Dear neighbor of mine,

Good for you and your unabashed love for Kenny G. It certainly is brave of you to play it loudly enough so that all of us here can hear his saxaphone stylings and thus know that you are unafraid to announce to all that you have crappy taste in music and do not care who knows.
I applaud your courage.

But please, please, please turn that fucking shit down before I am forced to shove some sort of legume in my ears to block it out.


-Your fairly homicidal Somerville resident


The Geneva Convention should have added in a Kenny G clause. Really. Because I am about to find the Kenny G offender in a minute and rip out his intestines. With my teeth.

*headdesk*

Mood (kind of): amused

Really, I'm not completely crazy. I've done some silly things in my life, but nothing incredibly stupid. Sure, I've gotten my share of stitches in strange places, broken bones, and have had various kinds of poisoning scares.

My doctor has stopped asking, "how on earth did you do this?"

But I'm not a moron. I'm just...whimiscal. I've always had a bit of a daredevil streak, and I've always loved to prove people wrong when they say, "you can't do that." I don't know why I do. Something inspires an impulse, and the next thing I know, I'm doing it. Then after it's over, I find myself thinking, 'wow, I shouldn't have done that.' I get scared *after* I've leapt.

Take the last time I went sprinting on a half-rotted tree that was precariously balanced a little less than 8 feet over a large stream. I *ran* across it. After I had crossed, I got a case of the heebie-jeebies.

I've mellowed with age, though. I'm trying out a new personal campaign that I like to call, "Think First." I'm trying to think a little more before I speak, and before I rush off to some silly stunt that could get me in trouble.

Apparently though, those nearest to me are of little faith.

Over AIM, I sent M an article about a student who had swallowed liquid nitrogen as a kind of stunt (the article is here).
The following conversation ensued:

----------
M: Hilarity ensued.
Me: kinda funny, eh?
M: Funny except I can totally see you doing that.
Me: I won't, now! (yes, this was kind of a joke. I've never been inspired to consume liquid nitrogen.)
M: Um.
Well, I'm glad you read the article.
Feel like you dodged a bullet.
Me: Nitogen-ingestion averted
M: You need to carry a list around with you:
"1. NEVER swallow liquid nitrogen.
2. NEVER eat food that's been sitting in a warm oven for a couple days.
3. NEVER smoke in bed...."

Me: NEVER smoke in the car, (look back a few entries and you'll find that this is how I last set my car on fire)
NEVER put cds in the microwave,
NEVER climb into an empty tractor trailer truck that's not yours and honk the horn to see what happens.

M: Why not the last one?
Me: because then a very angry truck driver will get even more annoyed.
-----------

"Think First." It's my new motto. Really. I just hope I can stick to it.

Mood (kind of): amused
Tunes: Cooling-Tori Amos-Spark UK Limited Ed. Single

A week ago, as I sat at my computer, I glanced down to find an ant skittering around the coffee table. I grabbed my sandal, and took a whack at him. He slithered away. Three times I tried to kill him, and three times he sucessfully evaded getting splattered by my size nines. At this point, I decided to let him live. I dubbed him Squishy, and went back to my work.
Now, if Squishy was a polite ant, he would have quietly gone about his business - picked at a few crumbs, lift something that was twenty times his body weight to show off, polish his exoskeleton, and go.
But Squishy was a bad houseguest. Why? He apparently decided my flat was perfect for a Hymenoptera Formicidae party.

"All y'all with six legs say 'ho!'"

Squishy invited all his buddies to my place. And now the apartment is infested with ants. Yecccch. Ants don't freak me out in the way that cockroaches do, but all the same, it is disconcerting to look down and notice a small, black semi-colon crawling up my the bare skin of my leg. I usually brush them off. If they're not off me by the third swipe though, I start to squeak. In a bad way.

I've set up ant traps, along with scrubbing every surface in the living room enough to risk marring the finish. The last ant that came near the traps, seemed to glance at the little black hexagon, and shoot me a withering look that clearly said, "yeah right, Terminex-Girl. I ain't getting near that thing. Now bring me a picnic basket, ho."
Well, I can only assume that's the look that Squishy's colony-mate gave me. I wasn't about to get close enough to stare into those compound eyes.
But essentially, the ants seem to love running amok everywhere in my apartment except near the traps.
I guess I'm just thankful that it's not a roach infestation. Because then, I would probably lose my shit and firebomb the place. The roaches would probably survive the explosion, anyway.

I try to find the small things I can laugh at. (Excuse the misplaced preposition.) Usually, I wind up providing my own entertainment. Take tonight, for example; yet another Gwen-in-the-car incident.

As I was driving this evening, my nose started to itch. The bothersome itch was just inside my nose, and all the nasal wrinkling in the world wasn't working. I stuck my finger just inside - it definitely didn't count as a nose picking - just a slight scratch.

I hit a pothole. The jarring motion sent my finger straight up my nose, and my fingernail gouged itself into the delicate tissue.

I had given myself a nosebleed.

Ok, I thought. I can handle a bloody nose whilst operating a motor vehicle. I glanced around the car's interior for Kleenex. The only tissue I could find was stuck together from my last cold, and charred around the edges from the last time I set my car on fire. A no-go on the hankerchief. I decided to make do.

Without further ceremony, I stuck my finger back up my nose, and left it pressed tightly to my septum. Pressure on the wound, and all.

I kept my finger up my nose for three miles, until the bleeding slowed and stopped. The best part was stopping at a red light and getting stares from the guys in the car next to me. I just waved with my free hand.

Be kind, rewind:
Last weekend, I went with Matthias, John, and Cordelia to see Troy. While waiting for the movie to begin, I realized the popcorn I was munching was making me thirsty. The movie was due to begin soon, so instead of wandering all the way out to the lobby, I bought a 20 oz bottle of Pepsi from the vending machine outside the theater door. It cost an amazing $3.50, which I was not happy to pay. However, I was in a hurry, so I grudgingly fed the machine my money, and hustled back to my seat just before the previews began.


Fast forward to last night:
I hate driving. Really, I do. It's mostly because the streets in Boston suck, as do the drivers. But visiting my folks afforded me the chance to set out on the interstate, which was actually pleasant. I had the iPod plugged into the cassette player, the windows rolled down, and enjoyed the fresh air. I lit a clove cigarette, and watched the smoke trail out the window as the BMWs and Ford Explorers passed me by in the fast lane.
I inhaled the breeze coming off the highway. I breathed in again, then wrinkled my nose. Something was wrong. Something was burning.

Shit! I thought. My car is on fire! A dark panic wended its way through my body. My legs began shaking.
There is nothing more terrifying than knowing that your car is on fire while you're on the highway. You can't really pull over. The part of me that was panicking was screaming to pull over and stop in the breakdown lane. But my sensible side whispered back that it was too dangerous. I decided to keep driving until I found the next exit.

To be fair, I had a feeling I knew what was burning. Had it been something near the gas tank, I would have just pulled into the breakdown lane and run from the car. But I was able to surmise that an ember from my clove must have blown back into the car when I ashed out the window. I knew this afforded me the time I needed to get off the road. It would take a while before the fire got out of control.

I pulled off at the next exit, which seemed to take forever. By now I could see thick plumes of smoke curling up from beneath my seat. My eyes and throat began to itch, and I coughed. My fear and panic choked me just as much as the smoke did. I mean, what else are you supposed to feel when you're in a car that's moving 60 miles per hour and is on fire?

I found a driveway, pulled in, and lept from the vehicle. I took two breaths to steady myself, and then began to asess the situation. There, beneath my seat, danced a small, cheery blaze. It was worse than I thought it would be.

"Shit-mother-fuck-nut-jesus-on-a-panda-taco-beast!" I exclaimed. When I am scared or annoyed, I get creative with my expletives. I frantically looked around the car to find something to put out the fire. I couldn't get my hand down there to beat it out. Suddenly, my eyes fell on my cup holder. There, cradled in the plastic, sat my extremely overpriced bottle of Pepsi from the movie theater. I grabbed it, opened it up, and doused the flames with the sugary stuff. A moment later, the fire was out, and all that was left was a patch of damp, sticky, charred upholstery.
Say what you will about price-gouging movie theaters. But that Pepsi was worth every damn cent. I don't think I would have been able to put out the fire without it.
The story ends here. I'm fine, the car is fine (though the upholstery is pretty damn ugly), and I believe one of my next purchases will be a small fire extinguisher for my trunk. And I don't think I'll be smoking cloves in the car very much, after seeing the effects of one errant ember.

Mood (kind of): relieved
Tunes: 85 - Rilo Kiley

My teaching gig in Lynn has come to its close. These days, I'm teaching in Somerville, which is much more convenient. A ten minute drive, as opposed to an hour.

My last day as a teacher in Lynn was eventful. I was not only giving my kids their final exam, but was also subbing for another teacher. I had to wander around to an unknown part of the school, convince the teachers there that I wasn't a lunatic out on a day pass bent on abducting the kids, and then bring said kids down to my own classroom so I could also give them their final exam at the same time.

I made a complete klutz of myself in front of a hot guy. It was absolutely classic.

Renee is another teacher in my program. Very attractive, Mexican man who has just finished his last year of med school. And a really nice guy, overall. Yes, I'm very taken, but hey, I can look (and drool a little), right?
I had stashed a huge box full of textbooks in his classroom, along with my messenger bag. I had just put them there while I went to collect the class for which I was subbing. I brought the kids down to my classroom, and then went to Renee's room to get my bag.
His kids had already begun their final exam. I tiptoed in, motioning to Renee that I would be quiet. I slung my messenger bag over my shoulder, and began a hasty retreat to my own room.
Quiet, it was not to be.
The box I had placed on the table apparently also rested on one of the straps of the messenger bag. When I walked away, I sent the entire box plummeting to the floor. Workbooks, papers, and extra pencils crashed to the ground with a loud thunk. I could feel my cheeks turning a livid shade of scarlet. The kids giggled, and Renee rushed over to help me pick up the mess.

Later, as Renee, Julie and I were exiting the building, I did it again. I was carrying that damn box full of junk, and it was pretty unwieldy. Renee glanced over at me and asked,
"Hey, are you ok with that box? I can carry it for you, if you want."
Bravely, I replied, "Oh, no thanks. I'm fine, I thi-"
Thunk
I walked face first into a wall. The timing was perfect.

Eh, it's not a big deal. I can laugh at myself, and yeah, it was funny enough to warrant wanting to share it here.

But the best part of the last day was, by far, the poem.
While my kids took their exam, I wandered around the classroom to gauge how they were doing, and also to put a stop to the inevitable talking that these miscreants were prone to do (I say 'miscreant' in a fond way). While wandering, I glanced at the bulletin board. It was full of the kids' work that the day teacher had tacked to the wall. One old Valentine's Day poem caught my eye. For certain, it was original. I loved it so much that I memorized it. It shows just how MTV-ed out kids these days are (oh, jeez, I sound like I'm eighty, instead of twenty-four).

Here is the poem in full. Keep in mind that it was drawn on a cut out of a red, paper heart:

Roses are red,
Violets are blue
Damn baby, you bangin'
I wanna holla at you


I saw the poem, and thought it was too good to keep to myself. I dragged Julie over to read it. And of course, I had to post it here. It was too good not to.

Tunes: nickel - stupid thing (how apt)

Today's work was trying. One of the teachers I carpool with (Julie) called and told me she was sick. This woman has been a godsend to me when I was feeling under the weather (she took my kids into her class), so I said no problem - I'd just combine both our classes and teach 'em all.

The kids were a little nuts. I almost had to physically separate Amadou and Christopher. They were on the verge of fisticuffs.
I explained what metaphors and similes are, and as an excercise, I told them to pick a celebrity and describe him or her using said literary devices. The class decided on Cameron Diaz. I wrote her name on the board, and told them to go nuts.
My favorite simile used to describe poor Cameron? "Her legs are hairy, like Bigfoot."
I wrote it down because hey, it worked.

Some of the stuff these kids say is just...well, it floors me. One kid was really excited because his dad was coming home. Coming home from where? Prison.
Mr. Costin told me that he perfers teaching middle school, because when he taught high schoolers, many kids came to class accompanied by the state police, wearing shackles each day. He told me one of his fourteen year olds had been convicted of attempted murder - he had stabbed some poor guy 17 times. I can't make shit like this up.


