Pseudo-Mom
I'm sick today. The icky, feverish, bone-aching, migraine, sore-throat sick. The kind of sick where you want your mom by you, smoothing your hair back and bringing you 7-up in a mug. Mom is two hours away, but John was just a few minutes away, and he took care of me today. I didn't want to be in my dorm all day, because Saturdays are noisy, and I knew that there'd be music and yelling going on most of the day, so John made up a nest for me at his apartment. He took his futon mattress into the kitchen (by the heater) and gave me lots of blankets and pillows, then said that he was going to go get a bagel and coffee from the coffee shop. He was gone for a long time, and I fell asleep, but when he came back, he was carrying a bag from the supermarket.
"I got you something!"
"what?"
"Dish soap!!"
"Ha, ha."
Actually, he brought me orange juice and cinnamon rolls, and spent the afternoon hovering over me, brushing my hair back from my forehead and pouring more orange juice into my special cup; I lay on the sofa with my head on his lap, falling asleep again; I moved to the futon, and he brought a book over and stayed by me while I slept.
And each time I woke up and realized that he was still there, that he wanted to be near me even though he knew that he would definitely get sick too...I felt so lucky.
--
He has a couple of shirts hung up in my closet, in case he has to head right to work after class -- he doesn't have to go home; he can just swing past here and grab his shirt. I keep going over and burying my face in the cotton, because that scent, the smell of his soap and cologne and him...that's one of the only things that I can actually smell today.
Saturday, February 25, 2006
Monday, February 20, 2006
meme: 5 Guilty Pleasures
I was tagged by Sar quite a while ago, but couldn't come up with 5 truly guilty pleasures. But I'll have a shot at it:
1.) Cutting my hair. I do it too often, because I obsess over the feeling of doing it - the sound of the blades cutting the hair, the euphoria of seeing a mass of hair that I get to throw away. I think part of it has to do with the fact that I used to have long, long, long hair, and never cut it myself until a few years ago. (I cut my hair again tonight -- it's above my shoulders and gently layered, straight, with a few pieces pinned back from my face. I like it, very much. )
2.) I read, waaaay too much. A couple of semesters ago, I was averaging 5 extra-curricular books per week, in addition to my homework and textbooks (I also pulled a 4.0 that semester O:) ).
3.) Surprising John when he's at work. I don't do it that often; probably 5 times, but I love the look on his face when he hears someone ("NO! Another customer! Aaaagh.") approaching, then looks up with his bored, "How may I help you" face and sees me instead! His look freezes for a second, then melts into a huge smile.
4.) "Pure Seduction," a new scent from Victoria's Secret. My friend Jamie bought five bottles and gave one (GAVE ONE!) to me yesterday. I can't stay away from it - it smells almost like candy and makes me want to lick my arm (I have; it didn't taste as good as it smells).
5.) Reading weblogs. I found a few more recently that are so great; I really enjoy getting the little insights into people's lives.
There! I tag Jenni, Heidi (because, hello! You still haven't done it! ;) ), Heather, and Di.
1.) Cutting my hair. I do it too often, because I obsess over the feeling of doing it - the sound of the blades cutting the hair, the euphoria of seeing a mass of hair that I get to throw away. I think part of it has to do with the fact that I used to have long, long, long hair, and never cut it myself until a few years ago. (I cut my hair again tonight -- it's above my shoulders and gently layered, straight, with a few pieces pinned back from my face. I like it, very much. )
2.) I read, waaaay too much. A couple of semesters ago, I was averaging 5 extra-curricular books per week, in addition to my homework and textbooks (I also pulled a 4.0 that semester O:) ).
3.) Surprising John when he's at work. I don't do it that often; probably 5 times, but I love the look on his face when he hears someone ("NO! Another customer! Aaaagh.") approaching, then looks up with his bored, "How may I help you" face and sees me instead! His look freezes for a second, then melts into a huge smile.
4.) "Pure Seduction," a new scent from Victoria's Secret. My friend Jamie bought five bottles and gave one (GAVE ONE!) to me yesterday. I can't stay away from it - it smells almost like candy and makes me want to lick my arm (I have; it didn't taste as good as it smells).
