Since I Hate to Dwell on the Negative...

Here are two wonderful things about my life this weekend:



On Saturday night, Emily and I went to see Loyola's production of The Learned Ladies by Moliere. I cannot remember the last time I laughed so hard. It was evident just from the set that Loyola gives more funding to their drama department than NNU is able to. The costumes were hilarious, Louis XVI masterpieces, with the men wearing those Captain Hook-style wigs with ringlets cascading down to their buttocks. The villain's get-up was the best: a violent fluorescent pink brocade coat, orange pantaloons, and a red shirt. Oh, it was ghastly. As for the characters, there was not a dull one in the cast. I was really impressed by the amount of talent I saw there. Emily and I were still laughing when we parted ways at the El stop that night.

And then, on Sunday, I went to the Chicago Symphony Orchestra with a group of people from my Sunday school class. Rouse's Rapture was well-played, but I'm afraid I can't get too excited about modern orchestral pieces. The next piece was by far my favorite: three movements from Tchaikovsky's Violin Concerto in D Major, Op. 35. The lead violinist was Joshua Ball, a Grammy award-winning fellow who showed me what fabulous things one could do with a violin. Oh. My. Goodness. He played with such skill, it sounded like the music of angels. After the last movement, the crowd cheered and bravoed for so long he had to come back out on the stage three times to bow and present the rest of the orchestra. It was magical. The last piece was good too, but it had already been eclipsed by the Tchaikovsky, and I remember very little about it. On the whole, it was breathtaking.

So you see. Life isn't all schoolwork and unhappiness. There are some bright moments, too.

Hindsight

You know, I'm becoming more and more certain that it was right for me not to get in to the PhD program. Not only do I feel entirely unqualified for that kind of work, but I am starting to loathe homework like you would not believe. The thought of being chained to a keyboard for five more years, churning out rehashed ideas that have been rehashed fifty times already, is enough to give me the dry heaves. I just don't know if all the agony is worth it in the end.

Just three more weeks of hell to go. God preserve my sanity until then.

The Spirit of the Hunter

Killed a spider today. The only reason this event is noteworthy is because the thing was the size of a Lorna Doone shortbread cookie. It crawled out of a small hole in my ceiling and onto a pair of pants I had hung from the exposed water pipe to air-dry. When I took down the pants, the evil creature fell on my comforter and then scuttled under my bed. Of course, now I had to kill the thing, because there is no way on God's green earth that I would be able to sleep knowing that a huge spider was lurking right beneath me.

So, I armed myself with a sturdy shoe and went on the hunt, quietly sneaking up on my bed and systematically flinging my Rubbermaid storage boxes (which I keep under my bed) across the room, hoping to expose the dreaded beast. Finally, I was down to the last box. I crept up, shoe at the ready, and tossed the box aside. Unfortunately, there was nothing behind it. I now feared the worst: that the spider was seeking shelter in my sheets. Then I spotted a flicker of movement behind the bedframe. Now it was time to whip out the big guns, aka the vacuum cleaner.

I got the vacuum into position, slowly crept towards the beast's hiding place, and suddenly flipped the switch. There was a whirring, and then a fabulous thunk as the huge body was drawn in. Ahhh, it was a satisfying sound. My bloodlust has now been satisfied. Who needs big game hunting when you have ferocious beasts living in your own bedroom?

A New Job Category

In my relentless search for places to work after graduation, I have stumbled onto a new category that has quite a few opportunities for a student like me: boarding schools. There are over thirty all-girls' boarding schools in the United States, granted most of them closer to the East coast than the West. In fact, there are only four girls' boarding schools west of the Mississippi, so that considerably narrows my chances of moving back to the West. But within this category, I've found places where an MA in English is just what they need.

Thus, I'll be spending a large portion of my day today polishing up my resume and mailing off another slew of envelopes. You know, I'd sleep so much better at night if I just knew where I would be in three months. This suspense is starting to grate on my nerves.

Play It Again, Sam

Well, it seems as though the fates have decided that I have not humiliated myself enough when it comes to my interaction with the opposite sex. Yes, once again I have made an utter fool of myself. You know, Emily has been thinking about joining a sisterhood of Episcopalian nuns in London, and the way things have been going, I may just switch denominations and join her.

Tuesday was the first day this year to get over sixty-five degrees, so I decided to wear a skirt to class. I haven't worn a skirt since I first moved here to Chicago, so I was feeling very feminine. I was also feeling very self-confident, since I was wearing a skirt that I have not been able to fit in to for several years. After my classes that night it was still very nice out, so I decided to walk home. As I was walking, I happened to look ahead and notice that a handsome man was out walking his dogs just a block ahead of me, and that he had stopped to let them play for a few moments. Feeling rather confident, I decided to do a tiny drive-by flirtation. Hey! Don't pretend like you haven't done it. I know for a fact that at least half of my readers have done this at one time or another, so don't even start to judge.

