REPORT: The Wedding

Well, aside from the facts that...

1. The pianist was drunk
2. And there were 5 bridesmaids
3. And a maid of honour
4. And a flowergirl
5. And the pianist was drunk
6. And the bridesmaids smirked through the entire ceremony
7. And the pianist was drunk
8. And nobody in the wedding party took the wedding seriously
9. And the pianist was drunk

...the wedding was okay. Contrary to what the program read, "Cannon in D" was not played, nor was "Canon in D;" the bride instead processed down the aisle to repeated strains of the opening measures of "The Surprise Symphony," as picked out on the piano by a high school music teacher who has seen better (READ: LESS INEBRIATED) days. The bride couldn't keep from laughing as she swore to submit to her husband; the bridesmaids snickered through the entire wedding, and it was as though they were shooting a film and we were all extras.

I've known the bride since we were 6, and most of the bridesmaids for years, and a part of me felt funny at the fact that they were asked to stand there and I wasn't (that one? that bridesmaid? yeah, she and the bride quit talking years ago. They had lived together and then one moved out in a fit because they couldn't stand each other). And part of me felt funny that I was invited to be a part of this day when I hadn't been invited to be any part of her life whatsoever for the past 7 years. And then when the jealousy reared its ugly little head, I quashed it (horribly enough) by telling myself that THAT bridesmaid, that one with the fake Jamaican tan and fried hair, the one who wrecked a few friendships and was the self-proclaimed goddess of the group, yeah, she has the tan now, but man, when she's 60 years old and a wrinkled mess, my skin will still be smooth. Pasty white and emitting a radioactive glow, but wrinkle-free.

And it all makes me very sad.

Early-morning Coversations with Mom

One of my pet peeves (and feel utterly selfish that it is a peeve at all) is when I'm online for the first time of the day, and someone decides to station himself or herself in the same room and talk to me. Not an actual conversation, but occasional snippets, enough to disrupt any train of thought I had going on regarding my Online Experience.

Mom: "I like that commercial." (The t.v. wasn't on.)
me: "Uh-huh..."
Mom: "The one where the little boy is lying on his dad's stomach."
me: "Yeah; 'gorp, gorp.'"
Mom: "'Gorp, gorp.'" slight laugh, long pause.
I get back to checking my e-mail.
Mom: "Laura Bush always looks so pretty."



Today I have to go shopping for a wedding present for the wedding I'm attending this afternoon. I checked out their wedding registries at various stores, and it is MIND-BOGGLING how much stuff is checked-off their wishlists. The first thing I thought of when I noticed that, and remembered that I had spend lots of money on a bridal shower gift, too, was, I TOTALLY UNDERSTAND why people get married 3, 4, 5 times. ALL THOSE GIFTS! It's addicting.

My, how scentual.

If you were to chart out a pie graph of my mind, scents make up the majority of things that trigger memories -- many times, memories I hadn't thought of for years, or details I had never paid attention to. A certain cleaning detergent smell reminds me of my grandma's kitchen; Dreft laundry soap brings back my grandmother and grandfather. One whiff of newly constructed houses, the scent of sawdust in the air, and I'm suddenly 5 years old again, playing with a hammer and nails as Dad and other workers build our home.

Tonight, it was a cologne from Bath and Body Works that did the trick; I went to town with a couple friends, one of whom had to get a birthday present for her boyfriend. We sniffed dozens of scents at Marshall Fields, then meandered over to B&BW. I had her smell the cologne, then sprayed one on myself so she could smell it better. It was quite pungent at first, but quickly settled down to a mellow, warm scent -- and I was suddenly pulled back to a time early last October, stargazing from a chilly lakeshore around midnight, my hands freezing, but my body warmed by the heavy coat that had just been placed around me...and this scent enveloping me, emanating from the warmth of the lining.