5.) Reading weblogs. I found a few more recently that are so great; I really enjoy getting the little insights into people's lives.
There! I tag Jenni, Heidi (because, hello! You still haven't done it! ;) ), Heather, and Di.
Mad Skillz
Mad Skillz
Briane: Did you just cut your hair?!
me: Yes.
B: By YOURSELF?!
me: Yes.
B: Whoa! Those are Mad Skillz!
me: Like Nunchucks Skillz, and Computer-Hacking Skillz...only not so cool.
B: You have Haircutter Skillz!
Wow, I am so marketable.
Briane: Did you just cut your hair?!
me: Yes.
B: By YOURSELF?!
me: Yes.
B: Whoa! Those are Mad Skillz!
me: Like Nunchucks Skillz, and Computer-Hacking Skillz...only not so cool.
B: You have Haircutter Skillz!
Wow, I am so marketable.
Sunday, February 19, 2006
Baby sale!
Baby Sale!
Today John and I were at the mall and walked past Gymboree.
This was in the window:
Today John and I were at the mall and walked past Gymboree.
This was in the window:
I wanted to stop in and buy one, but John said he's not ready to be a dad yet.
FREAK. ME. OUT.
FREAK. ME. OUT.
It's almost one in the morning, and I've been doing some reading for my Political Science class; my room is nice and clean, and the window is open a crack for some fresh air. I just heard a really icky, rough, male voice from down in the parking lot, and so I went to the window and peeked through the blinds -- a guy in a hooded cape was darting across the grassy area behind this all-female dorm, over to a waiting car (glad I'm on the 3rd floor! I would hate being on the ground-level). The cape was flapping in the wind, he looked really weird, and I'm still freaked out. We've had incidents here with people, dressed as vampires, wandering the halls in the middle of the night, ugh.
Movie:
On a lighter note -- I'm trying to rid my mind of that image -- John and I went to see "Firewall" last night. It is, I swear, the CLASSIC Harrison Ford Action/Thriller. John and I were waiting with bated breath a for particular Harrison Ford Moment we had predicted-- where he would be standing, dirty and disheveled, suit jacket open, his hair sticking up, breathing through his mouth, voice all rough and out of breath: "I WANT MY FAMILY BACK." Bonus if there's blood on his face.
(Seriously, though, it was one of the best movies I've seen in awhile. Go forth and view it!)
Music:
"Stairway to Heaven" is one of my new Favourite Songs. John has an iPod, and I played "StH" on Friday as we were running some errands; it was a melancholy afternoon anyway, quiet, with a horrible windchill, and as we were driving past the lake, I saw a phenomenon of nature that I've never seen before -- it was so cold that wisps of moisture were instantly frozen above the water, and being drawn up to the low-lying clouds. The surface of the lake was covered with the dense, whitish-grey tendrils, some connected to both the lake and the cloud simultaneously. It was breathtaking; it looked like it would be footage from the Arctic (which is what we practically were -- a windchill of -40F! Ugh.).
Led Zeppelin is one of my new ventures into classic rock; this adventure began early last semester, when I discovered the Beatles. My parents never listened to classic rock when I was young; I grew up listening to classical music, and I always come back to it -- far different from John's youth; his parents were born in the Sixties, and John grew up listening to their music: Led Zeppelin, the Beatles, and the Rolling Stones. Last September, I began listening to the Beatles, with the help of shared libraries on my iTunes network. I loved what I was hearing, and for weeks, the Beatles was the only music I paid attention to. "Eleanor Rigby" is one of my very favourite songs of theirs; one of the things I love about the Beatles is that their sound is so distinct -- and their songs are so memorable; they can never be confused with a different band, with a different song.
And now it's way past time for me to go to bed.
It's almost one in the morning, and I've been doing some reading for my Political Science class; my room is nice and clean, and the window is open a crack for some fresh air. I just heard a really icky, rough, male voice from down in the parking lot, and so I went to the window and peeked through the blinds -- a guy in a hooded cape was darting across the grassy area behind this all-female dorm, over to a waiting car (glad I'm on the 3rd floor! I would hate being on the ground-level). The cape was flapping in the wind, he looked really weird, and I'm still freaked out. We've had incidents here with people, dressed as vampires, wandering the halls in the middle of the night, ugh.