So, I walked by, and just gave the little smile and nod typical of a drive-by flirtation. He smiled and nodded back, and I walked on thinking smug thoughts about the impression I must have made. Well, I just know that God heard these smug thoughts, and sent me the following punishment.

The next day, I was hurrying across campus with my classmates to my Early Modern class, when I spotted Dr. Clarke (my Victorian Novel professor) walking towards me. And walking alongside her was the man from the past night, and with his dogs too! I suddenly wondered if this man was a student of Dr. Clarke's, perhaps an advanced doctoral student that I had not yet met. Since I needed to talk to Dr. Clarke anyway about meeting with her next week, I broke ranks and trotted over to where they were standing. After a few moments discussing office hours and meetings, Dr. Clarke perhaps noticed my somewhat divided attention, and so politely decided to introduce her companion:

"And have you met my son?"

If ever I wished for a stray lightning bolt to come along and incinerate me, that was the moment. Her son! I was so horrified that all I could manage was:

"Oh yes! I remember you from last night!"

Of course, as soon as I said it, I regretted it. What must Dr. Clarke think about such a vague answer? Panicking, I nearly lost my bearings, trying desperately to think of anything to take their minds off my previous sentence. My eyes strayed downward towards the dogs sniffing around my feet. That's it! my bewildered mind cried. Talk about the dogs. Make them think about the dogs instead of me!

"Of course, it would be difficult to forget seeing such cute dogs as these!"

Curses! Now I've just insulted the poor man, saying that his dogs were the most memorable part of our encounter! Good heavens, why do I do this to myself? My mind now in a total fog of terror, I said a quick goodbye and bolted towards my class as though my very salvation depended upon it. Now that I think about it, I must have seemed terribly rude. Blathering like an idiot, and then darting off like a shot in the middle of an introduction, what other impression could I have made? Merciful heavens, could I have made a greater fool of myself?

I wonder if the nuns in London are accepting applications.

Testing One, Two, Three...

Whoa, isn't this so neat?! My photo host set up this program where we can make animated photo strips and post them. These pictures are from Marcie's birthday party last year, when we went up to the Owyhees. Every year we go up there, hike around, visit the birthday rock, carve another year into our birch tree, and make hobo dinners in the camp fire. It's sad to think that we won't all be able to do it this year, or at least we won't be able to do it right on Marcie's birthday, since I'm stuck here in Chicago until July. Ah well. However, if we wait until the summer, then we'll be able to spend more time up there, since the sun will set later in the day.

Anyway, pretty neat photo feature, huh? It jazzes the entry up a little, I think.

Finally! Something for my Vitae!

I just found out today that my panel has been selected to present at the Midwest MLA conference this November! Yay! Gosh, I suddenly feel so professional, being part of a real research panel and all. We're presenting on the intermingling or warring of high and low culture within Victorian British and American fiction and poetry. Oh, I'm just so giddy about the whole thing!

I also got that paper I was worried about turned in on time. Hooray. One last paper in feminist criticism in a few weeks, and then I'm free from the whole wretched business. It has been fun and all, but I just don't see myself ever getting excited about feminism. Some things about it rub me the wrong way.

Crock-Pot

If there was anything I could change about myself (according to my present mood and situation), I would change the way I write papers. Not the style itself, but the way that I compile data and get everything ready for a paper.

I am so slow in that department. I was describing to Samantha yesterday that I am very much like a Crock-Pot when it comes to writing. Instead of reading a book, writing out notes and quotes, and then using the notes from several books to put together a paper, I must instead read every book twice without taking notes, let all the information stew in my head for a few days, until the pressure of the paper deadline forces out something tangible and of worth. So maybe I'm half Crock-Pot, half pressure cooker. I've had this assignment and all the texts hanging over my head for three weeks, and it was just this morning when I finally came up with a topic to write on. It's a good topic, and I'll write a good paper, but why must I always wait until the last minute to produce anything worthwhile? (The paper is due tomorrow afternoon.) It is exceedingly frustrating.

And the worst part about it is that I never learn to alter my habits, because I always get away with this. All of the papers and presentations I have done this semester have been put together at the last minute, but I still end up with the good grades. How can I be motivated to change my ways if I never suffer for them? Except for a sleepless night or two, a healthy dose of stress, and a guilt-riddled conscience, there really is nothing prompting me to alter my methods.

So, here I am, ready for another night of staying up late, typing frantically, and cursing my own laziness and stupidity for not having done this last week when I had oodles of time. Disgraceful.