Oh, and one of my favorite anecdotes from class so far:
Julie and I were co-teaching class together (apparently it was behavioral problem day, so we decided to combine classes and have one of us teach while the other did damage control). Julie mentioned something about having grown up in the 60's and 70's.
Christopher piped up, "so, you say stuff, like, 'dude,' and 'sweet,' right?"
I sighed. "No Chris, that's my generation. I grew up in the 80's and mid-90's."
Julie pointed out, "my generation said stuff like, 'groovy.'"
Christopher shot out of his chair, puffed out his chest, and pointed an accusing finger at Julie. "Ms. B," he exclaimed. "I suspect you have tried (insert dramatic pause here) marijuana."
Julie and I looked at each other and burst out laughing. Neither one of us would touch that statement. Like I said before, I can't make this shit up.

The worst part of today was the drive home. I work in Lynn, and I live in Somerville. It's about a 45 minute commute. Normally, the drive home isn't so bad, barring 5 o'clock traffic. Today though, I accidentally took a wrong turn. I stayed on 1A South, instead of taking 16 West.
No problem, I figured. I'll just turn off when I can and backtrack - right?
Right.
There was no place for me to turn around. Suddenly, I realized I was at Logan Fucking Airport. The drive to the airport was fairly uneventful, if you don't count the occasional "What the shit is this?" outburst from me every five minutes or so.

The long road continued. I still couldn't turn around. Finally, I wound up at a toll booth. I didn't want to go through the toll booth; I just wanted to turn the fuck around. But in the end, I paid the three dollar toll (what the hell? three dollars?) and maneuvered my car onto Storrow Drive. Ugh. Trust me, when you want to be in Cambridge or Somerville, the last thing you want to see is the Citgo sign (you Bostonians know what I'm talking about). Finally, I found Mass Ave, which allowed me to cross the river. I made it home from there. The 45 minute trip took me about an hour and 20 minutes. Boston can be hell to navigate.

Mood (kind of): amused
Tunes: I Woke Up in a Car - Something Corporate

Last night I was driving near Central Square, and happened upon three men beating the shit out of some poor girl who looked to be about my age.
Of all the stupid, cowardly, sick, shitty things to do...
Yeah, it's really brave that when the poor girl is lying on the sidewalk, curled in the fetal position, you kick her. It show the rest of the world just how throbbingly enormous your dick really is.
I picked up my cell phone and dialed 911. I knew that I probably couldn't have stopped the fight without possibly getting hurt myself (besides, I'm about the same size as that girl was), but I figured an officer could. So I let the CAPD know what was going on.

In other news, G.W. Bush is curbing funding for my program - you know, the "No Child Left Behind" program. I'd like to know where he's going to squeeze this extra cash from - they didn't even have enough money to train us teachers properly, the pay is shit, and it's hard enough to get extra books. So uh, yeah - where exactly is Bush cutting money? Let me guess - is that money going to fund the "conflict" in Iraq?

So essentially, the "No Child Left Behind" Program is going to become something more like, "No Child Left Behind - Except You.'

Mood (kind of): aggravated

Thanks to everyone for the birthday wishes. Turning 24, hitting the mid-twenties, was strange, but it's also wholly unremarkable, as everyone does it at some point or another.

In middle school, I was best friends with a girl named Bayley, though back then I called her Jessie. Time and distance separated us, and we drifted apart. However, she managed to track me down, which was a nice surprise. I voluntarily cut off contact with a lot of folks from school, but I regretted losing touch with Bayley. So it was nice to hear from her.

She stumbled across my journal, and decided to create her own. Cool. So far, I've enjoyed reading it. However, in her latest entry, she described a recent encounter with a pay phone and the Patriot Act. I'm not good at paraphrasing, so I suggest you read it, here.

What I read left me incensed. Since when is it ok to tap public phones? When on earth did our psycho-as-fuck psuedo-president decide that placing Constitution-given rights in the garbage heap was cool to do?

We've come a long way from the Revolutionary War. This country was supposedly created to escape certain injustices and enjoy civil liberty. But 200+ years is a long time to hold that sense of purpose, and we've grown fat and apathetic; apathetic enough to allow a certain go-tard in office to slowly and systematically strip us of the rights that our forefathers struggled so hard and shed blood to attain.

I love my country, but I hate its leaders. I can't stand by the decisions made by a lunatic, John-Wayne-wannabe who started off the second Gulf War by saying, "let's roll." I can't abide by the ideals of a congress that bows down to the corporate machine.

Oh, I am just starting to ramble, so I'm going to stop.

But I am angry. And I think you should be, too.

Let me finish this one off with a quote from Martin Luther King, Jr. I think it's especially relevant today, whether you want to apply it toward the Patriot Act, gay marriage, whatever.

"Freedom is never voluntarily given by the oppressor; it must be demanded by the oppressed."

Mood (kind of): aggravated

Happy Birthday To Me!

I'm getting frustrated with the school where I teach.
First of all, my room doubles as the dentention room. Dentention lasts for ten minutes, but those ten minutes run into my class time. And today I got kicked out of my classroom all together, because the principal decided to hold his faculty meeting in there. At first, he asked me to combine my class with the other seventh grade session. I know I looked at him like he was insane. The other seventh grade class was totally full - plus half of those kids were um, highly distractable. I had to give one of my girls a diagnostic test, and that definitely was not the place to be.
Finally, I approached Rene, who only has two students. We split his room. But I felt bad, because my kids were pretty loud.

What really got me was the little chat I had with the principal before class started. A little background info:
I have one girl (who I will call Cassie) who is a bit of a behavior problem. She means well, but she's easily distracted and disrupts my class. Last Monday she came in with a second degree burn on her arm. She said she got it from a light bulb.
OK. Perhaps it really was just an accident, but I really felt I had to bring it up with the principal, just to let him know what was going on. If there was a small chance that Cassie got this burn elsewhere, my conscience demanded that I take some sort of action. I was also legally required to tell him.
I got to school early, and found the principal's office. Doug (the principal) was seated at his desk, shooting the breeze with several faculty members. I approached him.
"Hi," I began. "Can I talk to you in private for a minute?"
His reaction took me aback. He literally put his hands up in the air, and said, "I have NOTHING to do with this program." (Meaning, my after school teaching program.)
"Um, it's about one of your students," I shot back. I took him out into the hall, where I finally got him to listen to me. He said he would look into Cassie's situation.

I had several choice responses when Doug initially tried to blow me off, though I held my tongue. I wanted to ask him if he gave a rat's ass about his students. I wanted to tell him that if he really didn't care what I did with his kids on school property, he shouldn't be working in a school. I also felt like telling him that I highly doubted that he would have been so rude to any of the older teachers.

Apathy.

Cassie was particularly a problem in class today. In the middle of our reading session, she blurted out that her grandfather was in the hospital, getting "cleaned out." The other kids kind of laughed at this odd phrase, which made her incensed.
Once I got them to calm down, I realized that this could be a reason why Cassie was all over the place and acting out. So I asked her to stay after class.
Our session ended, and I motioned her over to me.
"Am I in trouble?" she asked.
"No," I said. "I wanted to ask you about your grandfather. Can you tell me what's going on?"
"He's in the hospital," she began. "He's addicted to alchohol. He's in the hospital for two weeks so they can clean him out."
ah ha.
"How are you feeling?" I inquired.
"Bad," she replied.
"I'll bet. And it looks like maybe your friends don't really know enough to be supportive."
"Yeah," she sighed.
I hesitated.
"Ok, look, Cassie. If you want to ever talk about it, I'll listen to you. If you feel like there are some things you need to get off your chest, you can talk to me, ok? I can stay after class."
"Thanks," she smiled.

I know I can't "save" her. I know that there are certain lines I can't cross. I have no desire to get involved in what looks to be like a very stressful, private family situation. But I do know that when you're 12 or 13 years old, and one of the people you're supposed to look up to has this kind of monkey on his back, it can be hard. But I am a trained counselor, so I know how to listen. And if listening will help ease what's going on with Cassie (and maybe even get her to calm down in class), I'll do it. In the end, I'm really just 75% teacher and 25% mentor, but I guess I'd actually like to utilize that 25% of my job. I figure that offering an ear for 15 minutes after class is ok.

I wonder if any of her day teachers have any idea.

Mood (kind of): sick

First off, a big thank you to all the well wishes and congratulations everyone gave for this new job.
So far, I love it. My class is pretty small, and the kids are insane but fun.
My first day though, I had a strange run-in with the middle school principal. It left me feeling slightly uncomfortable. It went something like this:

Doug = Principal Wilson
Me = who else?

Doug: So, do you go to school?
Me: Yep, I am wrapping things up at Tufts.
Doug: Oh! TUFTS! That's a very competitive school.
Me: Yeah, I guess so. It's been good to me. I've learned a lot.
Doug: (beginning to sound angry and worked up) My son applied to Tufts. He didn't get in.
Me: Oh, I'm sorry. Well, it's really a crap shoot, these days.
Doug: NO. He was top in his class and got 1540 on his SATs.
Me: Wow. Well, he certainly did well in high school.
Doug: Yeah, well he didn't get in because he was a white male from Boston. Where did you grow up?
Me: Right here in Boston.
Doug: Oh.

It was pretty obvious he was trying to find a reason why I got into Tufts when his son didn't. I'm sure if I had told him I grew up in Canada or something, he would have said that was why I got in (if your college days are long gone and you've forgotten, many schools look for students to come in from far away, to add more diversity to the campus. It can be harder to get into the more competitive schools that you live close to). I'm sure Doug wanted to say, "oh, she's a girl, and she lived out of state - THAT'S how she got in." He was looking for some comfort. Which I wouldn't have minded, had it not been at my expense.

Nope, sorry. I worked hard in high school. I did well on my SATs, I was active in extracurriculars...but honestly, who gives a shit? High school is over. The only reason why I even remember my SAT scores is so I can apply to places like the Princeton Review and Kaplan. And while which college you go to is important, it doesn't make or break you. It doesn't determine your self worth. Anyone who really believes that needs to take a good look at the real world.

To me, it just seems tacky to be telling a complete stranger your son's grades and SAT scores. And if you don't get into the college you want, get over it. I didn't get into Columbia, and I'm not complaining. Besides, I'm just here to make sure this guy's seventh graders pass the MCAS.

After that, I found my classroom, where a very sour-faced man was yelling at a bunch of kids. My room also happened to double as the place to hold detention before my class. The man introduced himself briefly as Mr. Whatever. He pointed over to a desk that was overflowing with papers.
"You can put your stuff there. Just do me a favor and put the papers in piles and get them organized. You can take the space once you're done."

Um. No.
First of all, I'm not this guy's secretary. I wasn't going to spend the few minutes I had before class cleaning up his mess when I needed to review my syllabus. So I compromised. I gathered everything in a giant pile and put it on the floor. Then I loaded up the desk with my own books and test materials.

Don't get me wrong. It wasn't that bad. The other adults at the school were great. The elementary school principal was a doll, and my coworkers from the PR were pretty cool. My kids were fun.

Really, the only bad part was having to try to convince my kids that they weren't stupid. It broke my heart. But hey, I've got a job to do. And if I can help them and maybe boost their confidence when this is all over, then at least I've made a difference.

In other news, North Carolina has had some bad weather lately. The local news station opened up it's web site and to allow businesses to report closings and published said status reports on televison. Hilarity ensued. You can catch an index of the screen shots here.
Oh yeah, and I have a nasty cold.

Mood (kind of): sick

I got hired by the Princeton Review.
It all happened quite quickly, actually.
I showed up, and had to teach my peers for five minutes about something non-academic. I chose fencing. I didn't want to hurt anyone, so I attacked the garbage can as part of my presentation.
After that, they gave us an exam to test our math and verbal skills. I'm not sure how I did on the math part (but I had to have done ok, since they hired me), but I got a perfect verbal score. Whee.

Then we were sent out into the hall, while we waited for our scores to come back. After, we were each called into the room by ourselves, and were told whether we were hired or not.

