Snow Way, Jose

I don't know about the rest of you, but I am rooting for this snowstorm like its New Orleans in the Superbowl. Seriously, I'm thinking I'll have off until at least Wednesday. Wishful thinking, anyway. Though I did just spend a good half hour or so shoveling a path to my car, and then knocking two feet of snow off of him with a broom. I'm sure there are thousands of similar stories to go around.

I've basically thrown myself into my schoolwork this weekend, as there is absolutely nothing else to do around the house. I came back to Bel Air Thursday night to beat the snow and spend time with my family, but now I'm out of ideas and all the books I want to read are at the apartment. Fortunately, my computer is here, so I can always revise my MOAS resolution or research American Indian tribes or... something equally as stimulating... Or I could actually get a life.

Even though sitting around the house twiddling my thumbs gets kind of lonesome, I'm glad I feel this way, because when I actually get to see the ones I'm missing it will mean a heck of a lot more. At least, that's what I'm telling myself. For the time being, however, I'm staring out the window at the swirling precipitation and hoping "The Book of the Courtier" actually turns out to be a good book.

I sent one of my professors a question about the book; I couldn't understand how a book about proper court etiquette would make it to the Inquisition's list of banned books. Instead of sending me back a two-sentence answer about how certain terminology in the book, in the Catholic church's opinion, pointed to a disregard of God, she told me a book to look in for the answer to my own question, and then proceeded to tell me that I would be presenting the answer in front of the whole class next week.

I'm sorry, but last time I checked SHE was getting paid to teach, not me. Oh, and I thought when a student showed interest and incentive to learn a topic, said student was to be commended, not slapped in the face. My mistake.

School makes me a little apprehensive about my relationship with God. I find that I get caught up in a very analytical and secular mindset when I spend all my time studying and going to class; it eats up my time because I feel guilty when I have work to do and choose not to do it. I try to make time during the week to read my Bible in the morning, but on days like today I put it off again and again. I need a packed schedule to actually motivate me to do anything. What a shame.

Living in Linthicum (a.k.a. big Linth)

School is back in session for Towson University, as seen by the intense amount of cars parked in Union Garage this morning. In two weeks I estimate their numbers will be halved as people drop classes in droves. It's interesting being back in the same general schedule I was last semester; I almost feel as though I didn't just come out of the longest break of my entire life. The gym is still dead in the morning, work is still anything but, and class--well, I haven't been there yet. All I know is that every single class is in the same building: Linthicum Hall. Hopefully classes will be more engaging than last semester. And I'm praying I don't have to write too many papers. That would be a plus.

I finished moving into the town house yesterday; my roommate and I established that we will not see each other for about two weeks, since both of our schedules are insanely busy. I personally am looking forward to getting home on Tuesdays and Thursdays before nine o'clock at night. That would be amazing.

It's difficult feeling pulled in two different directions; while I am happy to be back to a normal schedule that adds academic purpose to my life, it was nice to be at home and spend time with people. Now I officially have no life. Again. I did, however, read two National Geographic articles this morning.

Case and point.

The beginning of the semester always carries a feeling of uncertainty and excitement. In fact, I usually go through an extreme emotional low for the first two weeks after I receive all my syllabi and imagine dropping out would be easier than trying to pass all my classes. Fortunately, by identifying such a desperate mental state, I can force through it against my better judgment. It is exciting, though, to learn something new. And to meet new professors--sometimes. Sometimes you walk into class and realize you're going to hate the next five months.

I like to temper my optimism with some good, old-fashioned cynicism. It's a honed skill of mine.

Decisively Indecisive... Maybe

Once upon a time, I was in the eighth grade, and my favorite teacher inspired me to study History for a living. (He also gave me a plastic spoon with the words "Keep Writing" written on the handle and a smiley face on the ladle portion, but that's a story for another time. Preferably never.) I then journeyed through the morass of dramatic incongruity that is high school and came out with my sanity intact (shockingly) to study History and Anthropology in college. And now, I come to a crossroads, sort of like the riddle with the two brothers, one which always lies and one which always tells the truth and you have to ask them one question. (The answer is the other brother. The question is just plain complicated.)

One brother thumbs over his shoulder and says, "You know, relief work is rewarding. Why don't you see if you can get a job with one with a bachelors degree and travel the world or something? P.S.: You might end up at a desk job that you will find completely unsatisfactory. Just f.y.i." The other brother wears glasses and a pocket protector and wheezes, "Keep studying. Go to grad school and get a PhD! You'd be the first Kenner in the history of Kenners to be called Dr. Kenner! ... You'll also be saddled with insane amounts of dissertation work for the next six years of your life."

