Song of the Day

La vie en rose

I actually prefer the Edith Piaf version, but I've got this Marlene Dietrich version, and it's absolutely hilarious and sexy (which are two things which I firmly believe do not coincide nearly often enough). Plus I recently got to witness my great uncle do a Marlene impression to die for (to die laughing for)... SO! By all means enjoy.
It of course, and as usual, has special significance for me today.

An office I will NEVER be qualified to perform

In the co-op meal house, there is a milk dispenser. One side dispenses 2% white milk (blech) and the other side dispenses 1% chocolate milk. Tonight I decided that with my pisghetti I would have a glass of the latter. Only some one had just changed the container and neglected to open it. The giant bags come equipped with a plastic spout, you have to cut open the spout to get the milk. Enough explanation.
I went into the kitchen, and asked the cute old lady supervising for something with which to cut the spout of the chocolate milk. She said, "Oh, dammit!" as though she had been the one to overlook this essential step. Then she looked at me with this funny little smile grabbed a pair of scissors, handed them to me and said, "You want to circumsize it?"
I backed away from the scissors shaking my head. "Not any more I don't."

Not when you put it like that.

Shoe Down

This weekend I went home and, among many other things accomplished, cleaned out my closet. I do this every time I move somewhere, even if it's just home, or to another house in K-town. It ends up being a bi-annual (twice yearly) activity which usually yields at least a garbage bag of charity-bound items which first of course gets a good once over by a couple of girlfriends. I have a guideline in doing this that I get rid of anything I haven't worn in the last year. If I haven't worn it in any season for the last twelve-month, I'm probably not going to wear it again and it's just taking up space. Valuable real estate which could be occupied by new things.
If you're wondering how it's possible that I can remember exactly what hasn't been worn in the space of a year -- who would actually devote that much memory to the cataloguing of daily outfits? Ask any woman, and she will tell you: all of us. It's not conscious; it's archetypal.
The problem with my closet at home is that it invariably becomes a resting place for things which I'm just not SURE about yet. Things which I don't want right NOW, but I might want LATER because fashion, as we all know, is more incestuous than anything from a Big Love story line. So when I cleaned out my closet this weekend, in an effort to lessen the burden of packing I'm going to have to deal with in December before I move to Vancouver, I ended up with THREE GARBAGE BAGS FULL of clothes and shoes. You all need to read the last part of that sentence again and MARVEL SOME MORE.
The number of my closetary diaspora included over 15 pairs of shoes. CONTINUE THE MARVELLING. This was a big deal for me, because if there's anything I have a hard time giving up -- milk products, Australian mango preserve, old magazines -- shoes are certainly the most difficult. They are also one of the things I love most in the world. My mother has recently taken full responsibility for this, but I think laying the full weight of the blame on her would be a little unfair -- you should see my grandmother's closet.
It's hardly surprising that heterosexual men should have such a hard time understanding this. Why and how would one ever make use of more than three pairs of shoes? I honestly can't answer this question -- another symptom of my illness.
I emailed TM today in part to describe my sartorial victory, and he wrote back, duly impressed, saying that as long as we kept it around 20 pairs we probably wouldn't over run our closet space.
His response illicited this panicked email to my mother:

Could you count the shoes hanging on my door? I believe there's only the one pair of boots actually in the closet. I told TM today about my triumphant shoe removal, and he wrote back that he'd checked out the closet space more thoroughly this weekend and that there wasn't that much space but if we were to keep it at ~20 pairs of shoes between us we'd be okay. And I thought ONLY TWENTY PAIRS? CRAP.
Every once in a while I have a creeping suspicion he may not actually understand exactly what he's getting himself into ;) Maybe if I promise to keep them all in a box instead of on the floor of the closet...
hee hee?

I then sent him a message asking him if he realized that I still probably had more than 20 pairs of shoes. That in fact, here in K-town alone I had 11.
He wrote the following: X-15 > 20 ? (You've gotta love a man who communicates in inequalities)
I said, um... Yes.
Subsequently, my mother responded to my email saying that I had 16 pairs hanging on my door (but that several pairs were VERY skinny).

So... the current grand total?
16 hanging on door + 1 pair of boots on floor + 11 at school (not including the three pairs I intend to get rid of before I move)

= 28 pairs of shoes

Wait, what was that sound? Did you hear that? I think... yeah...
That was TM reading this and saying "WHAT?!"
Except possibly in bigger caps...
Did I mention some of them are flip-flops? Very flat and stackable...