It's very calming and comforting; a reminder of wonderful times, my favourite class, an amazing teacher who is one of the most brilliant people I know; the teacher who was stabbed by a guy high on meth last fall (and whose whiteboard on the office door read "Do math not meth" for the week following); the professor who accidentally broke the observatory one afternoon, because we were busy talking instead of paying attention to the list of things to do in order to safely open it; the professor who wanted the theatre professor to flunk me and threatened to not even look at my final and give me a zero, so I would have to stay longer. This scent reminds me of all that, and that I helped secure his job for a while longer at least, cutting through the insane campus politics and writing a long letter to the Dean of the college.

The Dean, oh, the Dean. The Dean who hugged me when I transferred, who played Henry Higgins in the a local production I played piano for, the middle-aged bachelor who leaves his office door open all the time, hoping people will pop in and say hi (I always do), who has The Coolest House Ever; the man who looks like -- forgive me -- a teddy bear. I loved that school so much, and though I've settled in at my new university, my first campus still has a piece of my heart. Sure, there are bigger and better things at my current school, but it's the people, the camaraderie I miss the most.

The campus I attend now is relatively small, as far as 4-year campuses go, but it's just big enough to wipe out most student-teacher interaction outside of class. and that interaction was something I rather took for granted, getting to stop into my professors' offices whenever I had a question, eating lunch with them, and them knowing me well enough to sense whenever something was going on.

Usually, when the semester's over, I throw out any test I got less than an A on; last fall I kept one, the one that had the lowest grade (the only non-A) I got in astronomy, for the inside cover of the test booklet is filled with writing (such distinctive handwriting), commenting on the fact that this work was not [underlined twice] up to my usual excellent level, and was I okay or was I just having a bad day? If I needed to talk, to come see him anytime.

It's that I miss overwhelmingly -- the personal touch, the knowledge of professors being real human beings who care about their students; I know most people believe, due to ethical reasons, there should be a gap between teachers and students, but I'm thankful for the professors whom I knew more as friends and mentors. I learned so much from them than I ever expected; they imparted to me not only math and science, music and english; they taught me about life, they encouraged me, they taught me to be open, to be brave, to try things I don't think I'll be good at. They taught me to broaden my mind and explore. They taught me an insane amount merely by conversing with me, sharing with me things about their own lives. That camaraderie is something I don't have at my new school, and was something I once took for granted. I am so thankful to have ever experienced it at all.

*happy geeky dance*

Last night I won a Rave MP Sport MP3 Player on ebay. It was funny because it was my first ebay purchase; I'd set up ebay and paypal accounts a few days ago in order to sell things, but I hadn't used them yet. I found the mp3 player when there were 16 minutes left on the auction, and when I decided to get it, there were 10 left -- but suddenly, I realized I should double-check my paypal account to make sure everything was in working order. A message came up that said I hadn't entered my bank, rounting number, or checking account number. I ran around the house gathering the information, entered it, then ran around some more and entered my credit (debit) card number, JUST IN TIME to get the player! I'm so excited. I "Successfully purchased" it. I am a Successful Purchaser. I Purchase Successfully, yes I do.

I was interested in mp3 players to use when I exercise, because I like to have something to listen to, something more than just the music playing in my head, the beat to which I tap my teeth together (and my discman is bulky and skips if it's jostled at all). The Rave isn't like my niece's Creative Zen micro, which can store thousands of songs, but I don't need one like that. This plays up to 8 hours of music, and that's good enough for me -- I don't think there'll be a time when I'll be exercising (ha ha!) or driving long enough to need more than 8 hours of music...or if I am, I can just listen to each song twice. BIG DEAL.