So...I am now a teacher. I'm actually not doing test prep like I thought I would, since I think most of those slots are full at the moment. Instead, I am part of the Supplemental Education Program. It's state funded; part of the "no child left behind" thingie that Bush has going. Essentially, I'm an after school teacher for a "failed school" in Lynn. Most of my students are low-income, and probably not doing too great in school. I'm there to teach them enough math and english language skills to make sure they are up to grade level.

This program only lasts for two months. After that, I'll probably wind up teaching SAT stuff to high schoolers. Or perhaps GRE prep.

Am I nervous? Well, yeah. Seventh graders can be fierce.
But hey, I'm a teacher. And that beats my last job any day.

Mood (kind of): working

I sat on the subway today, cramming for my exam, happily oblivious to the presence of the cranky commuters around me. Those 45 minutes on the T are usually the only "Gwen time" afforded to me in the day.
My studying came to a halt when the two passengers next to me disembarked from the train. A group of four or so small children, who had been sitting across from me, descended upon me with the fury that only children know.
The sight of an open space was too much. They broke free from their mother, and barrelled over to the seats next to me.
There wasn't enough room for the toddler. This didn't stop her, as she pushed me out of my seat and into the next one, which was occupied by a bag lady's parcels. There I was, trapped between various shopping and garbage bags and one very irate toddler who refused to listen to her mother's entreaties to leave poor me alone.
"Come over here," begged Mom.
"NOOOOO!" shouted her little hellspawn. She began flailing her arms and legs, knocking over my study materials and slamming her sneaker into my patella. I went to move over a little more, but she grabbed my leg and sunk her fingers into my shin.
The mother caught my attention.
"I'm sorry," she whispered. I shrugged.
"It's ok."

But you know, it really wasn't ok. I really needed to get that last minute cramming in. And I am sorry, but I don't like children very much (maybe one day if I ever have any of my own, god help me, I might change my mind, but for now I'm just not the maternal type). But what was I supposed to do? There was no way I was going to touch that kid and incur the wrath of her mother and other passengers (what I really wanted to do was punt her to the other side of the train, but yes, I exercised some modicum of self control). And what I wanted to say to Mom was, "get your filthy little crotch dropping off me and my stuff now."
Maybe I would have been in a better temper had I not been staring my future exam in the face and not been freaking out about it. But the circumstances dictated that it was a very tense T ride, and I did not get much cramming in. Sigh.

The exam itself was...ok. I think we as a class kind of fucked it up. We had to identify human bones, which wasn't a huge deal, but each bone was placed on top of a card that had the number that corresponded to our answer sheets. The bones were close together. By the time we all finished, we were all pretty sure that the bones had gotten rearranged. I mean, we all kept picking up and putting them down; there was no way that things didn't get confused. So if we fail, we at least all fail together. It would have been better if the professor had been there instead of the clueless proctor. But, eh.

In other news, I made five bucks by participating in some psychology survey. It will be buying my first beer of the evening.

Today was our weekly hour and a half spent in the forensics lab.
The lab was fairly simple. There were about 14 stations, and each one contained a box of bones, both animal and human. Each box was accompanied by a card with the problem to solve. Once we finished with one station, we rotated to the next.

A couple examples:

One box contained a moose skull and femur. The question was, "describe how these bones differ from human bones, aside from the obvious."

Another box contained unidentified animal and human remains. The problem was to separate the two (which can be surprisingly difficult - bear paws and human hands look eerily alike).

At the end of our lab, the professor told us to stay at our stations so we could present our problem to the rest of the class and explain how we came to our conclusions.

I looked down at the station I was working on. Just my luck, it was the hardest one in the room. Yup. I had an entire human skeleton in my hands. The problem set? Piece this entire skeleton together (all 200+ bones) and lay it out in the correct anatomical position.
I wasn't even done. I still had all the tarsals, metatarsals, calcaneous, etc. in the foot laying in front of me. The vertebrae were still scattered all over the table. Plus, I wasn't exactly positive where the atlas and axis were.

I just kept working while everyone else presented their problem sets.
Finally, I got it done and was able to start the discussion. But jeez, it was a pain in the ass. Next time I'm saving the easiest problem sets for last.

And holy god, I had no idea that (old) bones were so...greasy. I'm very glad that I was able to furnish myself with some gloves.

I'll be spending the next few days in the lab, piecing together dead remains, and brushing up for my osteology exam on Thursday. If any of you need me, I'll be the redhead lying face down in a pile of skulls and femurs.

Oooh, ooh, one last thing. I've been given permission to play with a Neandertal skeleton! Methinks I have found my thesis...

I recently posted this image to The Mirror Project.
It was accepted. Yay!

It's a small image, so I didn't bother to place it behind a cut. I do apologize though, if it slows you down at all.

So I am hitting the big 2-4 in two weeks.
As I get older, my birthdays become a little more bittersweet.

A day of celebration, but also a marker of loss. Every March 4th I think of the family out there that I never had. I wonder if they remember it's my birthday, and if they care.
Whatever. I'm not going to get all emotional about something I can't change. But yeah, the birthday thing always leaves me feeling a little cold and tense.

Seven Nations is performing at the Somerville Theater on March 11.

Who's coming with me?

I said, who's fucking coming with me?

March is going to be a kick ass month. Oh yeah, and I'm turning 24 in there somewhere, too.

I was sitting here in the computer lab, when Yatta came on my cd player (I had forgotten that I burned this onto my cd).
Surrounded by complete strangers, I started laughing softly to myself. I couldn't help it.
So now I'm one of those crazy women who bursts into laughter for no apparent reason - what can I say? I am very easily entertained.

Seriously, though. If you haven't seen the Yatta flash animation, just do yourself a favor and check it out.

In other news, why didn't I find out about Rilo Kiley before a couple months ago? As I continue to listen to their stuff, I just find myself liking it more and more. And besides, it's Jenny Lewis from The Wizard and Blake Sennett from Salute Your Shorts. Makes me want to break out the 'ol Nintendo every time I hear it.

Mood (kind of): amused
Tunes: The Execution of all Things - Rilo Kiley

A while ago, I had a conversation with Shaun about my nose. When I was about 5 years old, I broke it pretty badly. The result is that my nose is kind of crooked, and has a bump where a ski jump used to be. The cartilage got kind of messed up (these days I tell people I broke it in a hockey fight).
Here is how the conversation went, more or less.

Me: My grandmother once asked me if I ever wanted plastic surgery on my nose. I said no way. I mean, it's not exactly gorgeous, but what do I care about what other people think of my nose? I'm ok with it.

Him: Weird. Your nose isn't that bad. It's cute.

Me: Well, it is kind of fucked up.

Him: Lots of things can be cute and fucked up.

Me: Like Webster.


No, I have no idea where that one came from, either. Your guess is as good as mine.

About a week ago, I realized that I had a flat tire. This came at a particularly inopportune time, since I was due at work and I was also in the middle of the Porter Square parking lot with only three good wheels instead of four.
In the end, I gritted my teeth, swore a lot under my breath, and drove home with the flat, hazards burning. It was the longest 4 minute ride home I have ever experienced.

With my hectic ex-job schedule and beginning school again, I didn't really have time to take care of the tire. Since I took the subway everywhere, I figured it could wait.
And wait it did.
Yesterday, I attempted to fix it myself. I got out the jack, almost killed myself in the sleet, and made a mess. I had to shower again and leave this one up to the pros.
Today I called AAA. As I waited for the truck, I figured I could at least be helpful and whip out the 'ol spare tire.
The first thing I noticed was something that hadn't caught my attention the day before. Everything was in my trunk was soaked. Most of it was ruined, as well.
I should never have kept my sheet music back there. Most of it was too gone to save. I was at least able to stick some of the arias and a few guitar books in the front seat and hope they'd air out. But most of it was wrecked. And covered in mold.
The strange thing is that I had an old pair of boxer shorts back there, which had become drenched and then froze in some bizarre, twisted shape. They were more like the Boxers From Outer Space than the pajama bottoms I once knew.
I rested my head on the top of the trunk and took a good, hard look at its contents. Yep, a fine film of black mold covered just about everything. Even an old pair of boots.
I guess part of this is my own fault, for essentially keeping my entire life in my car (I am so glad I moved my nice sleeping bag out of the trunk - whew).
Have you ever played the old PC game, "The Oregon Trail?" This incident kind of reminded me of when my avatar's wagon would catch on fire and she'd lose a bunch of dried venison and flour. Only, my wagon got soaked and moldy and I lost sheet music, books and boots. (Side note: was it just me, or was part of the fun in "The Oregon Trail" trying to find creative ways for the wagon's inhabitants to die? Cholera, dysentery, etc, etc.) Anyway, If you never got a chance to play "The Oregon Trail" in school back in the 80's and early 90's, you probably won't get this little tangent and thus, you suck.
Moving on.
I finally unearthed enough contents of the trunk to peel away the (sopping) flooring. My spare donut sat in a small well beneath the upholstery.
Now. When I say "well," not only do I mean a round depression in the surface of the floor, but also a giant pool of water.
Upon closer examination, I realized that this little well full of water had frozen. My tire remained suspended in the ice like some strange piece of modern art. I stuck my fingers in the edges and pulled. The tire remained where it was.
Just a moment after I realized that I was now participating in Car Repair On Ice, the AAA cavalry blazed into the lot.
A man about my age jumped out of the truck, cables at the ready. When I somewhat apolegetically showed him my spare tire-cicle, he scratched his head.
"Well, looks like you have a slow leak," he began. "I can fill your tire, which will give you enough time to get your car to a gas station."
Wordlessly, I nodded, staring at the frozen donut, which silently mocked me from its icy bed.

I took my car to the gas station up the street. Let me add here, that I have a theory that in general, not being an ass is a nice way to get what you want. So, even though it took a while to get my car fixed, I was patient and chatted amiably with the mechanics. When they were done, I thanked them.
As I went to pay, one of them (who I later realized was the owner) stopped and said, "What's your name?"
"Gwen," I replied.
"You know what? I like you. Come back again and ask for me the next time you need help."
"Hey, thanks," I smiled. "You guys always have the best gas prices, anyway. Will do. What's your name?"
He told me and added, "And uh, if you need gas, I'm dropping the prices by two cents after lunch."
"Cool!"
See? Just a little patience and not-being-a-jerk can work wonders at times.

In the end, the repairs they had to make were minor. It only cost me twenty bucks.
And now I have a car that works!
Vroom.

Must. Go. To. Albany. To. See. Friends. And Indigo Girls.

Gwen learned an important lesson today; when there is more than two inches of snow on the ground, sneakers are not exactly the most useful foot apparel. I think the word of the day is now "slosh."

What bugs me the most about snowy weather is that I invariably smell like wet dog. And I feel like one. I think it's more my coat than me that gets stinky, but it's still disturbing.

A grad student just asked me where the headphone jack is on his computer. I don't know. I think I am beginning to spot a trend emerging, here.

Cat mentioned a while ago that I should catalogue all my shitty jobs and describe them with the all Gwen-irreverance I can muster. With the death of this last metier, I think perhaps the time is right.
However, I only have about 20 minutes before my presence is expected in the cafeteria, so I believe I'll leave it until a bit later. Plus, I need to get my personal font of sarcasm flowing. Right now I'm just not feelin' the love.

There is something therapeutic about listening to old K's Choice (like, '94 or '95). Unfortunately, my nice little reverie was just interrupted by the loudest cackle ever from the sea-donkey on my left.
Sometimes I don't like people very much.

My English History professor sounds a lot like agent Smith from The Matrix. He has great diction, and speaks very slowly and deliberately. During class I half expected him to say, "Arminius denied the idea of double predestination as part of the Calvinist belief system. What do you think about that, Mis-ter Anderson?"
Maybe I just have way too much free time on my hands. Or I'm just not paying enough attention in class.

In forensics I got to handle dead things. Note to self: Procure a box of rubber gloves. Those bones get greasy.

Have you ever looked at a moose's teeth? They are huge. What is interesting is that we really can't use "model bones." The stuff we study has to come from an actual person. It was a little disconcerting to me today when I held some guy's femur in my hand and wound up thinking, "well, wherever this guy is, I doubt he's missing it." It weirded me out enough to repeat it aloud, and Colleen and Vanessa looked at me as if I was (to use a new favorite cliche) crazy as a shithouse rat. I guess now is the time for me to test my mettle in the lab. I've always talked about wanting to work in forensics, and now I get to make sure that my stomach is strong enough for it. Ugh, maggots.

