the queen of backhanded compliments

Client: You look different today.

Me: Oh?

Client: Are those different glasses?

Me: Yes.

Client: Huh. Yeah, different glasses.

Me: Yep, I switch them up every once in a while.

Client. Good. With these you look less like Harry Potter.

Me: Oh....right.


Now. There are things to say. First, Client Who Shall Remain Nameless, thank you for liking my current glasses. Second, maybe I WANT to look like Harry Potter. And third, maybe I DO look like Harry Potter. Except for fourth, somehow I still feel like chucking my Tropical Hurricane smoothie with soy protein all over your Lululemon sweatshirt. Fifth, I apologize. That was unprofessional. And hypothetically wasteful.

the title of my last post was stupid

It was, really. The title should have been "this is the part where I thank my lucky stars for what just happened because I was pretty darn sure I was getting a B and so bragging is out of the question". If you read the previous title and experienced a sudden desire to reach through my computer screen and punch my nose, thanks for refraining.

this is the part where i brag shamelessly

I GOT AN A- IN ASIAN STUDIES.

BOOYEAH.

I was going to say that I soundly kicked Asian Studies' bottom, but the minus part of my grade would seem to contradict that statement. Perhaps I can say that I engaged Asian Studies in a vigorous but not quite deadly fight in which I was able to inflict some minor but still rather embarrassing injuries.

Whatever. I'll take it.

i blame asian studies

I just took my last final.

That means I'm free. Free from the clutches of a semester from Hades. The underworld. "H" "E" double hockey sticks. New York in mid-July.

I blame Asian Studies.

First, the Chinese have been around for like forever, and because of their being around for like forever, all textbooks about their history, art and literature weigh approximately ten pounds each. So I'm pretty sure that my right shoulder is where my ear should be.

Second, I apparently have no ear for Chinese pronunciation. And my teacher didn't lecture with slides, so every time she'd say the name of a dynasty, or province, or emperor, I'd have to play matching games with my textbook to figure out what she just said. My notebook is filled with scribblings like "Shun-ze? Ten-yi? Cheeyeng-ky-shek?" All with question marks. As I reviewed my notes for the final, I found one page where, right in the middle of a sentence, I wrote "I have no idea what she just said".

Third, remember how my teacher didn't lecture with slides? Well, that doesn't mean she didn't use slides. At the beginning of every lecture, she'd turn off the lights, and show us a picture, of an emperor, or some ancient Chinese map, and then she's leave the lights off for the rest of the lecture. So, I would sit, in the dark, eyes inches off my notebook, scribbling phonetic attempts at a completely foreign language while trying to not fall asleep.

I'm just realizing this sounds a little bitter. Do I sound bitter? I might be coming off the sugar. Last night I ate somewhere in the neighborhood of ten pounds of jolly ranchers, starbursts, half a can of reddi-whip, pop-chips and drank like two gallons of diet dr. pepper, and I might have forgotten to keep the cycle going today. I love school. I love it. Every time I set foot on that campus I fall in love all over again.

It's just that I'm so pleased to have my brain back for the summer. I really missed it.

three messages

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.)

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.

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.