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.

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.

Yeah, right...

Yeah, right...

"Stop it. Quit teasing me."
"But, honey! I'm not teasing you -- I'm celebrating you."

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.

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.

Those Shoes.

Those Shoes.

I have a pair of huge, ugly, bright-white Manly Reeboks, which I have used only a few times, for an aerobics class I took LAST winter (couldn't wear street shoes in the dance studio).

I unearthed them the other day so that I could go work out, and John freaked out.

"What?! Those...those are hideous! Do you have ANY different shoes?"
"JOHN. This is my only pair of sneakers."
"But--"
"Stop, stop, don't even...Please?"

The conversation was resurrected today, when I mentioned that this afternoon while he's in class, I'm going to go work out (second time in two days! wheee!).
He swallowed. "With those shoes?"
"Yes. With THOSE shoes."
"You need a different pair. Seriously, I'll chip in and help buy them!"
"...You know, John, there are people in 3rd-World countries who have NO shoes."
"So, you should give those to them."

Regarding the New Shirt

Regarding the New Shirt

I recently purchased my first! ever! item of clothing from The Gap! (The Gap! cannot be said without an exclamation point of breathless awe). This item of clothing was on clearance, for my eyes always seek out every Sale! sign when I enter any store. It was long-sleeved and softly-knit, a quiet shade of pink that seemed to murmur, "You are in love with me, for I look like cotton candy. You want to hold me and worship me." I bought it, partially due to the fact that John had commented on the fact that I've been wearing mostly earth-tones lately, various shades of dirt and more dirt.

I showed it to him yesterday.

"Oh! Honey. I got this at The Gap! yesterday when I was with Kristen."
"You were with Kristen?"
"Yes."
"Kristen was with you when you bought this?"
"YES."

And his level of respect for Kristen decreased significantly, for she broke one of the main tenets of a Good Friendship: Friends don't let friends buy stupid clothes.

And then I fished the bag and receipt out of the trash can and set them on the dresser.

Yesterday...

Yesterday...

Yesterday was pretty fantastic. Mom and Dad, John and I went out for lunch and spent part of the afternoon together. I always love watching him interact with my parents -- joking around, talking politics with Dad, goofing around with my Mom. I look at him, and I am so proud of the person he is; the fact that he voluntarily spends time with my family (and likes it!) makes me appreciate him even more.

After Mom and Dad left, he and I went back to my dorm, because I needed to get a couple of things before we went to his place to watch a movie. He was sleepy, and I told him he could nap on my bed while I checked my e-mail and stuff. He slept through ten Beatles' songs, Faure's "Pavane" (2x), all three movements of Rachmaninoff's 2nd Piano Concerto, and the first movement of Rach's 3rd.

We spent the evening watching movies at his house, drinking Sangria (and too much Boone's Farm Strawberry Margarita -- I kept giggling), and eating Nutella on crackers.

Here's the thing about Nutella. I had never tried it until two days ago, when I had heard enough about it that I was finally motivated to drive to SuperWalmart and try it myself. I sat in the parking lot after I made my purchase, unscrewing the lid to the container, and peeling back the gold foil with great anticipation. As I sat there in the early-morning sunlight, listening to Mozart (it was his birthday) and basking in the glorious warmth of 38 degrees, I lifted the jar to my nose and sniffed it -- then gnawed and licked every last morsel off the foil. I took it over to John's house at lunch, and we stood there in his kitchen, diving in, marring the smooth surface, gouging out lumps of the rich chocolatey-hazelnut goodness with our fingers.

That jar is 2/3 gone. This is the sort of disaster that happens when John's and my sweet teeth get together and participate in a full-on sugar orgy. We go to movies and sneak in our own candy (thanks for the big shoulder-bag for Christmas, Mom!). A bag of Jelly Bellies, a box of Junior Mints, and an Almond Joy? The Jelly Bellies are gone within the first few minutes, and by the time the credits roll, we're left with empty cartons and wrappers. A huge Cadbury bar? Gone in half an hour.

A week and a half ago, I was feeling rotten from PMS, lying on his sofa, watching a movie; he made me hot chocolate, rubbed my feet, covered me up with blankets, and kept stuffing Cadbury with Almonds into my mouth.
He looked at me questioningly as he waved a morsel by my face.
"Does chocolate really help?"
"...Relieve symptoms?"
"Yeah."
"No, but it tastes reeeeally good."
"Oh. Okay. Here, have some more."