One thing I have noticed in commuting to school every day - physical space in Boston is truly at a premium. Think about it. Not only do we live on top of each other, but we cram ourselves into the subway, sigh our way through hallway bottlenecks, and essentially trip all over each other as we try to get around. I really can't walk anywhere without running into someone else.
I guess what I'm realizing is that I'm starting to feel the claustrophobia of city life. I grew up with a back yard. Now I have a small patch of dirt in front of my house that my landlord decorates with a single rose bush and calls a "garden." This "garden" is often used as a freestanding toilet by neighborhood dogs.
Don't get me wrong. The city has its advantages. I dig the idea of public transportation, and there's lots to do (if you can afford it, which is not always my situation). But sometimes I miss breathing in clean air and being able to stretch out my arms and legs without hitting anyone else. **(Side note: One of the autopsies I have seen featured a woman who had blackened, tarry lungs. Turns out she was a non-smoker, and it was breathing in Boston air that wrecked her aleveoli. This is a further impetus to move one day.)**

Eh. Life is...weird. But it always is. I often feel that I cannot seem to function unless I'm moving from one chaotic situation to another. I'm starting to figure out that maybe I don't like the simple life. Not that I need drama (ugh) - it's more like I just need to be busy all the time and doing about 12 different things at once. I need that adrenaline high to think clearly. Stress, stress, stress.
Or maybe it's just time to turn off my brain for a short while.
Take a penny, leave a penny.

I knew this day would come, and it finally has.
At the moment I am sitting in UMass' computer lab, the only place on campus that utilizes PCs instead of macs. Well, at least from what I have seen.
And I just can't figure it out. Bear with me for a minute. I've been using my lovely G4 Powerbook for about two years, and have remained fairly faithful to sticking with OSX. It's been some time since I have gone near any product that boasts the microsoft label, and Windows now makes about as much sense to me as existentialism does to a special education student.
And, Windows XP (or whatever it is) makes me feel like perhaps I should join the group on the short bus. Not only is the software completely counter-intuitive, but I just made an ass of myself trying to plug my headphones into the jack.
I still can't find the little hole where they are supposed to go. Just a few moments ago, as I searched in vain to find the little bugger, my natural propensity for clumsiness took over. I basically got so involved in looking for the place where my headphones were supposed to go that I got my foot caught in the chair and ended up in a tangle on the floor. I still haven't found what I'm looking for.

Ahh. Nothing like Microsoft to make you feel like a complete go-tard out on a day pass.

And no Shaun, Apple is not the "goth of the computer world."

Oh, and the job is done with. It wasn't the way I wanted it to end, but it's over, and I didn't have to gnaw my own leg off to get out. That was impressive. Of course, I think I may have unwittingly faked my own death to get away, but eh, you have to break a few eggs to get out of the kitchen...or whatever hackneyed expression you'd like me to mangle here. I'm not a fan of cliches.

Now comes the period where I try to get back to my own life and remember what it was I liked to do before The Good Life turned my own existance into one, giant cosmopolitan hell. And it will be nice to stop smelling like a bar and finding ketchup in areas I need eight mirrors to see. AND I can finally wear my hair down without wondering what kind of foodstuff will be coating the ends.

Yup, I need some advice from you guys.
I don't know whether I should stay at my job. Allow me to explain.
Basically, I work 12 hour shifts. I don't get breaks. I'm not allowed to eat during that time. And it's 12 hours on my feet. I wouldn't mind all of this if I were making decent money, but right now I make about the same amount as I did doing the same work for 4-8 hours a shift. When it all boils down, sometimes over 12 hours I just make about $80. That's about $6.50 an hour. Just two years ago, I made almost three times that amount in an hour.
The hours are hectic and unforgiving, but I do like my coworkers (well, all except for the head chef and the people who call me "sweetheart"). And I've only been at this job for about a month. Have I just not given it a chance? I really liked it at first, but now it's becoming something that I dread, since I know that my entire day/night will go into it and it leaves me no time at all for any other kind of social life.
But I don't want to be a brat. I don't want to be the girl who quit because the job was too hard. Plus, I really don't want to have to search for another job again. And I really do need money.
There's one last part. I'm told that I have to work a minimum of three nights a week. No problem with that now during vacation (where I'm working 5 or 6 nights a week), but when I'm back in school this is going to kill me. Working until three am and then going to morning classes is going to be hard. This would be no problem if the shifts were shorter, but nope, they are 12 hours.

So here is where I ask you all to give me some advice. I've made it into a handy little poll:

Poll #231240 Should Gwen quit her job in hopes of finding sunnier pastures?
Open to: All, results viewable to: All

Should I quit?

Why or why not?

Mood (kind of): working

My mother is beside herself. She lost her diamond ring. Not only was this her favorite ring, but her mother (who is now dead) passed it on to her.
I decided to help a little. I went through her jewelry box, thinking maybe she dropped it in there without thinking.

I came across a little photo album, titled, "Happy Memories - June, 1969." These were photos from my aunt's wedding, where my mom was a bridesmaid. I leafed through a little, and smiled.
What caught my attention was just how my cousins look exactly like my aunt when she was our age. It was uncanny. But then it made me a little sad to realize that in a family where everyone looks so much alike, I'm the one who really stands out. A dove among peacocks.
I remember that this bothered me when I was at my grandmother's funeral and saw my family together for the first time in years.
Don't get me wrong. I'm glad I got to have a good home and was given to a loving family. But sometimes, when I'm in the same room with all my relatives, I feel like they're all strangers. Sometimes I look at my extended family and wonder who the hell these people are. And it scares me that the only ties I have to them are legal, and not genetic. Sometimes it makes me sad to remember that the only people who share blood with me are strangers. It saddens me to know that even though I was given to my adoptive parents just days after birth, the state still classified me as an orphan for the first year of life.
Sometimes I wonder what my parents are like. But sometimes I don't want to know. It's like I have this vision of these two people, and I don't want it spoiled. And I get angry at them, too. So, eh.

On a lighter note, my mother, who is still in a fit of panic, just yelled that she was ready to kill herself (in a nonsuicidal way, trust me).
My dad's response?
"If you're going to kill yourself, kindly do it in the Newton cemetary. That way there will be less to clean up and we won't have to drag you as far."
My dad. Ever the pragmatist.

You're Geek Chic. Offbeat and with a thumbful of
calluses, you spend most of your time catching
Simpsons reruns and sucking down raspberry
Jell-O. However, you're still a hipster,
you've still got your own style, and you
probably dig the Velvet Underground's "Who
Loves the Sun?"


What Kind of Hipster Are You?
brought to you by Quizilla

Things at my bar last night were slow. So I asked the bartender, Mary-Kate, to entertain me.
"Mary-Kate," I said. "Tell me a story. You've worked here longer than I have. What's the weirdest thing you've seen here?"
M-K proceeded to tell me the following:
A couple months ago, M-K was tending the bar, as per usual. A woman came in and stood by the threshold, looking confused. M-K approached her and asked if she needed anything.
The woman said, "Wahhhhh," and started doing these karate-kung-fu moves in the air. Not like actual "I've been trained in the martial arts" moves, but the kind of stuff you see in the movies. An imitation.
So M-K stood there, dumbfounded, until our manager Doug came over. When the woman saw Doug, she started to try out her faux karate moves on him. Only this time, she tried to actually strike him. The only words she spoke were "Wahhhh" and "Hi-YA!"
Finally Doug had to simply pick her up, and deposit her outside.

Doug seems to have a problem with people attacking him for no reason. Take last night for example.
I was working the tables in the bar area, and basically also acting as barback. I rested my arms on the bar for a moment, and found my attention drawn to a 20-something man slurring to Mary-Kate about how he had been kicked out of the bar next door "for no reason." He was drunk, of course. As he described his plight to Mary-Kate, he got angrier and angrier. He finally stormed outside for a cigarette. On the way out, he slammed the door, hard.
Doug followed him.
Apparently, all Doug did was ask politely that he stop slamming the doors to the bar. The man, however, became incensed. He mouthed off to Doug. At this point, the manager in training, Mark, wandered out to see what was taking so long.
According to Mark, the drunk guy attacked Doug. Well, he tried to.
He ran at Doug, swinging, but was so drunk that he tripped over his own feet. He got up and tried to tackle Doug. Doug had to sit on him (on the wet pavement) to keep him from attacking while Mark ran in and dialed 911.
May I just add that the 911 dispatchers must know us very well by now?
Finally, the cops came. The drunken man was hauled off in a paddy wagon.
What's even weirder is that Mark mentioned that this guy had been in here before. The other times he had been in our bar found him polite, well articulated, and seemingly educated-appearing. I guess tonight was the night for Mr. Hyde's debut to the bar society.

Please, may I just have one night of normalcy at my bar?
At least we weren't lacking for entertainment.

Being the newest grunt at The Good Life, I was the only one to work a double shift yesterday. That's right - I was there from 10:30 am to 2:30 am. It was The Day That Would Not Die.
I expected to get slammed, but it exceeded my expectations. The place was so crowded that I couldn't even get to the employee's-only station to punch orders into the computer. The bar ws so backed up that it took over a half hour just to get my drinks. My customers were not pleased. The thing is, I was willing to accept a crazy night, knowing that I would make mad money. But I didn't even make that much! This is because a) two of my tables stayed there for over four hours, and b) three groups of assclowns got their drinks at the bar and then sat down at my tables. Meaning, I didn't make any money at all from them. Don't people understand that if you're going to sit at a table you should order your drinks from there? Don't they understand that this is where the servers make their money?
That left one, yes, one table open for rotation. That means that after working a 16 hour day, I made about $140. It just didn't seem worth it. Especially when you enter in the aching feet and back into the equation.
The place was a zoo, filled with drunken dickfaces who would pretty much do anything just to wriggle into getting a free bottle of champagne.
The worst part though, was the owner, Brian. We didn't have a busser (which makes no sense on the busiest night of the year), so Doug (the manager) was helping to clear off tables and set them up. Apparently, he was setting up one of my tables and got distracted, and then wandered away after only finishing half of it. Brian saw that there was only one place mat and flipped out.
"Gwen!" he hollered! "That table looks like shit! Get over there now and put down an extra place mat!"
Oh, fuck you. I hadn't even seen the table until Brian started yapping at me. And I wasn't even the one who did the half assed job!

And is it too much to ask to be called by my name? My name is G-U-E-N-E-V-E-R-E. I prefer the simple "Gwen," though. I am NOT your "Sweetie," or "Honey." Do you call the male employees Sweetie? No. If you know my name, then call me by it, fucktard.
Brian seemed to know my name when he was angry with me, but then conveniently forgot it in place of Sweetie. And he's not the only one to call me by it.
And I really don't mind when friends call me by these pet names. But in a working relationship, it seems inappropriate.

Midnight rolled around. The stroke of midnight found me battling to get through the throng with a tray full of sloshing martini glasses balanced precariously in one hand. Everyone around me began kissing and embracing and I...was serving drinks. It was a very lonely moment.

Ok, I may complain, but my night was nowhere near as bad as my coworker, Jamie's. Apparently, he set down his server book (with all his cash in it) for a second, which is a no-no, and a customer walked away with it. He ended up not only making zero dollars, but wound up owing the bar over $300. At least I made a marginal profit.
I felt bad for Jamie, but there was nothing any of us could do.

I am just happy that it's over. I hope New Years Eve 2004 will be a little better.

PS. To that middle aged couple from Texas - You guys were nice to me. You gave me an outstanding tip. You pulled me over just to say thank you and tell me how happy you were with my service. You made the night bearable. I will not forget you, and if you ever come in to my restaurant again, the drinks will be on me. Thanks.
It really is the smaller things that can provide a shining ray of light into an otherwise miserable time. These small things are always appreciated.

Last night ran pretty smoothly, right up until the end of the night. Last call came and passed, and my coworkers and I began closing up the bar and dining room. I began putting the chairs on the tables, when I heard a commotion from the bar area. I wandered over to see what was going on.

There were two drunken idiots who were trying to wriggle out of paying their check, and refusing to leave. (Might I also point out that even if we want people to stay, it's illegal for us to allow folks to be in the restaurant after 2 am. Not our decision.)
Later on my coworker Chris, who waited on them, informed me that they had been trying to start a fight with him all night. But by this point, they were just...insane.