The specifications, for those who might be interested:

General Features:

Burgundy profile

256MB Built-in Memory (Up to 8 Hours of Music)

Play Music from most online MP3 and WMA Services

Hi-speed USB 2.0 for Ultra-fast Music Transfers

Quick and Easy - Drag and Drop Music to and from PC

SD/MMC Memory Expansion Slot for Additional Storage (up
to 512MB)

Plays 16+ Hours on 1 AAA Battery (Included)

FM Tuner with 20 Presets

Records Voice, Live Sound & FM Radio

Operating Systems Supported:

Windows 98/ME/2000/XP

Mac OSX

Plain Package Includes:

Rave MP Sport 256 MB MP3 Player

Sport Ear Buds

Armband

USB cable

One (1) AAA battery

Drivers CD

Beltclip

(I usually choose an even number for the minute I publish, but I had to click 12:15 instead of 12:16, because the Magna Charta was signed in 1215 at Runnymede, England. When I pump gasoline, I aim for a number that has Great Historical Significance, too. Yes, I'm a nerd like that.)

(Oh, and in exactly two months and two minutes, I'll be 21. Hurrah!)

New Roommate

Last semester's roommate, my first roommate experience, was a bit of a disaster; I'm just thankful we were only together 3.5 days each week. When I received my new roommate assignment letter in the mail last month, I noticed that this one, Mary, is from the same town as Roommate #1. The same SMALL town, known for its murders and strippers...and I was prepared for a repeat of last semester. But then...Mary and I began an e-mail correspondence, and in the second letter, she told me her favourite things are reading, writing, art, and music, and that she's a Christian. I WAS SO RELIEVED. We met yesterday afternoon, and had such an awesome time. She is super; very open, straightforward, and hilarious!! It was so easy for us to talk to each other, and we had a blast; right away, I felt like I'd known her for a long time. I had been dreading this next semester a bit...now, I can hardly wait for it to begin!!!!

We got this picture right before we left yesterday:



Mary and Dänika - Roomies!

That's my name, don't wear it out

All my life, I've hated it when people say that. Ick. But today I completely understand, after hearing my name FORTY TIMES A MINUTE from little girls who have really high-pitched, whiny, demanding voices - "Dänika paint my nails," "Dänika come here," "Dänika play a game with me," "Dänika paint my nails," "Dänika come here," "Dänika come play a game with me," and I can hardly keep from screaming I FINALLY CAME TO TERMS WITH MY NAME A COUPLE OF YEARS AGO BUT NOW I'M NOT LIKING IT ANYMORE!!

Oh, the screaming and gnashing of teeth, the wailing and shrieking at such insane pitches that it melts the skin on our faces, so that we sit around the dinner table, looking like the evil Nazi on "Indiana Jones and the Raiders of the Lost Ark," dripping onto our grilled chicken. What's that new sauce? Oh, that's my forehead, my nephew screamed at me.

There's so much noise, so much movement, so much moving around all the time, running into people because even though this is such a huge house, they stay in clusters and I can't move without running into the six extra people and the four other people who live here.

I can't wait until they all go to sleep tonight, so I can stay up insanely late, even though I'm tired and am going to the crazy early service tomorrow - I'm staying up late to enjoy the silence, the sound of NOBODY saying my name.

Cooking with PBS

I've been cooking and cleaning this morning, and kept the tv on low to keep me company, as Rob and Joe are upstairs and Mom and Dad are doing an inspection a couple of hours away for Dad's business. I made my way through the end of "Today," an episode of "Home Delivery" (guaranteed to make me cry), and switched to PBS as "Family Feud" came on, because it is the worst show ever created (and hosted by the most insipid, unhumorous guy ever to walk the planet). "Thomas & Friends" was on PBS, and then as the bottom of the hour rolled around, I came over to check my e-mail. A different show came on, and I have realized to my dismay that I can sing along to THE ENTIRE "Barney!" theme song.

Help me, please.

Caller I-Who?

During this last semester, my parents finally caved and got Caller-ID and two new Caller-ID phones. In order for you to properly understand this, I have to explain something. For years, my parents have screened their calls through the answering machine -- the phone rings four times, the answering machine picks up, and they either a) have the volume up loud enough so the message-leaver can be heard throughout the house or b) someone runs to the room where the answering machine lives, in case the message-leaver is a reputable human with whom we've had prior contact.