Help us, Obi-Wan. You're our only hope.

Help us, Obi-Wan. You're our only hope.

John is obsessed with Star Wars (I do not utter the word "obsessed" lightly). When we first met, I thought it was cute that he liked Star Wars so much, that he had all the DVDs and debated Star Wars history with his friends. I thought this was a lovable little quirk in his personality, that he was so into the series. Star Wars hasn't ever been one of my favourite series; I don't pick it up and pop it in the DVD player frequently, by any means. I've watched it with him, and it was okay. Well, to be truthful, he and his friends watched Episode III; I fell asleep 20 minutes into the movie.

For Christmas, he got a book entitled, "Star Wars and Philosophy," and my heart sank just a little. No. Someone was feeding the obsession (That person must be the kind who would infiltrate the local AA chapter and pass around a flask of vodka at the meetings. Gosh. Idiot!).

Now, when he and his friend's conversations [d]evolve into a debate about the ancient Sith and how they rose to power, I've pretty much learned to tune them out. I know more than I never wanted to, about mitichlorian levels, about the Sith's enticement, about the fact that Darth Vader's costume was inspired by the apparel of ancient Japanese shogun warriors. I can sit there reading my own book with a tolerant -- if frozen -- half-smile on my fact.

But I just read this, and a chill zipped up my spine, for it's an eerie premonition of what our kids will be like.

Burn, baby, burrrrrn!

Burn, baby, burrrrn!

I just worked out for a solid forty-five minutes. Forty-five minutes?! Why, that's almost an hour! Over six miles on bike, and over a mile of jogging/walking. !! So, after exerting myself and burning up all those fat molecules and calories, why don't I look any thinner? It's so disappointing. Maybe it's just a streak left over from childhood, but I always expect to be able to find some evidence (other than my aching legs and the fact that I'm smelly now) that I just exercised. Does my face look hollower? Do my legs look slimmer? Is my butt tighter? Are my jeans looser?

NO?

Crap.


Things have been pretty crazy this semester so far; I couldn't get into a certain class that I wanted, so I'm down to only 12 credits. It's okay though, because the classes that I am in are much more demanding than most of the other classes I've taken. My Topics in World History class scared the crap out of me during the first class; I wanted to run away, but that was partially due to the fact that I was sitting near the front of the room, and people were behind me. I don't sit in the back, against the wall (where I'd like to be), because I don't want the teacher to think I'm a slacker, and I want to be motivated to participate in class...but I hate having people sitting behind me. It freaks me out and makes me extremely uneasy. Today we rearranged the chairs; instead of the traditional setup, we put them in a horseshoe-shape around the perimeter of the room, and I could not believe how much that helped me calm down.

I'm taking a political science course this semester as well; the professor is from Iran, and hilarious. He knows John, and knows that we are together; when he sees me without John, he raises his arms into the air, "Dänika! Where is the man??" On the first day, he discussed his accent. "I do have an accent; I've had this accent for a very long time, and I don't think it will go away by the end of the semester. So if that doesn't work for you...there's the door." He touched on the subject of gun control: "Some people say that 'Guns don't kill people; people kill people.' That is ridiculous. And if you have a problem with that, it is not because I am liberal -- it is because you are stupid." Aah, the bluntness.


In non-school life, things have been pretty good, too. :) John might be going abroad to teach English in Japan for a few months after he graduates this May; we still haven't heard back from the organization as to whether he'd be able to do only half of the program, instead of being there for nearly a year. He'd be able to make more money teaching English in Japan than substitute-teaching here; so for that reason, Japan is quite enticing. However, the fact that we'd be apart for so long is the reason why he might not go to Japan; he had been rather excited about the possibility of Japan, until last Sunday, when I finally told him how I felt about it. I'd been 100% supportive for months (whoa! months! I can't believe how fast time is passing. :) ), because I want him to do what he thinks he should; yet at the same time, I did want him to know what I really think about it. I explained to him that I can see how enticing it is-- and that the separation would be easier for him due to the fact that he'd be in a new environment, with new people and experiences, which make the time pass faster...but that I'd still be here, on campus without him, not meeting him for coffee in the morning, not watching movies late at night, walking down the stairs to the Senate office and not seeing him there. And then I lost it -- I hadn't cried about it in front of him, because I didn't want to sway his decision, but this time, I had tears running down my face. And he pulled me over to him and cradled my head on his shoulder as he wiped the tears off my face. "Oh, baby, oh no, I'm so sorry. I had no idea."