A Spelling Rant as Only I (or My Mother) Can Deliver

Tonight when I went to eat dinner in the co-op dining hall, I read the menu while waiting in line.
The menu is put up by the fluctuating student kitchen staff on a blackboard, and changed at every meal. This evening’s menu included the following item:

French Ragout -- Bon apétit

I read this and groaned internally. A clever little international linguistic flair is only clever if you know how to spell it properly. Please take note. I mean, one can ignore the fact that, were it really French ragout, it would actually be ragoût; but it is difficult, nay impossible, to overlook the misplacement of that extra ‘p.’ After all, one might assume that the individual in question knows how to spell ‘appetite’ in English (there is of course the possibility that this assumption only sets me up for further disillusionment).
I stood there in line entertaining several thoughts this error brought about:
1. The Intolerant -- “What idiot wrote that, and why hasn’t any other idiot made the first idiot change it?”
2. The Neurotic -- “My French housemates will clearly associate me with this mistake by generalization.”
3. The Perfectionist -- “I have to change this. Now. Oh god. I can’t stand it make it right.”
When it came my turn to have my meal card checked, I told the girl at the desk my name and said, “Appétit is spelled wrong. There are two ‘p’s.”
She looked at me, she looked at the board, she looked back at me and said, “Oh. Yeah.”
I looked at her expectantly. She looked at me blankly.
I thought momentarily of following up with “That means you take that piece of chalk AND FIX IT.” Instead I moved along in line and collected my food. Clearly she could not make the connection between my statement, and the appropriate consequential action. An action that I could no longer, in the interests of politeness, take myself.
I sat and waited for a French person to come to dinner and either laugh or look derisively at the blackboard, but none appeared (I was eating uncharacteristically early). Instead I sat and watched the card check girl nervously, as she did me. Perhaps she would eventually give in and change it. She did not. We had, I realized, a spelling stand off. I was right -- I knew it, she knew it -- but she was going to stick to the original erroneous spelling so as not to admit that.
It did not get changed.
I went home and fought the urge to knock on my French neighbour’s door to tell her that appétit was spelled wrong in the dining room and I WAS COMPLETELY AWARE OF THIS FACT.
I did not succumb to this urge. Instead I posted the whole sordid tale on the internet. So now you know that I knew.
I knew!

Song of the Day

Autumn Leaves ~ Eva Cassidy

Inventions I would like to see on the market ASAP

1 toilet paper rolls that replace themselves
2 easy and affordable sound-proof drywalling
3 smoke alarms that detect only smoke and NOT EVERYTHING ELSE EVER...

Oh wait, they have those don't they? They've just neglected to install them in this house. Hence the wake up call, the post, and my mood for the rest of the day. Awesome.

If you're a woman in Finland, don't get into a car today.

It's Friday the Thirteenth today, and that means... well nothing really. At least, I was not personally bothered by particularly bad luck today. I did a lot of work, which wasn't necessarily lucky, but I didn't embarass myself publicly while doing it, which puts the day in the plus column in my books.

I am: incredibly bored and lazy

Which are you?

made by Jen

Movie of the Day

The Lady Eve (1941)

"Oh, why didn't you take me in your arms that day? Why did you let me go?
Why did we have to go through all this nonsense?
Don't you know you're the only man I ever loved?
Don't you know I couldn't look at another man if I wanted to?
Don't you know I waited all my life for you, you big mug?"

heh heh heh
big mug.

Next chance you get I dare you to call someone a big mug.

Words of Wisdom

Thanksgiving seems to bring something out in people. Mostly the constant wishing of "Happy Thanksgiving." Walking back from class today, I've heard people calling it out to eachother across streets, from front doors.
It's always been sort of an abstract concept to me, but it certainly isn't lost on my professors.
Each of my profs has had something inspiring to say this week, and I've jotted the best pieces down to share with you (should anyone actually still be reading this *blush*).

1. My psych prof, a charming Irish man with a very pleasing voice, in one of his many personal anecdotes about how someone told him to do something stupid (and he did it) said:
"I learned something very valuable that day: Don't believe someone who's bullshitting you."
He of course closed up the lecture with "Happy Thanksgvingng" but that was the really funny part.

2. My English prof, an interesting mustachioed little woman who wears sports coats and sneakers and entertains us in each class with stories of her dog, her knitting and her grandchildren, came into class yesterday, took one look at us all and said:
"It's been a hard week hasn't it, it has been really hard. You've just got to keep going. Trudge through! Trudge through! Get those affirmations on your fridge!"

This weekend can't come too soon.