When the new Caller-ID phone rings now, either a) Dad goes to the phone, takes it off the stand, holds it at arm's length and squints at the green display, then hangs it up, unable to read the name/number or b) Mom thinks she can't get to the phone in time and lets the answering machine get it.

This Caller-ID thing. It's SO working.

Star Wars: Episode GREAT

**Normally, I'd be reticent about sharing so many details of One Of THE Movies, in case I spoil it for someone else, but since I didn't see it until nearly two months after it opened, I figure those who care enough to care about spoilers, should have seen it by now anyway.

Saturday night I saw Star Wars: Episode III. It was horrific, disturbing, and violent…and I loved it. It is my favourite Star Wars movie by far (but I do love me some Han Solo), and for the first time, I’ve realized why Hayden Christiansen was chosen to portray Anakin Skywalker. I couldn’t stand Episode II, the cheesy love lines and brattiness, the inherent stupidity (MS Works just informed me that “stupidness” isn’t a word). But now -- NOW I understand. It thrilled me to no end to see the evil glitter in his eyes, the cold and calculating character taking the place of the insipid little boy.

I knew what had to happen in this movie -- exactly what was going to happen, thanks to my Star Wars Fanatic professor who had clued me in on this years ago -- so I was not as shocked or horrified as I would’ve been otherwise. But even though I knew, my skin still went cold and I had to turn away as Anakin helped seal Mace Windoo’s -- and his own -- fate. And it was disturbing and very believable, as the Sith Lord lured Anakin to the Dark Side by preying on Anakin's love for Padme.

This movie had a complexity not found in the others, and it was more an epic war film than anything else; even the musical score was huge and haunting, as fitting for the massacre of Jedi, yet it could seamlessly double as a background for sputtering black and white film playing out images of the World War II Holocaust.

July 17th, 2005

I nearly finished stripping the wallpaper from the walls of my room today. It’s so strange how such a slight modification (however time-consuming and frustrating it may be) can completely change the feel of the room. It’s after midnight now (12:34 AM), and the room seems foreign somehow, the walls stark and cold and somehow inspiring. I took down the white polyester curtains today and put them in the washer for the first time ever, and the windows seem to gape, huge un-trimmed squares reflecting the strings of white twinkle lights in the blackness of the night, bringing into focus the mirror-image of my room, making it seem that if I were to put my hand out towards the glass, all I would touch would be the basket, the chest, the bookshelf and dresser and telescope. But it scares me a little, because I haven’t seen two of my room like this before, and I feel vulnerable, as though the windows are one-way glass, and there could be droves of people staring in. I comfort myself in the thought that yesterday, when I scoped out my own home as I drove up the driveway, I couldn’t see my windows for all the trees. It helps briefly, but not much, and I don’t like sitting this way, with my back to the window; I keep looking over my right shoulder, making sure nothing in the window-mirror has changed.

What a Volunteering Volunteer!

I need to get OUT. OF. HERE.

For that reason -- and the fact that I haven't volunteered on my own accord for anything before (I have been volunteered scads of times; plus, I like animals) -- I am now A Volunteer at the local humane society. It's a shelter that has a no-kill policy (otherwise it would be an inhumane shelter), and when I got there Tuesday morning, there were 50 kittens; by the time I left that afternoon, there were 56.

When I entered the animal shelter that morning, I had visions of being a Great Volunteer, walking the dogs and socializing the cats, sweeping and feeding and brushing, bonding with the fluffy kittens and the sweet new puppy.

When I left at 1, I had spent the past few hours scrubbing out litterboxes, scraping dried and smeary cat poop off the bottom and corners, and washing them in a huge tub full of greenish-brown, littery water.

Tune in next week for another installment in the glamorous life of a Volunteer!

London.

The first paragraph of this post is something I wrote July 2. London had been on my mind especially the past week, with memories surfacing - things I hadn't even known I'd forgotten - surfacing more vivid than ever.