And a few days later when I mentioned something about Japan, he interrupted me --
"IF I go. And that's a really big 'IF.'"

And I felt like singing.

The Dante's Inferno Test has sent you to Purgatory!
Here is how you matched up against all the levels:

Level	Score
Purgatory (Repenting Believers)	Extreme
Level 1 - Limbo (Virtuous Non-Believers)	High
Level 2 (Lustful)	Very Low
Level 3 (Gluttonous)	Low
Level 4 (Prodigal and Avaricious)	Very Low
Level 5 (Wrathful and Gloomy)	Low
Level 6 - The City of Dis (Heretics)	Very Low
Level 7 (Violent)	Low
Level 8- the Malebolge (Fraudulent, Malicious, Panderers)	Low
Level 9 - Cocytus (Treacherous)	Very Low

Take the Dante Inferno Hell Test

Very melodramatic - and completely honest.

Very melodramatic - and completely honest.

I miss him so much that my skin hurts. I know it's only been a week, and I should feel lucky, for there are so many couples in love, who can snatch only a few days here and there, with long, desolate stretches in between. So, people who are in relationships like that, I know, I know, I shouldn't complain. But perhaps the fact that he and I were so spoiled, in a way, getting to see each other very nearly every day since we met...maybe that makes it more difficult.

From the second we part, my mind counts down the minutes until I get to see his smile again, hear his laugh, read together, cook with him, be in his arms, and smell his neck. I had to leave abruptly last week, summoned home, and the fact that I didn't get to prepare myself for the parting, made it hurt worse. We talk on the phone, and while I'm happy that I know him so well that I can picture every facial expression that goes with his words, it makes me long for the days when it was strange to talk on the phone -- so foreign, to hear his voice without being next to him.

There's a possibility of him teaching in Japan this fall, for four months, and the thought of it seems impossible right now, when I miss him so much. I know we could manage; of course we would. But it would certainly be a lonely time -- and so odd for me, still being in school without him there. No staying up late working on papers together, no early-morning coffee dates, no late-night perambulations through town -- l-o-n-e-l-y.

I love that we don't have to do anything in particular when we see each other -- it doesn't have to be a Huge Event, like, Oh, Look, Honey, We're Going Out for Dinner -- we're happy to just be with each other. Reading, cooking, watching movies -- just being. Sometimes we do go out, for dinner, or to a movie, but it's just another fun thing we do; it's not a big deal. When we met, we automatically had a certain level of comfortability, and ever since, that comfortability has merely increased. Things have never been tense or stressful -- I've never felt as though he expects me to be something I'm not; I've never felt the need to continually, purposefully, impress him.

But now, now, I just miss him.

Merry Christmas!

Merry Christmas!

Gifts received from family:
glasses/contacts (from mom and dad)
Shower gel, chapstick, lotion (from nieces)
Borders & Waldenbooks gift card (from brother/sil)
French book & scrapbooking stuff (from sister/bil)

Gift received from significant other:
turquoise/gold bracelet, very Egyptian-looking (if they used turquoise, that is)

Gifts given:
beautiful old book (to John)
JFK memorial record (you know, like a biiiig black cd?)(to John)

(p.s.: the items I gave to John were things that I had procured long ago; I didn't have time to go Christmas shopping this year, so the gifts to my family are still forthcoming.)

(p.p.s.: actually, there's another gift to John - I'm not telling him that my IQ is nine points higher than his; no, I'm not vocalizing this, just having a fun old time partying it up inside. Woohoo!)

I was homeschooled.

I was homeschooled.

Over the past while, JBK has been continually amazed at how little pop culture I was exposed to when I was growing up.

Today, over lunch:

"How about 'Cheers'?"
"No. Never."
"Never seen 'Cheers'?!"
"No."
"Wow. This is like discovering an Indian tribe that evaded the White Man and his influence."

I'm on my way . . .

The past couple of weeks have been absolutely brimming with emotions. Frustration, stress, bliss, comfort, annoyance, panic, contentment, and the knowledge that everything is exactly as it should be. (Except for this nasty cold . . . And the karaoke.)