"I didn't order bacon on my burger!" the woman whined. (May I add that the menu specifies that the burgers come with bacon, but if you ask us to leave it off, we're more than happy to do so.)

"Yeah, but you didn't say anything so we could fix it, and you ate the entire thing, anyway," replied my manager, Doug. "I'm going to have to ask you to pay your check and leave."
They put up a verbal fight, which quickly escalated and got very, very ugly. Finally, Doug exploded.
"Pay the goddamn check and get the fuck out of my restaurant!"

"Stupid money grubber. What are you, Jewish?" slurred the woman.
I happen to be jewish. I don't run into anti-semitism all that much, so this took me aback. At this point, even I, who am pretty mellow and easy going, was ready to throttle these two.

The man began threatening violence. "I'll beat the shit outta you!" he yelled. "I beat up pussies like you all the time!"
Doug picked up the phone. "I'm calling the police," he told them.
The woman kept talking. "We own three clubs in Vegas. We don't need to worry about this stupid check."
If you own three nightclubs, then why are you acting like this?

The bartender tried to reason with them. "Ok guys, it's not too late. You can simply pay the $17.50 you owe, and just walk out of here."
"I've got $5,000 in my wallet in cash. Do you think your $20 check means anything to me?" snarled the man.

Doug gave all the info to the police over the phone, but the Couple From Hell still wouldn't leave. Finally Doug called in some of the guys from the kitchen. Most of our line chef staff happen to be minorities. We have a lot of Brazillians, some Puerto Ricans, etc. These are some really nice guys, too. They didn't deserve what happened next.

The drunk man saw the kitchen staff walk in, and then turned his obscenity-prejudice-jerk mode into high gear.
"What are you going to do to me, little man?" he yelled at Frankie, one of the sous chefs. "You fuckin' nigger puerto rican!"
I wanted to sink into the floor. I hate intolerance of all kinds, and it broke my heart to hear such awful phrases come out of someone else's mouth.

The man continued calling our kitchen staff niggers, and got physically very close to Doug as he was yelling. The woman tried to pull him away (yeah, now that the cops were coming, she wanted to leave), but he turned around and smacked her. Oh good. So far, we've had anti-semitism, racism, and now wife beating. Now the night is complete.

And it went on. Finally, when the flashing blue lights came in through the window, they headed for the door. But the police came in right as they were leaving. Doug decided to press charges. The drunken couple was escorted away.

Normally I like my job. I like people. But last night shook me. I didn't know that anyone I would even be in the same place with would resort to using racism and intolerance. I don't think I've ever heard anything more awful come out of a customer's mouth.
It's almost 2004. I can't believe people still have this kind of attitude.

I'd give these morons another WTF? Award, but for the first time, I'd say it's beneath me. These people are just white trash scum, and not even worthy of my sarcasm.

Mood (kind of): angry

Riiiight.
Please excuse the scathing sarcasm, and the less-than-enthused tone of this entry. But last night was a pretty bad night at work.
In fact, I can't think of a more insulting thing to happen.
The bar I work at is also a jazz club. Lately the band that's been playing on weekends is Grover Moony and the Moon Men, or Mooninites, or Moon whatever. By the end of the show usually at least one of the band members is drunk and crooning into the microphone like a lunatic. One of the priviledges of being in a jazz band apparently is that you get very inexpensive food. So during the breaks in the show, these guys often like to order pizza and the like.

Last night the pianist ordered a pizza through me. When I delivered it to his table, his band buddies took a shine to my hair, apparently.
"Is that red hair you've got, there?" asked Grover Moody.
"Yup," I replied.
There was a bit more small talk, and I headed away toward my station.
But over my shoulder, I heard, "Is it red downstairs, too?"
At first, I was speechless. Seriously flustered. I shot them a glance and kept walking. My coworker James saw my face and asked, "hey man, everything cool?"
"Uh, uuuuh, uh, ugh," was all I could get out. No one had ever spoken like that around me. Well, no one's spoken like that with out knowing me very, very well.
A moment later, my head cleared. And I was furious. I found another coworker and asked to transfer the band's check over to him. My coworker said sure, but asked me to clear it with our manager.
"Yo Doug," I began. "Can I give the band's check to Paul? After what they just did, I want nothing to do with them."
To Doug's credit, he's a good guy, and wants his employees to be happy.
"What happened?" he asked.
"They just asked me a pretty inappropriate question," I said. I really didn't want to talk with my boss about questions concerning my coochie.
"What did they ask?"
And in the end, because he's my boss, I had to tell him. It was embarrassing. It was really embarrassing. And I don't get embarrassed that easily.
But the check was transferred to Paul, and Doug ripped the band a new one. Grover apologized. At that point though, I wanted nothing to do with him or his band mates. I have to work with these people, and now I am completely uncomfortable to be around them.

I didn't really understand what something like this would feel like, until it happened to me. Up until last night, I was judged on my job performance, and the fact that I was one of like, two women who worked there didn't seem to be a big thing. But Fuckhead Grover Moony really breached my boundaries. I'm still pissed at the ass.

Look, I work in a bar. I expect to have to deal with snotty customers every now and then. I even expect that sometimes a drunken guy will try to slur his way into my pants, and I will have to let him down nicely.

But never, ever, is it ok for a coworker to make a sexual remark. That is NOT what I get paid for.
And if this ever happens again, fuck it - I'm walking out right there and then. I have little tolerance for stupidity, and no job is worth this kind of crap.

Fuck you, Grover Moony.


Oh wait, I almost forgot.
To Grover Moony, I present the much-missed WTF? Award. Congrats Grover, you've earned it in spades.

Mood (kind of): lazy

If you didn't blink, you may have caught my entry about a week ago that described my displeasure with the construction going on upstairs. There we some Brazilian guys (I only point out the country of origin because the language barrier comes into play later) who were moving furniture out of the apartment, and I wasn't happy about the noise or the draft all the hullabaloo created when I was trying to write a term paper. I later deleted this entry, because I realized that it was really the stress of the paper that had my panties in a twitch. I didn't like the whiny tone of the entry. Some things you have to just deal with.

But then something very, very strange happened. The Brazillian movers were gone, and a construction team was working upstairs, renovating the apartment. I was tired one morning, and decided to take a nap.
I don't like wearing clothes when I sleep. Yup, I even take my naps sans clothes. I shed my jeans and shirt, climbed into bed, and fell blissfully asleep.
A few hours later, a loud conversation outside my door thrust me back into a state of semi-consciousness. A jangle of keys, and then the sound of the tumblers in my lock really sent me into a "trying-to-wake-up" state. Matthias was at work, and the only other person who had a key to my front door was my landlord. I fought to open my eyes. Adrenaline began rushing through my veins as my front door opened.
There I was, naked, in bed, half awake, and someone was in my apartment!
A head poked in.
"HELLO?" I called, scared out of my mind.
"Sorry!" called a voice. The next thing I knew, the door slammed, and I was alone.
I had been in a very deep sleep. In this state, nothing, short of a well placed wrecking crew, can really rouse me. So as soon as I felt I was out of danger, sleep claimed me again.
When I woke again, I almost fell out of bed. The memory of a strange man in my home, staring at my ta tas, sent a retrospective wave of abject terror through me.
I ran to the phone and called Matthias.
"John came into the apartment and saw me naked!" I cried into the receiver.
John is our landlord. I assumed it was John who came in, because he is the only one who had a key to my place. I hadn't seen his face, but he had a key, right?
After I had been seen sleeping and naked, I did not want to talk to anyone else about it. So Matthias called John, and asked why the hell he had been in the apartment without permission.
"I've been out all day," John replied. "Wait, you say someone was in your apartment?"
John was just as angry as we were. I called John and apologized for accusing him, and explained that I only assumed it was him because of the sound of the key in the lock. I admitted that I hadn't seen a face. I had been too half-awake.
John then went upstairs to grill the construction crew. No one admitted to coming into my apartment. No one admitted to even having a key.
When John called to tell me this, I was struck with panic. Had I dreamed the intruder? Was this whole thing just a product of misplaced, somnambulant, paranoia? (I do sleepwalk - could I sleep-walk-hallucinate?)
What was more, had I just accused a perfectly innocent group of men of having a criminal in their midst? Would this ruin their reputation? Would they never get hired again because of some strange dream I had?
I was beginning to get worried, and feel pretty bad about myself. I spent most of the day feeling awful and guilty.
Finally, the phone rang again. It turned out that I hadn't dreamed it.
John went over to the Brazillians' place. He was already pretty pissed at them for ruining his thousand dollar rug. But this is where the language barrier comes in. The day before, John gave one of the Brazillian movers his key ring and asked them to do something in the apartment upstairs. The guy's english wasn't that great, and he got confused about which apartment John had meant.
Hence, the strange man in my apartment staring at my naked ass.

I'm still pissed off about it, but I can't say that I'm pissed at anyone in particular. Except maybe John, for giving a stranger the key to my apartment, even if it was a mistake. I don't think the Brazilian guy did it on purpose - he thought he was doing what John asked, and it's not like he came into my place on purpose. I guess I'm just unhappy with the situation.

But in the end, it's one of those things you have to let go of. It's over, and hopefully won't happen again.

EDIT: We have a new toy! Nick gave us an iSight - a very, very cool web cam with a built in microphone. Stay tuned for fun photos and other types of media fun!

I wrote this a couple of days ago, but didn't get around to publishing it...

First of all, a hearty thanks for all the congrats and well wishes on my new job. Your words of encouragement have kept me sane these past few busy, busy days.
Alex and Rishi - your system is pretty cool. It's a lot better than the ones I've used in the past.

Now.
I've had a bad day. It's been one of those days where nothing really has seemed to go right. Including, but not limited to, the death of my pet rat, Simon. He was very sick, and it was hard to for him to breathe, and I am glad his suffering is over. I hoped so long that he would rally, but he was just a little guy, and too weak to fight off the illness that took his life.

In the end, I couldn't even bury him, because the ground is frozen. But I laid him to rest near the railroad tracks. I sang to him a little, told him he was loved, and then let go. The walk back home was hard. I was crying and the cold wind nearly froze the tears to my cheeks.

Well, nothing I can really do about this at the moment except lick my wounds and get ready for a new day.
When really, really bummed, some women eat or spend money to make themselves feel better. I'm too poor to shop and too lazy to cook, so I generally stay away from these sources of therapy. For me it used to be a long, hot bath, but as I have a bath tub with no faucet, that one's crossed off the list as well.

I decided tonight that breaking out my guitar would make me feel better. There is really nothing else (besides a bath) that makes me feel better than first laying all my aggression into the strings and then playing a few softer tunes to calm down. Aside from baths, this has been my way of coping since the age of fourteen. I kind of stopped playing when I got to college, because the entire hall could hear me and I was shy, but that's another story.
So, I began my guitar ritual. First, I trimmed my nails. Then I tuned up - unfortunately I had to do this by ear, as I've lost my tuner, but the job I did was serviceable enough.
But then I realized all my sheet music was in the study, which is, at the moment, off limits. So I rattled through the few songs that have survived in my memory, despite all the drugs I did in college. I got through about two, and then remembered the Online Guitar Archive, a tablature resource I've been using since I started to play. I put down my guitar and pick, and typed in the URL.
Then I looked down.
I had lost my pick somewhere in my bed. It was gone.
The thing is, that was my last pick. Not only that, it was the last vestige of the pick collection I inherited from a friend at the age of 14. I had lost or broken all but this one, which I cherished. It was my favorite. A nice, heavy pick.
So not only have I lost my favorite and only pick, I now can't play my guitar to make myself feel better. And there's no way that I feel like fingerpicking, tonight. I just want to wail on the strings. Fuh.

It's one of those days.

Anyway, work has been work. It's interesting, working in a bar. I've done it before, but this is less of a dive. I mean, the stupid martinis cost ten bucks. Ludicrous, but hey, it's money in my pocket.