Now, I like writing thousand-page reports as much as the next person, but my previously-accepted life plan of grad school suddenly seems negotiable. I can't even fathom the idea of writing a thesis. But then again, I can't fathom the idea of stopping my education at the undergraduate level. I'm a life-long learner; if I could get paid for learning, I would do it. Hands down. If I never had to take another test I would do it. Hands down. ... Wait...

You see my dilemma. While I understand that no one else can make this decision for me, sometimes it's nice to get some feedback. Or advice. Or just... something. Cash is always good.

Dreaming About Armageddon: Priceless

I was watching Gilmore Girls with my mom this evening, and I was completely dumbstruck by the poor quality of commercials on TV. Everything from furniture galleries to home security systems made me want to wrench the television from the wall and chuck it out the bedroom window, if not for the incredibly expensive consequences of such an action. I mean, seriously, if you saw your neighbors getting robbed, would you stamp your foot indignantly, and say in a huff, "I TOLD them to get the Slomin's Shield! And it's FREE." Needless to say, I can't wait for the Superbowl; at least that has some decent advertisements, such as the following:



Things have been a little nuts lately; between our Kentucky excursion and my entire family being sick, I feel as though I've seen some friends come home and leave without getting more than a word in edgewise. Don't get me wrong, not all of it has been busy or bad by any means, but I suppose nostalgia has been the name of the game. Ugh. I hate it. Moving forward is necessary, but I guess I feel like I'm being separated from people without my consent.

I even had a terrible dream last night that the world was going to explode and the United States had discovered four viable planets to which everyone in the country was being shipped. The average American had no control over where they were getting sent, however, and I knew I was going to get separated from those I loved. The rest of the dream is kind of obsolete (one of my best friends had a twin I never knew about, and then I tried calling my parents from a tube of toothpaste across the galaxy--stuff like that). At one point I remember running through the convention center-type place from which we were disembarking shouting for someone, crying because he was getting sent somewhere to which I could not follow.

It was rather distressing. Not to mention the guy in question was named Seth... which is what I call my car... I'm not sure what the significance is there.

Perhaps, while I have resigned myself to the fact that things could never be the same as they were (the old adage, "the only thing that stays the same is that everything changes" applies) I subconsciously have not found a way to deal with it... ? Ironically, my boss came in today with "The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy" on CD today; for those of you who haven't read it, the scatterbrained plot revolves around Earth's destruction to make way for an intergalactic super highway. Maybe my dream wasn't a mirror of my subconscious, but rather a premonition.

And So It Goes

Elkton, Kentucky: population 1,984, a third of which are probably related to my dad in some way. When you drive into the square, you catch a full-frontal glimpse of the historic courthouse, which unfortunately sits on a sinkhole and is therefore never used, except during Christmas when someone decides to put four Christmas trees in the windows. Other important sights include the only three chain stores in the entire town (Subway, Weather's Drugs, and Save-a-Lot), the Mexican restaurant that has changed hands at least half a dozen times in the past three years, and easily the biggest cemetery I have ever seen.

My grandmother's house sits on eight acres of unused farmland, equipped with a decrepit barn full of old stuff (like my dad's old saddle, weathered and stiff from years of neglect), a garage also full of just... stuff, and at least six cats, all of which are cute but none of which have an affinity for humans. My grandfather built that house for her in the 1950s, and she's lived in it ever since. They've added rooms onto it, but it still only has one bathroom, which makes for quite an interesting morning shower routine when we come to visit. Even Grandpa's old truck is still there--thirty years old and still running, or at least until Bart broke down in Clarksville last week.

I probably can't count the number of cousins I have, but I'm thinking first cousins alone are somewhere around six or seven, the majority of which are noticeably older than I am. Kevin is in his thirties, married with a twelve-year old kid. I only have one female cousin, and she also has a son... or two? I forget. It's hard to keep track of family you only see once in a blue moon.

I was completely shocked when I saw Grandma; she's lost a lot of weight in the past six months, and her back hurts all the time. The entire visit was underlain by a sense of depression. On the bright side, she seems to be doing much better than when we first arrived. I'd like to think that somehow we made her feel a little happier just by being there.

I managed to steal a small conversation with her; she doesn't talk much in large groups, but one-on-one she's quite the chatterbox. I can relay one story, which may not speak too highly of my ancestors, but whatever.

