Thanks. God bless." (I replay the message three times, save it, and commit it to memory. You don't want to forget someone like Floyd Clerkin.)
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Sunday, January 16, 2011
sitting in the middle of a hot fudge sundae
We have new kids in nursery.
I don't know if words have been invented yet that can fully express how much Paul and I adored our last bunch of young 'uns. If you're one of our Nursery parents, know this:
I. LOVE. YOUR. KID. FOR. REAL.
So extensive was my adoration that I found myself feeling a little concerned for the coming year. Could I love another group as much? Can your heart really grow that big? Because mine was already splitting and I had tried to fix it with those iron-on patches but it was hopeless.
And I tried to make time stop except it turns out that never works and the New Year came and now we have new nursery kids and I AM IN LOVE AGAIN.
I love how their little brains are trying to understand ideas like sitting in one place and I love how they will share pretend pancakes with you and how they sometimes lie about having poopy diapers and GOOD GRIEF THIS IS A MUSHY POST.
I'm just going to stop now. This is like sitting in the middle of a hot fudge sundae.
Sticky.
I don't know if words have been invented yet that can fully express how much Paul and I adored our last bunch of young 'uns. If you're one of our Nursery parents, know this:
I. LOVE. YOUR. KID. FOR. REAL.
So extensive was my adoration that I found myself feeling a little concerned for the coming year. Could I love another group as much? Can your heart really grow that big? Because mine was already splitting and I had tried to fix it with those iron-on patches but it was hopeless.
And I tried to make time stop except it turns out that never works and the New Year came and now we have new nursery kids and I AM IN LOVE AGAIN.
I love how their little brains are trying to understand ideas like sitting in one place and I love how they will share pretend pancakes with you and how they sometimes lie about having poopy diapers and GOOD GRIEF THIS IS A MUSHY POST.
I'm just going to stop now. This is like sitting in the middle of a hot fudge sundae.
Sticky.
Thursday, January 13, 2011
monday night study group
Right before finals, I hosted a study group.
It was for my sociology class. Evaluation of Evidence. It's the class Columbia recommends for non-math majors. Which would be me. (I am extremely non-mathy.) Before you register for classes they have you take this placement exam. It's not supposed to be a big deal, but when I was taking the test and making blind guesses and desperate attempts at recalling theorems I'm pretty sure there was some smarty-pants Columbia mucky-muck wearing elbow patches standing behind me pointing and laughing.
So I took Evaluation of Evidence. Which, as far as I'm concerned, ranks as significantly less difficult than rocket science and a bit more challenging than I was anticipating.
Hosting a study group just made sense. It was clear that I had no idea what I was talking about, so why not have some people over who did?
I went to Frank's and picked up five gallons of Diet Coke, two economy size bags of Super Puffed Cheez Doodles, and put in an order for a couple extra large pepperoni pies.
They arrive together: Jordana, Michael, and Remy. Jordana has a tangle of curly brown fizz above ping-pong ball bugged out brown eyes. She's covered in freckles and when she smiles she tilts her head to the side.
Michael is charming, pudgy and balding, with heavy black frames sitting on a hooked nose. He wears bow-ties and sweater vests and talks a lot about his cat named Blanche Devereaux.
Remy is barely five feet tall, all bony edges, with long and straight straw hair and blue eyes that crowd her nose. She hugs her laptop to her chest and her lips attempt to cover her braces.
We crowd in the kitchen and fill our plates, then move to the living room and pull out notebooks. Remy opens her laptop, and begins to beat the tar out of her keyboard.
"I'd like to focus on Weber's Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of Capitalism" Remy says, pulling a book from her purse.
"We should all write romance novels over the break," Michael says, "and then we can all get together and share them. Like a little writers group or something."
Jordana is giggling at her i-phone. "It's my high school fencing team. They're playing in the finals for like the FIRST TIME EVER."
"I don't know that I want to write a romance novel; all the same, you're quite a visionary." And then Michael and I proceed to debate whether or not Monsoon Wedding is a Bollywood film.
Remy's nose pokes up above her laptop. "I think Weber's use of Ben Franklin as an example of religion and work ethic combining is particularly effective."