I've been thinking about London a lot lately. It strange how I spent only a few days there, yet every second of it is deeply imbedded in my heart; I think about it at least once every day. I love the smell of London; in the city, the smell of the restaurants and traffic, the millions of souls which crowd its streets; in the underground stations, the smells of the fuel and tile halls; in the Tower of London, the mossy smell, cold, wet stone and old wood. I remember the night we left Wagamama after supper; the restaurant is next to the Tower of London, separated only by an expanse of brick paving the way down to the Thames, and it was breathtaking, seeing the Tower lit up at night, lights from the city and Tower Bridge illuminating the great river; if you walk to the left, up the rise, you can see the dome of St. Paul's cathedral glowing in the night. It is glorious, and it is something I will never forget.

--

This morning, I woke up at 6 to the sound of my Dad talking to my Mom - something about double-deckers, exploded. I knew immediately what had happened; I had had the sinking feeling for the past couple of days, that something big and horrible was going to happen to London soon, and I only wish that the reasons behind that feeling had not been realised. I got out of bed as fast as I could, threw on a pair of jeans, and made it into my parents' room in time to see videos of what was happening in London - and I couldn't help it, I broke down and wept. It cut me deeper than the 9/11 attacks on my home country did, and I'm certain part of it is that I'd never been to New York City (and it'd been many years since I was in D.C.), so I couldn't fully comprehend what was happening, as I wasn't familiar with it in any way other than photos or movies...yet I'm familiar with London; five of the best days of my life were spent there. It's so beautiful, so quirky and ancient, slightly imposing, visions of grandeur from now and from years past seeping from between the stones. Those places, the places where terrorists detonated bombs, I was there. I rode on the Tube, I walked those streets, and I traveled aboard those double-deckers. I remember and treasure every second of it, and the thought that someone was evil enough to victimize innocent people, to try to destroy the feeling of safety, to mar the beauty of that place, makes me horribly angry.

I've been reading news sites (mainly the BBC News) and listening to the radio almost all day, keeping track of what's going on, how the casualty toll has climbed immensely since the first numbers were released.

"'This is not on the same scale and does not have the same psychological impact as September 11 -- though you will not be thinking in that manner if you lost somebody today,' said one trader at a U.S. investment bank."

I have to disagree with that banker. I believe this does have the same psychological impact as 9/11; there are not as many casualties, to be sure, yet any attack so well coordinated and ruthlessly executed is chilling, rips families apart, and makes people fear for their safety -- it's so very personal, for the attackers are incredibly impersonal.

There will be Londoners who will date their lives from this day, who will think to themselves tonight, "This is the first time I've brushed my teeth since..." or "This is the first time I've lain down since..." or "This is the first time I've had to go grocery shopping..." etc. Something of this magnitude makes you almost begin life again, see life through new eyes, makes you reevaluate, makes you appreciate your family more. I know there are people there tonight who can't fall asleep -- who don't want to fall asleep, for fear of reliving the experience.

I pray that they won't be terrorized, that they will be able to keep their calm and their peaceful way of life. I pray that they will have dreamless sleep tonight, and that tomorrow they will wake up knowing that they will be okay.

hernia II

Hernia. Hernia! HERNIA!!

I can't stop saying "hernia!" I haven't had reason to use it in the past, so it's a brand-new word in my vocabulary, and I've been working it into conversation every time it's suitable, and lots of times when it's not. I'm spreading the joy - Hernia! Try saying it; it's the perfect blend of consonants and vowels -- it just off your tongue. Play with it -- roll those "r's," try it out in different accents! Say it in the bath, when you're sweeping, when you're feeding the cats. It's applicable in all sorts of situations.

Got something wrong with you? It's probably a hernia! That lump on your ankle? Hernia. That scrape on your elbow? HERNIA!

Can't sleep? Try counting herniae, for a change!

Goodnight, hernia-land!

Oh hernia, oh hernia...

Joe: Yeah, so then I told her that I'll most likely have to get surgery.
me: Get surgery? Get surgery?
Joe: Yeah, 'get' surgery.
me: Like it's something you get at a store? Oh, honey, be sure to stop and get a little surgery on your way home!
Joe: Yeah, like that.