Movie:
On a lighter note -- I'm trying to rid my mind of that image -- John and I went to see "Firewall" last night. It is, I swear, the CLASSIC Harrison Ford Action/Thriller. John and I were waiting with bated breath a for particular Harrison Ford Moment we had predicted-- where he would be standing, dirty and disheveled, suit jacket open, his hair sticking up, breathing through his mouth, voice all rough and out of breath: "I WANT MY FAMILY BACK." Bonus if there's blood on his face.
(Seriously, though, it was one of the best movies I've seen in awhile. Go forth and view it!)
Music:
"Stairway to Heaven" is one of my new Favourite Songs. John has an iPod, and I played "StH" on Friday as we were running some errands; it was a melancholy afternoon anyway, quiet, with a horrible windchill, and as we were driving past the lake, I saw a phenomenon of nature that I've never seen before -- it was so cold that wisps of moisture were instantly frozen above the water, and being drawn up to the low-lying clouds. The surface of the lake was covered with the dense, whitish-grey tendrils, some connected to both the lake and the cloud simultaneously. It was breathtaking; it looked like it would be footage from the Arctic (which is what we practically were -- a windchill of -40F! Ugh.).
Led Zeppelin is one of my new ventures into classic rock; this adventure began early last semester, when I discovered the Beatles. My parents never listened to classic rock when I was young; I grew up listening to classical music, and I always come back to it -- far different from John's youth; his parents were born in the Sixties, and John grew up listening to their music: Led Zeppelin, the Beatles, and the Rolling Stones. Last September, I began listening to the Beatles, with the help of shared libraries on my iTunes network. I loved what I was hearing, and for weeks, the Beatles was the only music I paid attention to. "Eleanor Rigby" is one of my very favourite songs of theirs; one of the things I love about the Beatles is that their sound is so distinct -- and their songs are so memorable; they can never be confused with a different band, with a different song.
And now it's way past time for me to go to bed.
Saturday, February 18, 2006
In hiding because the sun's out...
In hiding because the sun's out...
I hate sunny Saturdays. Actually, I don't like sun in the winter in general, because it's blindingly bright. So today, I've been hibernating in my room, with the shades down, trying to budge this headache by drinking water and eating peanut m&m's, wearing huge sweatpants and a Bosnia shirt.
We hooka'ed it up yesterday; my Iranian professor invited us to an informal gathering, and we smoked hooka and drank tea for an hour. John is buying a hooka from the professor, on an installment plan ($10 here, $20 there, until he's paid about $100), but we joked that since the professor is genetically predisposed to be really good at bartering, by the time John pays him, the asking price will actually be $300 and our first-born son.
I hate sunny Saturdays. Actually, I don't like sun in the winter in general, because it's blindingly bright. So today, I've been hibernating in my room, with the shades down, trying to budge this headache by drinking water and eating peanut m&m's, wearing huge sweatpants and a Bosnia shirt.
We hooka'ed it up yesterday; my Iranian professor invited us to an informal gathering, and we smoked hooka and drank tea for an hour. John is buying a hooka from the professor, on an installment plan ($10 here, $20 there, until he's paid about $100), but we joked that since the professor is genetically predisposed to be really good at bartering, by the time John pays him, the asking price will actually be $300 and our first-born son.
Sunday, February 05, 2006
Yeah, right...
Yeah, right...
"Stop it. Quit teasing me."
"But, honey! I'm not teasing you -- I'm celebrating you."
"Stop it. Quit teasing me."
"But, honey! I'm not teasing you -- I'm celebrating you."
Saturday, February 04, 2006
Saturday!
Saturday!
I love Saturdays. This is how my Saturdays usually go:
Option A:
I wake up around 8:30 but stay in bed for at least another half hour, stretching, savouring the feeling of not having to go to class, not having to be somewhere doing something. I finally roll out of bed, into some clothes, and John and I meet for breakfast at a little diner-type restaurant. We've been there more than a few times for weekend-breakfasts, because they have amazing pancakes -- thin, delicious, and perfectly golden -- and wonderful coffee, and they're really cheap (think $3.75 per person). We take our time eating our breakfast and slowly drinking our coffee. For some reason, our conversation usually turns into a discussion about our families, about growing up, about our parents. Mostly about our parents and their parents; perhaps something homey about the nature of the restaurant, of the elderly waitstaff, encourages this.