But I've learned a lot, in just a short time. Allow me to impart the lessons I have discovered:

1.) When you go to a bar and get very, very drunk, the staff finds you very, very funny. We laugh at you. Yes, at you. We are pretty much the only cold-sober people in the place, and we enjoy poking fun at your antics. We are not above eavesdropping from behind the curtain as you regale your friends with a slurred speech about your prostate and waking up in a kiddie pool filled with ice with a thermometer shoved up your ass. It gives us something to talk about in the kitchen.

2.) Forcing a cocktail waitress to bring the drinks on a tray instead of just carrying them in her hands is inane. Yes, it looks swanky, but I guarantee that half of the Manhattan you've just ordered will wind up coating the surface of said tray.

3.) For some reason, wherever I have worked, there has always been at least one Brazillian line chef who develops a crush on me and thinks it the epitome of romance to wink and make kissy faces at me from behind the grille. I'm not kidding. It's like it's a position in itself.
Last night though, it was fun to watch his seventeen year old face pale at the words "I'm 23," that came out of my mouth. He backed off. Go hide behind your algebra workbook, lil tyke.

4.) Some people just do not understand the idea of last call. Sorry, but after 1:45 you are just not going to get that last pint. It's time to go home, and by now the staff is cranky and doesn't like you. These feelings turn to enmity if you still stay at your table while we pile the chairs onto the other tables, and if our feet are aching enough, we will resort to violence if it means getting your fat ass off the stool.

5.) I am here to serve you drinks and munchies. I am not here to be picked up. And that perfect pickup line? It's not so perfect when you're toasted and slurring your words. Last night a patron asked to look at the various hoops and bars I have through my ears, which I had no trouble with. But when he started asking if the needle was a turn on, I had somewhere else to be, fast. Buh-bye.

6.) Allow me to point out that if you are nice to your waitress, whole new doors of untold wonders will open up. You might even score a free drink if we like you enough. In general, I enjoy interacting with my customers. When they're nasty, I grit my teeth and force a smile, but when they're nice, I am more than happy to chat a little, make the service a bit faster, and write a lovely little note on their check that encourages them to have a nice day. Oh yeah, and maybe give them a couple extra mints on the way out. So listen kiddies, be good to your cocktail waitress, and she'll be good to you. I promise.

7.) Tip well, generously, and often. I've known this since I first became a bar patron, and it was reinforced when I began serving drinks a couple years ago. I remember everyone who tips me well. And when they come in again, I'm nice to them.


The staff at the Good Life is mostly male. I am one of the few women who work there. As a result, it can be a little strange. On nights when there are about six or seven of us waiting tables, the guys and I get along well. However, last night there were just two waiters, the bar tender, the manager, and I. For some reason, it became more of a boy's club. I can't say I minded that much though, because it mostly involved the guys staring up at the football game at the bar. I'm not going to even pretend to find football interesting. A Sox game would be a different story, but there is no reason for me to feign interest just to fit in. Plus, I was feeling kind of cranky. So being left alone for the most part was fine with me.

But the management treats us well, and feeds us before each shift. My only real problem with the job is that standing up for 11 hours at a time makes my back incredibly sore. Sadly, this was not a problem when I was 20. It's strange how three or four years can change a person. I've been popping Advil like candy, but it doesn't help much. Any of you wait tables out there? What do you do?

Mood (kind of): lazy

Well, I did it. I got a job. Yay.
It's really funny, how quickly it happened. Matthias sent me an email - the contents of which reminded me that it would be a good idea to seek employment. I had my browser up, and decided to check out Craig's List. I had pretty low expectations, as it's pretty rare to have much luck with the internet.

But then I stumbled upon an ad looking for "experienced servers" at The Good Life, a bar in Central Square. Aha, I thought to myself. I scanned the ad, which asked that potential candidates apply in person between the hours of 2 and 6 pm. I looked at the clock. It read 2:02 pm. Perfect.
I raced into the bedroom and found my push up bra. (Let's be honest, here. If you have any asset that might help, you're stupid if you don't put it to use.) I smacked on some lip gloss, grabbed my keys, and jumped on the first train to Central.

The Good Life is a bar that caters to the bar hoppers in Central, and also serves the occasional meal. While it's mostly an alcohol joint, it does serve food as well. It also seems to have a kind of retro look to it. A hipster hangout.
When I got there, I filled out an application, which actually deviated from the standard ones I've seen. Seemed like the management had tried to get creative with the application questions. At the end, it also asked me to define some terms, like cabernet (this one was easy, since it's my wine of choice), a manhattan (which, honestly, I didn't know, because manhattans are expensive - thus I never order them), and then "professionalism."
I stared at the term - professionalism. What does that mean? Not sneezing in the soup du jour? Restraining oneself from making vases out of one's own feces and setting them on the bar? Not lighting the customers' hair on fire and then beating it out with my underwear?
Anyway, I put down something just vague enough to seem like a decent definition. Right after I finished, I was interviewed and hired on the spot.

So that's it. My big job search lasted a mere hour.

I start tomorrow.

Wish me luck, kiddies.

Mood (kind of): lazy

This is what I want for Christmas.

Mood (kind of): hopeful

Quote of the weekend:

Gwen: You're just as retarded as I am.

Cat: And that's a whole lotta retarded.

It's amazing the things you might do if given enough alcohol.
Friday night found me hanging out with the usual suspects - Brandon, Leroy, Eric, Ken, JB, Jesse, etc. etc. All I really know is that after plying me with many an alcoholic beverage, my friends convinced me that we needed to go to Allston and visit some of the bars.
First off was O'Brians. I'm told I made friends with the bartender and that I accidentally locked myself out of the bar and drunkenly tried to throw myself at the door to be let back in. There was a second bar after that, but I stayed pretty normal there and committed myself to downing glasses of water. I know my limits.

It's strange. I'm not a bad drunk, or a sad one. I become quite cheerful and friendly, and well, creative.
But I have found that there are some things that one should not do after drinking. Of course, driving is one of those things - that's a given. But here's a list of activties that I have found from experience do not go with imbibing.

Hair
First off, there is the whole hair thing. I highly recommend that one refrains from messing with their hair after downing a few. Case in point - I woke up freshman year in college after a party with blue hair. It had been my idea to turn my locks a lovely shade of azure, and then not even wash out the dye. Imagine explaining that one to the parents.
And let's not even go into the time where I discovered (after many a shot of tequila) that giving myself a home perm was not the best idea.

Explaining a Thesis
Let me assure you that no matter how interesting your research is to you, chances are that if you try to explain it to the masses after drinking a whole bottle of wine you might get it confused with an episode of Aqua Teen Hunger Force. Suddenly, you go from describing how H. erectus was really the first proto-human to "yeah, and this box of fries and a milkshake are sitting in a pool, discussing how to capture a giant rabbit-robot who has just consumed a large quantity of hair tonic, and..."
Or maybe that's just me.

Climbing Stairs
Seems like a no brainer, eh? I used to live on the third floor in college. Imagine waking up on the stairs, realizing you're uncomfortable, turning over, and going back to sleep.

Karaoke
There is nothing sadder than three drunken girls caterwauling to the tune of "I Touch Myself" at closing time. Unless you happen to be one of those women.

Engaging in Awkward Social Contact
You may never want to see that ex again, but trust me, hiding in the bushes is not a discreet way to avoid him. Especially with a bottle of sambuca in your hand. Plus, you'll be picking leaves out of your hair and clothes for the rest of the night and well into the next day.

Formulating a Business Plan
Over a great many drinks in Sligos Pub, my ex-roommate Debbie and I came up with a brilliant hook of making trading cards that would come with packs of cigarettes. They'd be like Garbage Pail Kids, only we called them "Cancer Patch Kids." Each one suffered some sort of dignity-stripping ailment from smoking. We made a whole list of names - Tumorous Timmy, Emphysema Eunice, Coffin-Bound Candy, Lungless Larry, Halitosis Harry - well, you get the idea. Upon stumbling home and divulging our scheme to our two male roommates, we were told we were certifiably insane. Then they took away the scissors and sat us in front of an episode of "Fifth Wheel" until we pased out from boredom.

Animal Grooming
My poor cat Tigger has suffered the indignity of having numerous bald spots many a time because of me. He's really just a shag carpet with legs anyway, but I am surprised he hasn't run away yet, after all that I've done.

Arts and Crafts Projects
No matter how appealing that tube of superglue may seem, chances are that it will somehow be involved in the mysterious incident that results in your pants becoming permanently attached to the floor.
I really liked those pants, too.

Travel
No one wants to wake up on a pool table in a Waltham masonic lodge and not know how to get home.
'Nuff said.

Talking to Strangers
It seems a little silly to ask a bald gentleman if head lice is ever a problem.

Exploring the Great Outdoors
Or at least what you think is the great outdoors at the time. My friends still like to remind me how I got lost behind the Oxfam Cafe in a sad clump of four or so trees.

This all may seem fairly intuitive, but these are the hard lessons I have had to learn in my adult life. It's sure been fun, though.

Mood (kind of): amused

Well, well, well. We are snowed in. And good lord, is there a lot of snow.
We weren't exactly prepared for this. My mother, when she heard a storm was coming, stocked up on enough canned goods to feed a platoon.
I, on the other hand, am lazy. I've lived up North for a long time, and have seen my fair share of blizzards. I found out about this storm the night before it hit, and really all I did in preparation was to make sure we still had the bottle of wine my parents gave me last Thanksgiving.
The thing is, we needed to go to the grocery store pretty badly, storm or not. And I admit that perhaps I should have been more concerned with food than booze.

So the cupboards are empty. And after last night's walk to the liquor store, there's no way anyone in this household will be driving to the market. Today for lunch we ate mashed potatos. I gingerly cut out the eyes that were sprouting from the potatos, and we tossed in some garlic, milk and cheese. (If only I knew that was the last of the milk.)

I made Kraft mac and cheese for dinner. Only, since we had used up all the milk when we made the mashed potatos, I had to empty our half and half into it. The scary part is that it wasn't half bad, if you don't mind creamer in your pasta.

Anyway, I got to take all my paintings home last Friday. Here are a couple, behind a cut, of course.
Allow me to say that the self portrait IS supposed to look funny like that. It's a cartoon. And um, I kind of stretched it out vertically by accident.

( see my attempt to be artistic )

Mood (kind of): bored

This is going to sound weird, but I just had the best anthropology class ever.
No, really.
I went to my "History of Anthropological Thought" seminar, and was one of about maybe seven of us who showed up. Since this is the Tuesday before Thanksgiving break, it was kind of expected that we would have a low turnout.

Because there weren't many of us, my professor decided to have a fairly low key discussion. She asked us, "what do you guys want to do with your anthropology degrees?"
Thus, the discussion began.
Understand, that it's a given that everyone in the class is an anth major, and pretty far along in the program. First of all, this is a course that is required for the degree. Besides, who else but an anth major who is required to would take a class called History of Anthropological Thought? It doesn't exactly sound riveting. In fact, it sounds like a great candidate for an insomnia cure. And since most people put this class off as long as they can, it's fairly easy to assume that most of us are seasoned students in the anthropology department.
We're hard core.
Part of studying anthropology involves a change in mindset. It's not like, oh, say, economics, where maybe you learn a bunch of theory and facts and then get your diploma (no offense to any econ majors out there). And if you're going to survive in the program, you have to really care about what you study. Else, it's not worth it. But that mindset change I mentioned - well, let's begin by saying that anthropology is a surprisingly political field. You wouldn't know it unless you looked hard at it. And one of these political ideals that anth is centered on is that of cultural relativism.
Cultural relativism, to put it most simply, is centered on the belief that there is no such thing as a "superior" culture; there is no such thing as a more "progressive" or "advanced" group of individuals. In the eyes of an anthropologist, everyone is exquisitely equal. There are differences in culture and life practices, but it's these differences that are valuable and worth of celebration and study. There's been a lot of changes since the field first became a recognized scientific branch at the beginning of last century.

Which means, if you harbor any racist attitude, no matter how slight, or espouse close-mindedness, you won't make it far in the field. I first got into anthropology because I fell in love with archaeology at the ripe age of four. But I stayed in anthropology because at heart, I'm still the idealistic, peace-loving daughter of an ex-hippie and ex-soldier.