Trust.

I just watched dvd's of my cousin's wedding and reception, the wedding from almost a year ago. It was so much fun to see again, to cry in all the same spots, and to get to see them close-up instead of several pews away. I love the way my cousin treats his wife, how gentle and sweet he is to her, and it makes me weep. It makes me weep because it's so beautiful, and it makes me weep because it's what I've always wanted, what I'm praying for.

My mom has told me often that this will be the hardest time in my life, this, right now, being in my twenties, not married or engaged yet, and not yet finished with school. I'm glad to hear it, but there are times it doesn't really help, knowing that it'll get easier from here. There are times when it's so DIFFICULT. Mom and I were talking a few weeks ago about my future, and about how working for a tour group in London would be super, but how it's a dream for my career; the dream of my heart is to be married to a wonderful man -- it's all I've ever really wanted. There are some people who have lofty goals for their career, knowing exactly what they want to be, where they want to work. I've never been one of those people, which is why school was so tough for a while, trying to decide on a major -- because a career isn't Very Important to me. What I want to be when I grow up, is a good wife, a wife who is supportive and loving and who encourages her husband in Christ. A woman married to a man who cherishes her; a marriage of love and laughter, God, and adoration. I'll be a teacher, yes, but it's not The Most Important thing on my list. There are so many times when I want to hurry things along, when I get impatient with God, or worry that things aren't falling into place, and then I realise what an idiot I am being. There are times like tonight when I cry to God, and I need to repeat Psalms 37:4 to myself over and over again -- my mantra, and the reason for this journal's address:

Trust [or delight yourself, depending on the version] in the Lord,
and He will give you the
desires of your heart.

And it's strange; though I've loved that verse, I never over the past year prayed to the Lord and confided in Him about the deepest desire of my heart, not once. Part of it was that I was afraid to voice it, afraid to say it out loud, fearing it might sound silly, but you know, I didn't hear derisive or incredulous laughter streaming from heaven, so it must not've been too bad. I talked to Him about it, told Him how it's been on my mind for the past year, especially the past few months, and that I can't figure out any reason for it, except that it's from Him. I pray every time it crosses my mind, and though there are still times like tonight where I wish I could just fast-forward to see how everything worked out, to see how the pieces are falling into place, I am content knowing that He's in control, that things are going exactly the way they're supposed to be. Once I confided in Him and put my trust in His ability to work it out, to make these desires reality, nearly all my anxiety regarding it, dissapated. I'm not going to say that it all disappeared, because there are still times when I get a bit impatient, wondering exactly what He's doing.

It's always been a difficult thing for me to try to figure out, the line between God being in control of everything and working everything out, and yet being active, knowing what He wants me to do regarding it -- because, face it, why would He want someone just sitting back and twiddling his thumbs; why on earth would that be acceptable? Figuring out what to do without trying to regain control after acknowledging the relinquishment of it to God, has always been difficult for me to understand.

One thing that has helped me regarding this confusion, is a part of an article published in the newsletter from my brother's college; in it, one of the English professors shares a list of things that he's learned over the years. One is (not verbatim, but I don't have it here), "I have learned it is better not to wait and ask for God to show me what I should do, but to go ahead, and pray that I'm doing the right thing." I cannot tell you how much that helped me. I have gone ahead and done something, taken what seemed like the next step, praying that I was doing the right thing -- and, from the overwhelming peace I received, as well as the feedback I received from strong Christians, I know that I was.

Baseball is C-O-O-L!

The Twins won!!!!!! And I was all up on my feet shouting and clapping and cheering and everything, because after a few innings, I had figured out (with help from my baseball-savvy cousin) how things went, and didn't have to be told what had just happened all the time, just every once in a while. And tickets were only $6! And we had a super view of THE WHOLE FIELD, and it is so much easier to follow what's going on when you can see everything at once! And we saw all of Shannon Stewart's cool catches (we were right above him), and he rocked my socks off. I loved everything, and I can't wait to go back!!