Option B:
I sleep like a rock until 10:30, and after I rid myself of the last vestiges of sleepiness, I don jeans, sweater, and a light jacket, and meet John for lunch. We discovered a quaint pub-like restaurant a few months ago; the building didn't look promising; the cinderblocks needed another coat of paint, and looked rather run-down. We pulled open the heavy door and entered into a room that was full of people; the low ceiling and dim lights made for a den-like atmosphere, warm and lethargic, and the decorations were an eclectic mix of oddities: train lights, a sea bass, animated Christmas characters, and nautical and sports paraphernalia (fishing nets, buoys, NFL stuff). We finally found two seats together, and after skimming through the short menu, each ordered a hamburger and a side of fries. The food came in just a few minutes, and they were the best burgers we'd ever had -- thick and juicy, on a home-made roll, with plenty of lettuce and tomato, and fresh home-made fries. The best part: $10 covered the meal and tip.
The evening: Usually spent watching a movie or taking a walk; tonight, though, John works. He's leaving the apartment door unlocked, so I'm going to go take advantage of wireless internet and a kitchen.
Yes, I love Saturdays.
I love Saturdays. This is how my Saturdays usually go:
Option A:
I wake up around 8:30 but stay in bed for at least another half hour, stretching, savouring the feeling of not having to go to class, not having to be somewhere doing something. I finally roll out of bed, into some clothes, and John and I meet for breakfast at a little diner-type restaurant. We've been there more than a few times for weekend-breakfasts, because they have amazing pancakes -- thin, delicious, and perfectly golden -- and wonderful coffee, and they're really cheap (think $3.75 per person). We take our time eating our breakfast and slowly drinking our coffee. For some reason, our conversation usually turns into a discussion about our families, about growing up, about our parents. Mostly about our parents and their parents; perhaps something homey about the nature of the restaurant, of the elderly waitstaff, encourages this.
Option B:
I sleep like a rock until 10:30, and after I rid myself of the last vestiges of sleepiness, I don jeans, sweater, and a light jacket, and meet John for lunch. We discovered a quaint pub-like restaurant a few months ago; the building didn't look promising; the cinderblocks needed another coat of paint, and looked rather run-down. We pulled open the heavy door and entered into a room that was full of people; the low ceiling and dim lights made for a den-like atmosphere, warm and lethargic, and the decorations were an eclectic mix of oddities: train lights, a sea bass, animated Christmas characters, and nautical and sports paraphernalia (fishing nets, buoys, NFL stuff). We finally found two seats together, and after skimming through the short menu, each ordered a hamburger and a side of fries. The food came in just a few minutes, and they were the best burgers we'd ever had -- thick and juicy, on a home-made roll, with plenty of lettuce and tomato, and fresh home-made fries. The best part: $10 covered the meal and tip.
The evening: Usually spent watching a movie or taking a walk; tonight, though, John works. He's leaving the apartment door unlocked, so I'm going to go take advantage of wireless internet and a kitchen.
Yes, I love Saturdays.
Thursday, February 02, 2006
Envelope me
Envelope me
Bad news always comes in long, thin, white envelopes. Another bill, another statement from the college. So today when I opened my mailbox (on the first try, even, which in itself is a miracle, for we have ancient combination-lock mailboxes that are amazingly difficult to open), and beheld a wide, thin, ivory-coloured envelope, my excitement was piqued.
I'm on the Dean's Honor Roll. And I have a certificate to prove it.
Bad news always comes in long, thin, white envelopes. Another bill, another statement from the college. So today when I opened my mailbox (on the first try, even, which in itself is a miracle, for we have ancient combination-lock mailboxes that are amazingly difficult to open), and beheld a wide, thin, ivory-coloured envelope, my excitement was piqued.
I'm on the Dean's Honor Roll. And I have a certificate to prove it.
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