My father, who used to fly helicopters in Vietnam, was pretty quiet about the subject, but made it clear as he brought me up that intolerance is to be abhorred, and peace is really the only goal worth pursuing. It's one of the reasons why I love him so much. You could perhaps say that my father, in his silent way, encouraged my liberal attitude. Perhaps I never realized it as I grew up, but looking back I can see that he played a large part in teaching me about the more important aspects of tolerance by his own example.

My mother, a hippie from the south, used to point to her father, and say, "don't ever turn out like that man," My grandfather on her side was a classic example of a southern bigot. She told me stories of the King family in Atlanta - how Martin Luther King's uncle used to work for my grandfather, and was treated like crap because of his skin color. But my mother loved "Old Man" King, and made sure he was one of the first people to hold me when she brought me home from the adoption office.

So I grew up with a similar attitude - that all races are equal. Peace is worth working for. And that's what kept me in anthropology.

I hope I haven't lost you so far. I gave you that background information so you can understand what came out of my mouth when it was my turn to answer my professor about what I wanted to do with my degree.
I said,
"Ok guys, don't laugh at me for what I'm going to say. Well, I started off as a physical anthropology student. I love learning about evolution. But I think what's really kept me here is that I came to college as an idealist, and I guess I can say that time has made me more cynical, but there's this idea I have that if anything, anthropology can help get the message across that there's no such thing as a superior culture or race. I think that we as anthropologists have the responsibility of teaching tolerance. I, I guess I think ideally, I'd like to use my degree either as a tool to study evolution, or to do human rights work. Even if I never do use my degree, learning what I have has been really valuable. It's changed my thinking and general world outlook. I guess I just want to try to make the world a little better. But also, being a writer wouldn't be bad, either."
I ducked. People have thought my idealism was a sign of simple-mindedness or low intelligence before. It's not, but it's still hard to see the cynical expressions on others' faces when I suddenly spout into a diatribe of liberal 'can't-we-all-get-along-ness.' But as I raised my head, I saw the other girls in the class nodding their heads, turning toward me, and smiling.
"Yeah, that's exactly why I'm doing this," said Avante. The others agreed.
"You can do that, Gwen.," said my professor. "I've been doing both anthropological and human rights work in the Sudan."
It was just so damn great to be able to finally say what I normally hold back and have it validated.

I've been thinking a lot about human rights, lately. I've wanted to be an archaeologist, a writer, a scientist. But there's a part of me that wants to do something else, to help teach tolerance and peace. I've had to look my own preconceptions and prejudices in the eye, and cast them off. It's made me feel safer and happier.
But I'm also selfish. There are sacrifices I'm not yet willing to make. But I know that I can't just look at my life as this self-enclosed entity. There are others out there.

I've always had serious thoughts about doing human rights work. I'm a smart girl, and I could probably do something really good with the brain I have. Part of me has always thought about doing adoption rights work, or even immigration law. But I also remember my ex-boyfriend, Ed, who became a lawyer to do just that - help immigrants stay in the country. Then he began representing minorities in discrimination cases. Sounds great, right?
It wasn't. I dated Ed for over a year, and I saw how it taxed him. I saw how he felt like no matter what he did, he couldn't make a difference. I saw him come home from work everyday, frustrated and angry. I saw him lose weight that he couldn't afford to lose. I saw him looking tired and drawn.
I want to help people, but I want to also be happy in my own life. And I'm terrified that one day I'll find that all my idealism and heart has made no difference. I'm afraid that one day I'll become extremely disillusioned - that will break my heart.
And the funny thing is that the one thing that I practically foam at the mouth about (adoption rights) is the one thing I've never considered working in. This is something that I know I'm too emotionally involved in. I know if I were to go into adoption law, it would hurt me. I care a lot about it, but it would also break my heart.

I dunno. I'm confused. I feel like I have all this potential - and a tabula rasa of a future, and I'm scared. I'm scared of making a difference, and even more scared of not making a difference. I'm scared that one day I'll look at myself and realize that I've been living a life that is only concerned with my well being. But I'm scared that if I really get involved in these things that I care so much about, I'll get run over in the process.

Right now, I'm trying to be light with it. The future is fascinating. There's so much to DO. And goddamn it, life is INTERESTING. There's so much to learn. I guess I just want to absorb as much as I can before I die. And when I do die, I want at least one person to say that I made a difference in their life.
It feels like at the same time, it's not much to ask, but it's also a tall order. The question is, am I brave enough?
I'd like to think I am.
Stay tuned. Let's see if us 20-somethings can pull ourselves out of our selfish despair about the future and actually do what our parents hoped we would. Well, at least the parents who don't believe in the corporate machine.

What am I going to do with myself? Eh, I think at the moment I'm just going to breathe slowly and have some coffee.

When I was a little girl, I was terrified of growing up. Sure, I remember getting excited about learning to drive, getting my braces off, and not having to sneak into R rated movies, but the idea of being considered an "adult" was enough to give me a case of the jumblies. And jumblies are never fun.

And then, suddenly, adulthood snuck up on me. Stealthily, leaving me unaware that -oh geez, I've grown up.
The big 24 is looming around the corner. I find myself bitching about rent, taxes, and utility bills designed to gouge every penny I have. But the other night, I was thinking. Just because I'm chronologically an adult, doesn't mean I have to act like one. Sure, I'll do all that I need to get by in life. I'll pay my bills, get a job, perhaps even put on a slipshod job of appearing responsible, but I'm not going to consider myself a grownup until my bladder starts leaking on it's own accord and my boobs scrape the floor when I get out of bed.

I always thought grown ups were boring. It seemed that once a person got older, they turned into a withered, dried out old husk and forgot how to have fun. But I've realized that I have certain safety features put into my personality that will prevent such changes. I still like to have fun; it's just that my definition of fun has evolved a bit. But it's still ok for me to goof around and act like an idiot. I can still be loud. Hell, I'm good at being loud. I don't think I can change any of that. Life is just too fucking short not to have a good time.

One thing, though. My painting teacher had us all start our own self portraits last week. We had to stare in the mirror a lot. I noticed the faint, faint beginning of laugh lines around my eyes. And I got excited. It's proof that I've spent a lot of my life smiling and laughing. If my face is going to start telling my history, I'd prefer it be a good one. Bring on the laugh lines. Life is too short to worry about wrinkles, anyway.

Mood (kind of): hopeful
Tunes: Spirits-The Sheila Divine-Where Have My Countrymen Gone

So, I was tootling around fark today, and I noticed an article posted that dealt with ADHD.
I clicked on the article, but couldn't get past the top of the page because I was laughing so hard. The title seems normal enough (ADHD Kids Have Smaller Brain Area), but the photo that accompanies the headline is absolutely priceless:




Maybe it's just me. For some reason, when I see this photo, I lose my shit. In fact, when I first saw it, I was in a room with four other people, and I got a lot of strange looks when I started laughing aloud. I don't know why this tickles me so much.
I haven't even read the article. After that, I was content enough and suitably entertained. I like the photo so much that I think I may turn it into a user icon. Yeah.

The scary part is that there's a pretty similar photo of me somewhere in my parents' photo cache.

Today was Nerd Day. My brain hurts. I still can't figure out that damn puzzle with the blue squares.

Mood (kind of): giggly

Jonathan Brandis passed away last week.

Jon was my first crush when I was 12 or so. Silly, yes, but for most people that first crush is often looked back on with nostalgia and fond memories. Most of his films were not exactly blockbusters, but he seemed to do well enough.
He did a pretty good rendition of Stuttering Bill Denborough in the movie, "Stephen King's It." That movie, by the way, scared the shit out of me. It still does.

It's a tragedy when anyone dies. I think perhaps what made this so sad is that Jon was so young - just 27. I mean, that's not much older than my friends and me. When someone close to your own age passes away, it kind of makes you think and feel grateful for what you have and the time you've been given so far.

RIP, Jon. We hardly knew ya.

Mood (kind of): sympathetic

Sometimes, stuff just flies out of my mouth. I have no control over it.

Tonight certainly provided an interesting example of Weird Shit That Comes Out of Gwen's Mouth. I was in my human physique seminar. There were roughly 15 of us crammed around a single table with the professor in the middle. We were discussing how while women become infertile with age, men are still able to reproduce for quite a long time.

"We read stories all the time about old celebrities who are in their 70's having kids with their 20-something trophy wives," Professor Bailey pontificated. "Look at (insert name of old famous guy whose name I've forgotten). Look at Paul McCartney . He's 72 and just had a baby."
Whatever shut-up mechanism is in my head was caught sleeping at the wheel. "Yeah, but he the minute he picks the kid up, he'll break a hip," I burst out.
I clapped my hand over my mouth and turned red. Luckily, the professor laughed. But it's still not really a good idea to say irreverant things in a seminar.

This is the same class where when the professor asked us to define puberty, I wound up answering, "three years of ugly."

Can I help it if I'm easily amused?

Mood (kind of): amused
Tunes: Someday - Nickelback (gotta get my pop fix)

I was just browsing the Tufts' athletics web page, when I decided to take a look at the fencing team site.

Keep in mind that this is a little difficult for me. Fencing was my life for a long time. When I left the Tufts team, I felt really lost for a while. I worked hard in high school to get recruited, and I practiced even harder to make the varsity team lineup. And when I did, it felt amazing. I had devoted a lot of myself to the sport, and I had pushed my own physical boundaries farther than I could have imagined.

So giving it up meant that a part of me died. Why did I?

In high school, I devoted an hour and a half to three hours each day (five or six days a week) to fencing practice. In college, I spent three or more hours every day in the practice rooms. Every weekend was spent at meets out of town. And it wasn't unusual for a meet to run for more than 12 hours.

I was a freshman in college, and I spent all my time in the practice rooms or in hotel rooms in strange towns. Some days I never even got to see the sun - we'd arrive at a meet before sunrise, and leave when the moon was high.
In short, I had no life.
I was told in high school that college was a whole new world, and that I would be given opportunities I hadn't fathomed. I was excited to make new friends. But I couldn't, because I spent all my time with the team (and um, while my teammates were ok, have you ever tried to hang out with fencers? Most of them are pretty socially inept). I was gone each weeknight from 6:30 to 10:00 - and when I would return from practice, I would have just enough energy to shower and then fall into bed, exhausted. And I could never eat dinner with my hallmates (in college, dinner is a very social time). The dining hall opened at 5:30 for dinner, so I had less than an hour to eat a hurried dinner (but not too much, because I had to avoid cramping up), run back to my dorm, throw on my smelly practice clothes, get my epee and protective gear together, and then run to Jackson Gym.
It wasn't enough. I was lonely. My teammates were ok, but I didn't feel especially close with them for reasons that I will get to in a bit. During a person's freshman year, most people wind up making friends with their hallmates. Later they branch out, but in the beginning, geography decides a person's friends. And I was never around enough to really connect to anyone. I was well liked, but no one really knew me. I was just the fencer chick on the second floor of South Hall.
My coach also made my life hell. Jason was a machine. He really didn't care about the well being of his varsity team as long as we were able to get on the strip. He bullied us to victory. He made us all cry at one point or another.
Jason also made sure that I was isolated from the rest of the team from before I had even arrived. Jason saw me fence in high school, and recruited me. He had high hopes for me; almost as high as my own. He told the team about me before I even arrived. After a couple weeks, Jason tested me. He took me for a 10 touch epee bout. It was brutal. But I did well. I didn't beat him (and there was no way I could - Jason may be a jerk but he's a phenomenal epeeist) but I managed to score about 7 or 8 touches to his 10. Personally, I feel I had gotten lucky - it was a night where everything clicked for me.
But that's when Jason decided that I had made the varisty team. He told my teammates that I was going to "save the epee team." I was going to be the one to get us to the championships.
You might think this was flattering, but it wasn't. I was new to the team. When Jason said what he did, he ensured that my teammates would resent me. They saw me as the coach's pet. I was completely isolated. And I was furious that he had opened his mouth. I had just wanted to be part of the team - I didn't want to be singled out like that. It made life even lonelier. Plus, how the hell was I supposed to deal with all that pressure? I mean, I had days where I really sucked. And on those days, Jason would make practice hell.