My door is shut against the sound of my dorm floor's Christmas party (Bah, Humbug!), my drawing utensils are scattered about me, making a halo of chalks and cray-pas to my prostrate body, as I lie on my stomach, gazing at a blank sheet of 9x12 paper.

I have to stare at the sheet for a second, poring over every square inch of white perfection. It always intrigues me, takes away my breath for a minute. It's beautiful in its very newness, yet I wonder what it will become. It's pure potential.

(As are we all.)

It's times like this that my senses are heightened, that I love even more the feel of the chalks between my fingertips; I revel in the chalkdust leftover on my hands, the dust caught on my carpet or desk as I gently blow the loose particles from my drawing.

I've organized my drawings in this end-of-semester frenzy, realizing that I need eight more before the end of the week is up. I've been drawing steadily through the semester, but I'm too much of a perfectionist, and that's my hangup. If I had realized earlier, my teacher doesn't care what it looks like. She exclaims over a few stray coloured marks across a sheet of black paper -- the squiggles must speak to her. But I'm clinging tenaciously to my belief that my drawings should BE something, something I recognize. At this point, it seems that for me to resort to churning out Modern Art, well, it seems like a cop-out.

So I'm here tonight, listening to Shivery, staring at reflections of Christmas lights, and catching a glimpse of random snowflakes as they lazily waltz past my window.

I'm distressed. Christmas Eve has always been my favourite of the Christmas holidays, for Christmas Day holds memories of hot, dry air, blindingly bright sunlight, and a tangle of emotions, including being on edge, frustration, confrontation, and being rushed. I love preparing for Christmas Eve -- I love anticipation, preparation, the excitement of looking forward to something. And this year, I'm being robbed of it. My last final is on December 23rd . . . which means that I'll get to my parents' house either the night of the 23rd or morning of the 24th. NO TIME TO PREPARE ANYTHING.

I feel as though I'm robbed of one of my favourite parts of the holidays. And that makes me so sad. I think it might be the culmination of a ton of things on my mind, but I cannot wait to have a place of my own, a house, with a husband, with some colour other than BEIGE on the walls. I want to slather indoor semi-gloss paint onto blank walls (and revel in the colour and smell of the latex paint), pin up some of my artwork and photography, arrange furniture, bake, cook, do dishes, organize my spice rack, go grocery shopping together, lust after baby clothes at the mall (oh, wait, I already do that . . .), make the place a home, comfortable and welcoming.

Things I've done in the past 10 days:

Things I've done in the past 10 days:

- made four batches of cookies
- taken two naps
- taken a wintery hike and numbed my mitten-less hands
- worked
- made a paper snowflake
- done dishes (not my own)
- watched "Back to the Future" for the first time
- gotten another A (!)
- killed the battery in my replacement vehicle (way to go)
- been having wheat again
- been mocked
- bought carrot cake for my roommate's birthday
- not changed the month on my calendar
- had the opportunity to study abroad in South Korea for free
- rewatched "It's a Wonderful Life" and decided I don't really hate it
- cried during "It's a Wonderful Life"
- laughed a lot
- drawn for my class
- listened to much Christmas music
- discovered that when transcribing an interview recorded in a crowded Starbucks(?), it's sometimes easier to discern the interviewee's voice when I cover the speakers with my hands or arms or other appendages.

yeah, he's a keeper...

yeah, he's a keeper...

The first time he saw me after I got back from Thanksgiving break (aka "Gorge yourself on anything you want, because after all, it's Thanksgiving, and it doesn't count! Have another cookie -- or two, or four, or thirty-seven!"), he hugged me, picked me up, and said...


"Wow, did you lose weight?"

Inspiration.

Inspiration.

I usually get inspired to compose blog entries when I'm behind the wheel of my car, traveling alone. I keep the radio on for company, and tonight during a 2-hour drive, I listened to part of "This American Life," one of my favourite shows on public radio. Something about the personal aspect of the show inspires me to write down my own thoughts, but I'm always traveling when I hear "This American Life," unable to access a keyboard or notebook. I try to hold onto the thoughts, the great openings to fantastic entries, until I reach my destination, but they're slippery and I lose my grasp on them within miles.

Other times, I find myself outlining the day I had, while lying in bed at night, just before drifting off to sleep.

