"'Well, to make a long story short... ' 'Too late.'"
When I was 11 or so, I read a bunch of Christopher Pike books (at least, I think that was the author), which were sort of R.L. Stein-y in that horror-for-young-adults, written-about-high-school-students genre. Having the overactive imagination that I do, I get scared easily, and being as impressionable as I was (am?), I spent several nights not sleeping as a result of the fear. I also remember a lot of the details from the books – one of which started with this chick getting murdered as she was scuba diving when this guy cut her weight belt and she ascended far enough and fast enough that her lungs popped, or something. Whatever it was, she died. I also vaguely recall the same book involving someone who had been poisoned, which resulted in kidney failure and then a whole bunch of conversations taking place during dialysis, but that could have been a different one… frankly, the memory of the cheesy horror is all just mushed into one big Tale from the Crypt.
My point: I’ve been scared of scuba diving ever since. The idea of being in a situation where if something went wrong you wouldn’t be able to do anything about it and you’d die just scared me. Similarly, as much of a star geek as I am, I don’t think I’d want to go into space, either. Dude, something goes wrong and you’re screwed... Point is, the idea of scuba diving has long been one big phobia for me. Which, of course, means I am obligated to conquer said fear and actually do it. Ever since my parents and I had identified the actual location of our vacation, I’d been planning on diving, and today? Whipped that fear – whipped it good.
Took this class first, at which point I decided that I didn’t actually want to go in the ocean, because did you know that you have to breathe through your mouth? I *never* breathe through my mouth, and ever since I had a boyfriend who pointed out how stupid people look just sitting there breathing through their mouths and how his children would be taught to *not* be mouth-breathers, I’ve even become a bit bothered whenever I’m forced to watch a mouth-breather. And since scuba diving requires mouth-breathing, it honestly took me 15 minutes of inhaling plastic and pool water before I figured out how to use the “reh-u-lador.” Fortunately, though, our cute little pocket-sized instructor Guillermo was uber-patient, I got the hang of it, and we headed out to do a shallow dive along this reef (supposedly second best in the world, after Australia’s). It was predictably fabulous, and I loved it, and I’m pretty much ready to finish certification and become a scuba bum (or is it a dive bum? I don’t know the terminology) if I could figure out a way to do it while, you know, still finishing grad school. I hate that some of the best hobbies are expensive.
Anyway, so we got a video of us and a few of the things we saw (anemones, lobsters, eels, huge schools of fish, etc) so if I can figure out how to post just a little clip of it, I’ll share the hideousness that is me in a wet suit. I know it’s hard to imagine that I could ever be anything other than completely gorgeous, but it seems that in my case, “wet suit” is synonymous with “ugly stick.”
Also, did I mention that it’s ridiculously warm where I am, and ridiculously cold where you are (Paris, NYC, etc)?
"'Oops! Lost a shoe!' 'Don't need shoes here. Everything is soft and fuzzy.'"
I realize that I haven’t posted anything in a long time. I kept meaning to write something, but I was busy getting ready to go back to the States, and then when I got there, I was busy with people and things and stuff, which means that the first time I’m finding both the time and inclination is occurring on my vacation, in Mexico. Where it’s in the 80s (Fahrenheit, obviously) and beautiful. BEAUTIFUL. Today I spent something like 7 hours stretched out (and slathered in sunscreen) on a lounge chair in front of a beachside pool. Wherever you are as you read this, take a moment to think about how icky-cold it is where you are and then think about how incredibly lovely it is where I am.
Of course, I mostly have stuff to catch up on, which means that we’re going to talk about the cold for a little while. First, we have several pictures of my last night in Paris (the 17th – apologies for the delay, sort of), when I went to Galeries Lafayette and took pictures of the windows, then to the Champs for pictures of the lights, and finally my own mairie, although the lights were off, so I’m not subjecting you those pictures. First, we have what I thought all the windows would be like: freaky fashion. Please note the large creepy leg and paw. Then I happened upon the Anne-Geddes-on-acid window, which clued me into the actual nature of the Christmas windows at the Galeries. Not half as good as Marshall Field’s (I still think the whale from the Pinocchio windows was terribly clever), but enjoyable in an odd sort of way.