*Yes, Jenni. This confirms my entry into the Sporting World, but at least at real games, you get the workout of jumping up and cheering and being all up in your face nervous and walking around the stadium (in order to get to the concessions, but still).

Take me out to a ball game

Tonight I'm going to a the Minnesota Twins home game with my cousin and some of his friends - this is my first time going to a sports game other than kids softball and basketball! I'm totally excited, having to eat my words regarding every organized sport other than tennis (I've always said baseball is tolerable, though, whew -- I have to, though, or I'd be kicked outta this house!).

Get me some coke and a seat and I'm all set, ready to scream out my lungs at the players. WHOOP IT UP!

Where I am from:

I am from smooth linoleum,
From Soft Scrub and clean sinks.
I am from sawdust spewed from
Electric saws as we remodeled our house.

I am from long braids and print dresses,
(dresses my Mama sewed herself),
From bonnets and sandals,
From raspberry-framed glasses
Nestling against tanned skin.

I am from long summer nights
When the sun didn't sleep until 10,
And the dew on the grass
Was cool against my bare feet.

I am from spicy mints from dad's pocket
(Sugarfree Certs, with deep blue centers)
During the church service on Sundays,
To tide us through the long sermons.

I am from pot roasts and spaghetties,
From late-night popcorn (Dad's specialty)
And peanut-butter foldovers with milk,
From chicken stir-fries and homemade cookies.

I am from classical music records,
Beethoven and Bach and Rachmaninoff,
My companions ever since I was little,
Then allies through years of lessons.

I am from once-a-year family reunions,
On Mom's side, for grandparents' birthdays;
Dad's side less steady, only seemingly
Getting together for funerals.*

I am from Kevin Roy and Judith Ann,
From Wilmer LeVerne and Anneka Mae,
From Lloyd Franklin and Maxine Rae,
From Norway, Sweden, Denmark, and England.



* There's the random get-together for a graduation or a Christmas every few years, but, truly, my Dad's side of the family is not family-oriented. I want to marry a man who comes from a tight-knit family, one that spends time together not out of obligation, but liking to; one that goes out of its way to be together and revels in time spent together.

itunes, utunes, everybody tunes tunes

Normally, buying too much music from itunes isn’t a problem for me, since Mom and Dad have dialup at home. Here, I have access to cable 24/7. There, the download time is ½ an hour per song; here, it’s less than ten seconds. Do you see the problem? I do, and so do the 12 new songs sitting in my itunes library. I had to get a few new Russell Watson songs, though, and I needed a some good love songs (“Here with Me” from Dido, “Just Perfect” from Tracy Bonham, “All by Myself,” by Jamie O’Neal [because whenever I hear it, I think about Bridget Jones thinking she‘ll be alone forever and fat and eaten by a pack of dogs, cute], “Ain’t no Sunshine” from Bill Withers, “You’ve Got a Way With Me” by Shania Twain, and “Follow you Down” by the Gin Blossoms) …and I got “Glasgow Love Theme” from “Love Actually,” because I love piano music like that.

I made three cards today: two generic, and one get-well-soon, which is for Sar, since she’s sick again. :(

My car broke down Wednesday morning, leaving me stranded in a suburb ½ an hour south of the apartment. I phoned my aunt, and she came to rescue me and take me back up to my A&G's apartment. Since Wednesday morning, then, I've been driving Gus's Saturn, and I love it. It feels so speedy, since it's not big and bulky like the Buick I usually drive. PLUS, it has a CD player, and the "Amélie" soundtrack has been playing for me every time I'm in the car. I love it, love driving around in the morning and evening, when the air is a little chilly, windows down enough to get a bit of a breeze, and my favourite Amélie songs the accompaniment to the city driving, as I weave my way in and out of traffic, darting between semis and passing on the sidewalks. No, I'm kidding about the semis.