Grandma told me that, in addition to her two sisters and grandparents, she also lived in the same house with her three uncles and at least one aunt. Uncle Hanam, Uncle Corbin, and Uncle Ernest were brothers on her father's side, more commonly known as Grandpa Wilson. Ernest was a notorious alcoholic, and would spend his days sleeping off his drunken nights. When he was passed-out on the porch, Grandma Wilson wouldn't even let the kids outside. The guy was nuts.

Hanam, on the other hand, worked hard all the time. Grandma spoke very highly of his agency. Hanam and Ernest went halfsies on a saw once, and I'm sure that Hanam got much more use out of it than Ernest ever did. One night, however, Ernest came back from the bar or the moonshiner's or wherever you get booze around Lake Malone and saw Hanam sawing away at something and he got angry. Ernest shouted at him, telling him to put down his saw, that it didn't belong to him, that he should have asked him before he just up and used it. Hanam ignored him and the pleadings of his wife, arguing that Ernest would just go sleep it off, as per usual.

Ernest didn't sleep it off. He went back to the house, grabbed his gun, and shot Hanam dead. Corbin reported him to the authorities, who admitted him to the sanitarium, since all the drinking had basically fried his brain. Before they took him, Ernest vowed that when he got out he would come for Corbin next.

Several years passed. Ernest contracted TB in the sanitarium, which pitied him enough to offer him the his last few months of life in freedom. By then the only relative who could take him was Corbin, who effectively said, "Over my dead body," and let Ernest rot alone in the asylum. When Ernest died, he was buried next to Hanam, which seemed perfectly natural to everyone else in the family except Grandma, who was incredibly peeved by the entire affair.

I totally should have visited their graves while we were there, but something about this story freaks me out. Can't imagine why.

Go Army, Eat Navy

Finals are upon Towson University like a fluffy snowfall--of death, destruction, depression, and sleeplessness. This is the type of snowfall that freezes your car door shut, leaves your tongue stuck to the metal flag pole, and then causes you to slip and break your tailbone on the sidewalk in front of the hottest kid on campus.

Before you jump to any conclusions, none of this has happened to me. Though I did come across a guy who looked EXACTLY like Brad Pitt yesterday. If he turns out to be Brad Pitt, I'm going to be kicking myself for all of eternity. (It also means Brad has a pension for chocolate ice cream cones.)

My first final was characterized by apathy and lathered in shrugs, as I only needed a 65% or higher to keep an "A" in the class. I think I managed that. My final today is slightly more intense (I need a whopping 73%) but again, not too concerned. Thursday is essentially zero hour, what with two essay-format History finals back-to-back. Como se dice "carpal tunnels" en espanol? My History 300 paper--the one on which my grade for two classes rides--earned a solid "A", which I will have no qualms about waving under Dr. Rook's nose when I get the chance. He probably doesn't remember me, anyway.

It's hard to get back into the mundane swing of things after an awesome weekend. Easily one of the best of my twenty years thus far, even if Army did happen to lose on Saturday. The fact that the West Pointers stole Navy's mascot's head and tossed it around like a beach ball completely makes up for that. Also, the signs that said "Navy was my Safety School" and "Navy=Army Support" and "Eat Navy" (a stunning variation of the well-known slogan, "Beat Navy") speak for themselves.

These people are protecting our country, my friends. Rest assured, liberty is in their capable hands.

Just Another Manic Monday

Last night after FUEL, I stumbled into the apartment, hamper in tow. Bella was there, as usual, and proceeded to attempt to cling to my foot as I dragged myself to the thermostat and turned up the heat. An hour later, I was in bed, wondering why my neighbors were taking a shower at ten o'clock at night, but since I was glorified exhausted, I thought no more about it (in fact, I fell asleep).

Fast-forward to 6:10 am: I come downstairs, and lo and behold, that shower sound is still present, but for some reason, it's louder in the kitchen. That just doesn't make sense to me, so I check under the sink to make sure nothing is leaking. I had just enough time to peek before Bella tried to eat a sponge. As I walk to the coat closet to get Bella's food and placate her appetite for cleaning supplies, a sickening realization dawns on me:

The hot water heater is in that closet.

Sometime last night, my hot water heater broke, and upon opening the closet door, an inch of standing water seeped out into the living room. I couldn't find a water shut-off valve, and the only valve on the heater was stuck. I resigned myself to my soggy fate and called the emergency maintenance guy, who I assume is drying out the carpet with a gigantic fan as I type this, twenty minutes away at TU.

What a Monday. I wanted to clean the house before Meredith and Josh got home; now I'll just be happy if I can get it dry.

It could have been worse, though; it could have been finals week. Or it could have happened on Thursday when I was in Philly. Or... maybe I should stop speculating before I jinx myself.