So, first the faux-Geddes. Then, we have the picture posted sans link, so as to get your opinions on what these things actually are. Cotton balls with legs? Extras from the Huggabunch Movie that went the way of the Jitterbug? Opinions, please. After the Creatures there was a Canadian window, with moose in plaid shirts in a log cabin, with a couple of bears in overalls outside doing manual labor. My picture of that one didn’t turn out as well, but I promise – whatever you’re imagining is most likely accurately lame. My picture of the Champs-Elysees, though, turned out very well, though, so please, enjoy that, especially since it was so cold that night that my fingers were pretty much numb. The 9 was even running a bit off, so, you know, serious hardship for these. Ha.
Anyway, that’s my belated post, and as I had best finish up before this sorry excuse for wifi does, I’d just like to mention that while I’m in a lovely warm paradise, I’m also one of the three whitest (“butt-white” I’d say, but since my mother thinks that’s a terribly rude phrase, I won’t) people around for miles. If I manage to take the edge of the light-reflecting whiteness of my skin, I will consider this to have been a very successful vacation.
"Bart, with $10,000 we'd be millionaires! We could buy all kinds of useful things, like... love!"
Most of the time, I don't feel like I'm in grad school, especially when I read blog posts like this one of Miss Hass's. I have class pretty sporadically, I spend more time teaching English to rambunctious high schoolers than I do researching, and I get more sleep than I probably should. Today at my last class for the next 4 weeks, I actually *felt* like a grad student. My seminar consisted of a doctoral student giving us an historiography of the patron-client relationship during the Old Regime for an hour and a half. Mostly boring, save a couple of things. First, he mentioned Colbert (Jean-Baptiste) a couple of times, which made me think of the Colbert Report, so that wasn't so bad.
And secondly, a tower of a French early modernist is at my school, and he was at the seminar (sitting right next to me; kind of fun reading his notes) so when the student mentioned his books, he interrupted and corrected but in a funny way. The seminar ended with him just talking for 15 minutes or so, and that was cool. As much as I enjoyed the history department at the BYU (say what you want about the school, but the faculty, in my experience, was fabulous) we didn't so much have famous historians who defined their fields, and I dig getting that here. (I also dig the near-constant invoking of the name of Derrida, who was easily the most famous professor we've ever had. It's not like we're talking about deconstruction or even philosophy, but for some reason, people just happen to bring him up. A lot.)
Afterward, I went out with my advisor, a few of the students, and a couple of profs who'd all been at the seminar. We're sitting there at the cafe talking, and we start making these jokes about Louis XV marrying off his daughters (or rather, the fact that most didn't marry) and, oh, the lack of Merovingian primary sources, and other stuff that's incredibly boring to anyone who is normal. Between making jokes that weren't the slightest bit funny to the .02% of the population who could get them and peering over the shoulder of eminent historians, I actually felt like I am what I am. Nifty.
In other nerdly news, was poking around craigslist earlier, and found this listing, advertising the sale of this chateau. I'm pretty sure my life would be perfect if I could have that for my house, and really, 1.7 mil isn't that much. Would anyone like to ensure I love you forever? Christmas is a perfect time for the perfect gift.
"With a warning label this big, you know it has to be fun."
(Seriously, though, a warning: this might be more personal than you want to read.)
I probably bore you all with a retelling of my dreams more often than any blogger should, but sometimes you just gotta share, especially when you have the ultra-vivid dreams I have (and always remember). So this dream last night... I was living in the apartment in ProvOrem from a few years ago, where I was living when I started ye olde blog back up again. This particular detail is really only important because in that January or February, I had a tonsillectomy that knocked me out, and Kandee the Shorter Roommate was really great about taking care of me. A couple of months later, she got an, um, augmentation (I should say that while she was pretty open about it pre-surgery, I don't know for sure that it's something she talks about, but her pseudonym would be as useful in finding her as Marky Mark's is so I'm pretty sure her anonymity is protected if she prefers keeping the new C-cups on the down-low.) and so I took care of her, too.