Then I found that I wasn't allowed to take any courses that met in the evening during practice time, unless they were part of my declared major. If any of us did, we would have been kicked off the team.
And when I got mono that year, Jason was even worse. I remember during a meet at MIT, our team had about a half hour break between one of the competitions. Like I said, I had mono, but I was still there. I fell asleep in the corner during a break. I woke up to find Jason standing over me, screaming at me for sleeping. (Keep in mind, a lot of fencers take naps during meets when they get a few minutes.)
"Get out there and watch the other teams!" he hollered at me. "You do this again, and I'm kicking you off!"

I was very ill and exhausted. I knew I had to leave after that. I wanted my life back. I was tired of being pushed so hard; I was close to breaking. I stuck out the rest of the year, but when summer came, I hung up my weapon.
And it turned out that sophomore year was great. I had more time on my hands after leaving the team. I made some of the best friends ever. I wasn't lonely and tired all the time. And suddenly, I was having fun.

It still broke my heart to give it up. Fencing had been a huge part of my identity for a very long time. It was the one thing that had soothed me, got me fired up, kept me sane. I really, really loved it.
But I didn't regret my decision. Being on the fencing team at Tufts wasn't healthy for me.
I know that one day I will have enough time and money to get new, better equipment, and perhaps join the Boston Fencing Club and begin competing again. So the knowledge that I haven't really quit does help. I look at this time as an extended vacation from the sport.

Anyway. Like I said at the beginning of this entry, I looked at the fencing web page today. And I saw that one of my old teammates, Tamar, is now an assistant coach for the women's varsity team.
I realized that it could have been me. You know what? I'm really glad that it isn't.

Let me take you back to January 1st, 1999. The White House belonged to a democrat from Arkansas, and the world quivered in fear of the famed y2k bug.

And I was recovering from the longest, most intese acid trip known to man. It was something that would have made Timothy Leary both proud and fearful. My blood type was psychedelic. And I was starting my first day as a "fashion consultant" with Express.

Why did I apply to work as a clothes monkey at a store where I hated the clothes? Why was I working in a place of rampant consumerism, when the whole thing turned my stomach?
And why the hell was I dragging my sorry, stoned ass to work after freaking out at hearing Pink Floyd wail "Wish You Were Here" while watching "Ferris Bueller's Day Off" on mute?
Because I needed money, goddammit. When you are a poor, inexperienced kid in college, you'll pretty much take any job that offers a paycheck and doesn't involve letting people stare at your boobs for pez. Retail is easy, mindless, and allows more money to go through your hands than you will ever see in your overeducated-yet-skilless existence.

So yeah. First day at work. Still tripping. My hair covers the entire portion of one half of my face in order to conceal the eyebrow ring that my supervisor said didn't promote the "values of a store like Express." Yeah. Uh, right. I've squeezed my ass into the only pair of Express jeans I own. They're too stiff. Plus I'm wearing these boots that make me look like a drunken Parkinson's patient when I walk. My push up bra is sticking into my rib cage.
I feel like a trussed up whore. And I am one. I'm a retail whore.

My supervisor explains that I work on commission. I'm to roam the front of the store, and when a fearful, unsuspecting customer gets within 25 feet of me, I'm to jump on their back, squeeze my legs around their waist, and yell, "I'M GWEN! REMEMBER MY NAME! IT'S GWEN! TELL THEM AT THE REGISTER! YOU WANT TO BUY CLOTHES HERE, DON'T YOU? LET MEEEEEE HELP YOOOOOU!"
Then I am to drag them to the nearest dressing room and throw as many clothes made by asthmatic, malnourished children in Thailand as I can over the top of the door, barricade them in, and hope it will inspire them to spend, spend spend.
All this for $7.50 an hour.

I quit after two days. I recognized the look of abject fear and hatred in the customers' eyes when they saw me come out of my guerilla-inspired hiding spot. When I said, "How are you?" they heard, "I am going to follow you around the store until you finally cave in and buy something you will never wear. And if you don't, I will make your time in here a living hell." I couldn't blame them. It was my job. They hated me. I hated me. Yup, after two days of bullying others, I was ready to call it quits.

Now let me take you to yesterday. I wander into Victoria's Secret in the Prudential Mall, hoping to find a really killer lacy number. As soon as I walk in, I see the look in the sales womens' eyes.
Calculating. Sizing me up.

She looks like a 34 B or maybe a C. Ok, lemme grab these bras off the table here, and see if I can get her to try them on. Remember, tell her your name. It's Crystal. Yes, remember to tell her, "hi, my name is Crystal." And if she's not interested in what I have to sell, I can always duct tape her down in one of the dressing room. Those are heavy doors. No one will hear her scream. Just buy a bra, lady. And mention my name at the register.

That kind of stuff. Standard, run-of-the-mill bra girl stuff.

I try to hide. I'm looking for a particular bra that they don't seem to have in my size. Matthias urges me to ask one of the sales women staring at me and salivating over the thought that I might have a Visa card somewhere in my wallet. I protest. I'm scared. All I want to do is find my frigging underwear and run.

In the ten minutes I have been there, I have been approached by at least four different bra women, all asking me how I'm doing. They just want me to take off my clothes (in the dressing room). The other women around me are doing as I do - trying to avoid the glance of the bra girl while grabbing the nearest bra and running out. It's a war in there.

Yet, at the same time, I am reminded of my days (all two if them) in Express - the misery, the aching feet, the tight ass jeans, and the fear that if I didn't make enough sales I might be fired. A small part of me wants to take these bra girls by the shoulders, and say, "You don't have to do this, you know. You're no corporate whore. I can see it in your eyes. Come on, you're miserable here, aren't you. And do you have this bra in a 34 C?"

My good will only goes so far.

Mood (kind of): cynical

"Careful" by Guster

And you walked out when I asked you to stay
As usual you will get your way
You closed the door
and stumbled down to the street
Where you wring your hands
and drag your feet
Where the words can't find you
To crawl inside you

I'm ringing all the warning bells
Careful or you'll hurt yourself
Others lie, lie, lie,
they adore you
I'll be the one to tell you
Careful or you'll hurt yourself
Gonna try, try, try till the morning comes

But you can't hide
standing under these stars
They know everything,
they know where you are
You're in your head,
you're all turned around with it
And they're shining down their light to bring you back again
Back where I can find you
To crawl inside you

I'm ringing all the warning bells
Careful or you'll hurt yourself
Others lie, lie, lie,
they adore you
I'll be the one to tell you
Careful or you'll hurt yourself
Gonna try, try, try till the morning -

All you want to see
is make believe
it's nothing
but way down underneath

I'm ringing all the warning bells
Careful you don't hurt yourself
Others lie, lie, lie,
they adore you
I'll be the one to tell you
Careful or you'll hurt yourself
Gonna try, try, try till the morning comes

* * * * * *

Ugh, sometimes a simple song comes a little too close to home, eh?

Mood (kind of): crushed
Tunes: It should be obvious

On break now. Just finished my last exam. The essay question was enough to warrant an entire term paper. All I can do is cross my fingers, stop worrying, and hope that Bailey feels generous when he grades the test.

In other news, the Naked Quad Run may be cancelled this year. Apparently, our president invited a bunch of trustees and pretty much everyone who has donated a significant amount of money to the university over to his house when the Run ocurred last year (the president's house is smack in the middle of campus). Common sense dictates that this would not be an opportune moment to do so - what can you do with thousands of drunk, naked, rowdy college students? Seems to me like Bakow invited his buddies over just to create opposition to the Run. Past presidents have looked the other way. Bakow is manipulating the demise of the Run.

Is nothing sacred? Yeah, it's a big old mess, but it's a rite of passage.
Typically, the Quad Run has ocurred during reading period, when Tufts students are stressed. Running around naked and acting like an idiot helps relieve that pressure. I did it freshman year, and it seemed pretty harmless.
The Tufts Naked Quad Run has always happened. A documentary was even made about it. To give you an idea of how permissive past presidents have been, allow me to point out that they used to open up the cafeteria after the run and serve all the students belgian waffles.
(Of course, that stopped after a campus-wide food fight, but allow me to gloss over that.)
Well, what can you do with a conservative president?

Well, at least I can say I did it before it got cancelled.
Bah.

Back to class.

How the hell am I supposed to remember names like "dehydroepiandosterone" and "androstenedione?"

Ok, ok. My only comfort is that if I blow this exam, my last A will make up for it. And I have that term paper thingie. Yeah. A thesis or something.
My hand is cramping up. It's freezing in here. And man, my brain really hurts. But I have my iPod, so at least I'm mildly entertained.

I can't believe I am going to have to use the term "bitch tits" on an exam.
Coffee....good. I've stopped making any sense - midterms have given me the cognitive function of oh, say, a ficus tree. Any minute now I'll start drooling, scratching myself, and letting out an occasional grunt.

I should have been a philosophy major.

Tunes: Table for Glasses

I'm going over the notes I copied from Flo to get ready for tonight's exam. I stumble on to this little tid bit:

Women used to swallow sterilized hookworm eggs to prevent food from being absorbed in the GI tract. Of course, this would leave the young lady in question with a nasty pallor - and she would be unable to do much in terms of work. Thus, in order to do this, one must be wealthy enough to leave their share of work to others.
Of course, if you were poor, you'd take the easier route - you'd simply swallow shattered glass. This way your GI tract would be so damaged that it would be unable to absorb partially digested food.

(shudders)

And I hear Jenny Craig is brutal.


No parasites or glass for me, thanks. Really.

Mood (kind of): nauseated
Tunes: Girlfriend - Eve6

When you major in some specific field in college, it begins to take over your life. It shapes the way you think, they way you look at the world. That's how I see it, at least.
I'm an anthropology major. I find myself focusing on language, and cultures within cultures. Tonight I made some observations about relationships.
Friendships between adults is often very subtle. It has its own set of nuances and etiquette. Especially when these relationships are still new and tenuous. And the way they form changes over time.
Take, for example, my best friend from elementary school, Sarah. We actually met in nursery school, when we were about three. Sarah and I share the same last name. When I heard this during roll call, I knew this girl was supposed to be my friend. So I went up and asked her directly, "hey - wanna be my best friend?" She agreed, and we were best friends until junior high pulled us in separate directions. How weird is that - just going up to a stranger and assuming friendship.
I'd never do that today. Our culture dictates that this would be seen as too direct a proposition. If I were to ask a person to suddenly be my friend, they would probably be a little freaked out. I think I would be, too, if someone did it to me. For some reason, it's a little threatening.
Now take for instance, my friendship with a girl named Flo. We're in two of the same anthro classes together. We started talking one day during a break in one of these classes - we both ran outside for a cigarette (ah, but now I've quit...). We started talking about both classes, complaining about all the tests and weird expectations the professors had of us. As time went on, it was assumed that during each break, Flo, Lorraine and I would hang out near the anthro building stairs. The others would have a cigarette, while I would suck greedily on my nicotine inhaler.
Tonight we had a study session. Flo let me copy her notes, and we lingered outside to talk a little before going home. I realized that we had slowly become friends. Now, I'm not about to make Flo the godmother of my future non-children, but she's someone I'd feel comfortable asking to have a cup of coffee.
When we are young, friendship is something that can be assumed, and established quickly. As adults, it takes a lot longer to develop a degree of comfortability. There are things one can and cannot do. Trust is never assumed between two individuals; you simply cannot force intimacy. You can't be too eager, yet you can't come off as too detached. There's a subtle balance to making friends.
What I find most interesting is that most of us are conditioned to know this intuitively. No one really needs an explanation of how to socialize. Those that do are often seen as social deviants. We don't necessarily verbalize the small rites and rituals of establishing friendship, but we know if one of them has not been carried out.
We never really think about the fact that there are other ways of establishing and evaluating friendship in other cultures; ours is a very ethnocentric society. Hey - in Papua, New Guinea, it used to be that those closest to an individual got to eat the tastier parts of the person's body when they passed away. I read somewhere that the standard greeting for this group translated roughly to something like, "hi, I eat you."
Eh, I think too much.
You know, I'm happy to wax anthropological in my own journal - but ask me to write a paper on this stuff and it's the last thing I want to think about.

On an unrelated note, someone in the iPod community nailed the Homsar quote in my icon. I thought it might be too obscure a reference, so this made me happy. It happens to be a pretty good episode, so if you want to check it out, here it is.
Don't ever say I never do anything nice for the folks who read this stuff.

Mood (kind of): awake
Tunes: the sounds of Final Fantasy X