"THEY'RE WINNING! MY HIGH SCHOOL FENCING TEAM IS WINNING! I'm texting Brittany."
"Esmerelda's bosom heaved at the sight of Weber's strong and muscled arms."
"Monsoon Wedding is totally not a Bollywood film. There's like no singing at all."
I got a B in the class.
It was for my sociology class. Evaluation of Evidence. It's the class Columbia recommends for non-math majors. Which would be me. (I am extremely non-mathy.) Before you register for classes they have you take this placement exam. It's not supposed to be a big deal, but when I was taking the test and making blind guesses and desperate attempts at recalling theorems I'm pretty sure there was some smarty-pants Columbia mucky-muck wearing elbow patches standing behind me pointing and laughing.
So I took Evaluation of Evidence. Which, as far as I'm concerned, ranks as significantly less difficult than rocket science and a bit more challenging than I was anticipating.
Hosting a study group just made sense. It was clear that I had no idea what I was talking about, so why not have some people over who did?
I went to Frank's and picked up five gallons of Diet Coke, two economy size bags of Super Puffed Cheez Doodles, and put in an order for a couple extra large pepperoni pies.
They arrive together: Jordana, Michael, and Remy. Jordana has a tangle of curly brown fizz above ping-pong ball bugged out brown eyes. She's covered in freckles and when she smiles she tilts her head to the side.
Michael is charming, pudgy and balding, with heavy black frames sitting on a hooked nose. He wears bow-ties and sweater vests and talks a lot about his cat named Blanche Devereaux.
Remy is barely five feet tall, all bony edges, with long and straight straw hair and blue eyes that crowd her nose. She hugs her laptop to her chest and her lips attempt to cover her braces.
We crowd in the kitchen and fill our plates, then move to the living room and pull out notebooks. Remy opens her laptop, and begins to beat the tar out of her keyboard.
"I'd like to focus on Weber's Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of Capitalism" Remy says, pulling a book from her purse.
"We should all write romance novels over the break," Michael says, "and then we can all get together and share them. Like a little writers group or something."
Jordana is giggling at her i-phone. "It's my high school fencing team. They're playing in the finals for like the FIRST TIME EVER."
"I don't know that I want to write a romance novel; all the same, you're quite a visionary." And then Michael and I proceed to debate whether or not Monsoon Wedding is a Bollywood film.
Remy's nose pokes up above her laptop. "I think Weber's use of Ben Franklin as an example of religion and work ethic combining is particularly effective."
"THEY'RE WINNING! MY HIGH SCHOOL FENCING TEAM IS WINNING! I'm texting Brittany."
"Esmerelda's bosom heaved at the sight of Weber's strong and muscled arms."
"Monsoon Wedding is totally not a Bollywood film. There's like no singing at all."
I got a B in the class.
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
winter break
I'm on winter break right now.
As I type, I am in my pajamas and Gilly is sitting on my lap, napping. Sissy is curled up on the ottoman and her whiskers are twitching, which probably means she's dreaming about soft food, or chasing her catnip filled toy mouse.
I like this winter break thing. For the last three months, I rushed from school to work and from work to home and I can count on one hand the number of times I cooked something that didn't come from a blue box.
I kind of overestimated my multitasking abilities last semester. I was all "sure, I can work part time and go to school and be a wife and get all A's and stuff. No problem." But know what? When you're not eighteen any more, sometimes your body is all like "Nope. You actually can't do that. Sorry." And then you get your first B and it kind of stinks but you get over it.
My stomach is gurgling at me. Time for lunch now.
As I type, I am in my pajamas and Gilly is sitting on my lap, napping. Sissy is curled up on the ottoman and her whiskers are twitching, which probably means she's dreaming about soft food, or chasing her catnip filled toy mouse.
I like this winter break thing. For the last three months, I rushed from school to work and from work to home and I can count on one hand the number of times I cooked something that didn't come from a blue box.
I kind of overestimated my multitasking abilities last semester. I was all "sure, I can work part time and go to school and be a wife and get all A's and stuff. No problem." But know what? When you're not eighteen any more, sometimes your body is all like "Nope. You actually can't do that. Sorry." And then you get your first B and it kind of stinks but you get over it.
My stomach is gurgling at me. Time for lunch now.
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