Anyway, so in my dream, I was having non-cosmetic surgery on the rack for some unclear, health-based reason, something relatively minor but still requiring general anesthesia. Kandee talked to the surgeon without my involvement and got him to offer to give me implants - for free - since I would already be in surgery. For some insane reason I agreed to it (because, I guess, what's a better deal than free dollars?) and when I woke up from surgery? Hopelessly lopsided.
Perhaps this is a result of having a temporary interest in the early episodes of Dr. 90210 and the freakishness of Dr. Robert Rey circa the Time O' Surgeries, but my dream even involved an exact measurement of the lopsidedness - the left implant was 110 CCs, whereas the right was 150 CCs. I don't really know how big that would actually be (although I'm sure Dr. Rey would be telling me to triple it), but in my dream, it made me huge (probably because I'm not small to begin with) and, again, LOPSIDED. I tried to function normally, but I couldn't stop obsessing about my front-and-center problem. I was trying to figure out how to get the implants out, wondering if surgery would really be necessary, because the result was so plastic-feeling that just ripping them out didn't seem like that bad of an option. Plus, when I tried to lie on my back, I actually whacked myself in the face with the right one and was kinda suffocated a bit. (Does anyone know if a 40-CC difference would be all that noticeable?) Kandee once again took care of me post-surgery, but you need more than a roommate's help when your new saline bust is smothering you.
My alarm, of course, went off before the problem was resolved, so I woke up thinking that I still had the lopsided things (highly relieved to find that I wasn't actually Uneven Dolly Parton Jr.), and I've actually spent all day still a little freaked out. I swear, if tonight's dreams involve lopsided-faux-bosom-induced asphyxia (or even faux bosoms at all), I think I'm just gonna stop sleeping for a couple of days.
"The broccoli had gone. But the hurt remained."
Spent my evening baking roughly three thousand snickerdoodles and watching Nigella Express on TVCatchup which means that the dearth-of-interesting-blogging trend has continued. Apologies, and promises of impending less-boring posts.
"You let Pizzazz loose... WITH A LASER?"
You know what's better than a drinking game when you don't drink and you need to work out because you're going to be spending New Year's on a beach and you're pudgy but you're feeling too lethargic to really work out? Watching the cheesiness that is Jem and the Holograms and doing crunches or tricep dips or something similar during every song. As there are several cheesy songs per 20-minute episode, it actually makes for a relatively productive evening.
"Well, I wouldn't argue that it wasn't a no-holds-barred, adrenaline-fueled thrill ride. But, there is no way you can perpetrate that amount ofcarnage and mayhem and not incur a considerable amount of paperwork." As of today, I have officially registered in my classes, am officially a student at my school, and have official laminated proof that I'm a legal resident of this lovely country. As of today, I also have a renewed abhorrence for the bureaucracy of this lovely country (make me go to three different places to get my carte de sejour grumble grumble). On the bright side, I was only barely groped yesterday before I was pronounced clean.
"I've seen the waters that make your eyes shine, now I'm shining too."
Marky Mark just sent me this by Landon Pigg. I am suddenly head-over-heels in *love* with this song, and Marky sending it to me is just one more reason that Marky is fabulous.
Also, tomorrow I have my French Ellis Island appointment and I'm already a bit nervous. Call me crazy, but I just don't enjoy feeling violated (again) by indifferent medical workers just to prove I don't have TB. I'm not consumptive, I promise - now hands off the twins.
"In Chicago, a man who was having a heart attack's life was saved when his dog brought him a phone so he could call for help.We should point out however, that for every one of these heart warming animal stories, 100,000 people die while their dogs sit and look at them like morons." For your enjoyment this evening: a weekend update for you, but more Dennis-Miller-y than Tina Fey so for that I'm sorry.
Friday night: A dance at Nogent. When I'd first heard about it I thought it sounded fun because it was sorta formal, and I was definitely down for wearing this fabulous black empire-waist silk dress I bought this summer for next to nothing. When I realized that none of the people I normally talk to at things like this would be there, though, I thought about not going. Eric encouraged me to be more social. and it gave me a reason to do my hair all fancy-like, so I went, after deciding that I'd do whatever I wanted rather than what I felt obligated to - dancing instead of talking if I felt like it, etc - and so with that and the getting to know people better, it didn't suck. The whole tecktonik thing still makes me laugh, though. There are some people who don't look apoplectic doing it (watch this or this: kinda retarded-looking, but it should give the uninitiated an idea of tecktonik) but mostly, they all just make me think of Tyres from Spaced:
I believe this is the part where I shake my cane and say something about "kids these days." Also, Tyres O'Flaherty makes me laugh.
Saturday: it was my dad's and my little sister's birthday, so: happy birthday, my lovely little sister. Spent my morning cleaning and my afternoon at the library, where I was told for the third time that I have to make a special request for this manuscript, which I've already done - twice. Honestly, WHY must everything be so stinking hard? I ran into my advisor's other student, this really cool German chick, who is apparently researching 7 days a week. The fact that I'm not - and that I have a job taking up a lot of my time - is making me feel really guilty. This guilt may have been the basis for the beginnings of a huge family tree now hanging on my wall along with scraps of bibliographies; I have *got* to get my research organized. And to, um, you know - do it at all.
After closing down the BN, I went to the Champs to meet a friend for a movie, but she'd bailed so I ended up seeing Lions et Agneaux by myself. Pathetically but predictably, I cried. Again. I actually had to fight tears the whole way home, sitting there on the metro and listening to Buffalo Springfield. I think this might be based on my lack of crying for months, now. You really need a good cry every so often, and I haven't cried in so long that my body is letting out tears at the slightest provocation, maybe. I suspect once I freak out about my slacking, the lack of crying jags will no longer be an issue.
Sunday: church, after which I stayed around for tithing settlement - left an hour and a half later than I normally do. It was good, what with the ward-family-bonding. The EQ's president went out of his way to make sure I'm okay, and asked about six times if there was anything I needed. I eventually asked for a ward list just so that there was something he could do for me - and you know, it was really nice to feel taken care of. Oh - plus, I spent a lot of time talking to Vicky, the younger brother of the guy who, with his wife, came to dinner last August with my family. Vicky also has the distinction of being one of the few people whose tecktonik moves are actually kinda cool.
Interestingly, I had my first long-term encounter with a Crazy Lady at church. Growing up in the family I did, we were always taking people in, and the craziness? Hoo-boy, the stories I could tell. I won't (cuz that wouldn't be nice), but let's just say that my sister and I spent more time screening calls than we probably should have, because sometimes we just got sick of our parents being monopolized by the crazies (at least, that's how I felt). It was odd to find myself offering to help one such Crazy Lady (and in French, no less) but maybe that sort of thing really is in one's genes.
And finally, I have spent the rest of today doing nothing, and doing it alone. My phone is off most of the time these days, and I'm fine with it. Apparently, my need for people is completely satisfied without spending time one-on-one, or perhaps chatting with friends back in the US (like when the Yalie asks me to be one of her bridesmaids!) is enough emotional connection. Of course, let's hope I don't have a heart attack anytime soon - at least, not until I get a dog.
Of course, I mostly have stuff to catch up on, which means that we’re going to talk about the cold for a little while. First, we have several pictures of my last night in Paris (the 17th – apologies for the delay, sort of), when I went to Galeries Lafayette and took pictures of the windows, then to the Champs for pictures of the lights, and finally my own mairie, although the lights were off, so I’m not subjecting you those pictures. First, we have what I thought all the windows would be like: freaky fashion. Please note the large creepy leg and paw. Then I happened upon the Anne-Geddes-on-acid window, which clued me into the actual nature of the Christmas windows at the Galeries. Not half as good as Marshall Field’s (I still think the whale from the Pinocchio windows was terribly clever), but enjoyable in an odd sort of way. 