Neither of those repeated scenarios are conducive to blogging.

Perhaps the problem is that I have too much fodder for entries, too many thoughts on my mind, too many beautiful scenes around me, things I don't like to inscribe for the world to see. These, I write down for myself, filing them away, to be looked at later.

So.

I could write about my Thanksgiving weekend, how I had been looking forward to it for a month, but over the past couple of weeks, grew rather apathetic about it, and now am just wishing it was over.

Or I could write that the sunset tonight was amazing, and lasted for the better part of an hour.

Or I could say that I tried to make fudge tonight, and I was pretty confident about it because really, how hard could it be? Answer: VERY hard. I have an 8x8 greased baking dish full of dry chocolate crumbles.

Or I could write about the fact that when I came home for Thanksgiving, I accidentally left some important information back on the desk in my dorm room, and had to make a special four-hour round-trip back there today to retrieve it. It wasn't so bad, though, because I got to spend a little time with JBK, watching Seinfeld, eating soup, then drinking hot coffee and dunking homemade spritz cookies in it, talking about things from our childhoods. I adore how comfortable everything is with him; how any situation is, if we're together, natural and unthreatening. Big social events? No longer a problem. With him by my side, I feel protected, safe, and complete. Today, I got there a few minutes before he did, and when he arrived, he took the stairs two at a time and immediately folded me in his arms, and it was as though I was finally home.

I'm unspeakably blessed.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Happy Thanksgiving!

There is a plethora of reasons I am thankful this year:

For my family - it's good to not be living at home anymore (darn right), but I love my family to death.

For health - everyone else's, as well as mine.

For traveling - a year ago today, I was in London.

For church - it is so beautiful.

For Autumn - it was long this year, and glorious!

For books - and for the people who take the time to write them.

For professors - who encourage critical thinking, instead of spoon-feeding
information.

For friends - with whom I can pick up right where we left off, even after a year.

For snowstorms - with big, fluffy flakes.

For walks - while it's snowing, walking in the unblemished snow, late at night.

For drinks - coffee and tea late at night, warming up after those walks in the snow.

For music - lately, for Bing Crosby's "White Christmas" CD most of all.

For Kristen and Troy - because without them, we wouldn't have met.

For opportunities - and having the right to decide for myself whether I should pursue them or not.

For vocabulary - working "extrapolate," "monotony," and "nefarious" into conversation on a regular basis.

For extra quilts - I love waking up in a cocoon of blankets, snugly warm in a freezing room.

For him - for being cared for by the most amazing, wonderful man I've ever had the privilege of knowing. For being more myself when I'm around him than with anyone else. For feeling at home, finally. For this.

Yes, I have much to be thankful for.

the highlight of last week:

when we finally kiss goodnight
oh i'll hate going out in the storm.
but if you really hold me tight,
all the way home i'll be warm!

the fire is slowly dying
and, my dear,
we're still good-bye-ing!
but as long as you love me so,
let it snow, let it snow, let it snow!

one of the highlights of the last week: finishing coffee at Perkins at 1 AM, walking through the early-morning snowstorm, waiting in the car for the engine to warm up, for the heater to kick in. we listened to Bing Crosby crooning Christmas songs, watching the snowflakes swirl around the car, seeing the festive sparkle of city lights from across the lake; his arms around me, my head on his shoulder, his lips occasionally brushing my forehead as we quietly talked to each other.

something that never ceases to amaze me is how we connect on so many different levels. there's overwhelming mental and emotional attraction and stability, as well as physical attraction; we each delight in the fact that the other is intelligent, that we have so many similarities on which to build a broad, stable foundation for this relationship, but enough differences to keep conversation interesting, to always have something new to bring to the table.

one of our favourite things to do is, when everything is quiet, fantasize about where we're going to travel someday. "where are we?" i asked the other evening, out of the blue; without having to ask me what i meant, he grew thoughtful, his arms around me.
somewhere in middle-Europe; Germany or Austria, thought my mind, and i couldn't wait for him to answer, to see if he felt the same thing.
"vienna," he said, and my mind relaxed, happy; "we're staying in a townhome bed and breakfast, and it has wooden floors; at the foot of the bed, there's a fireplace."
"and no animal fur," i added, referencing another trip we had pictured the day before.
he laughed quietly; "yes, no animal fur."
"what did we do tonight?" went to a concert, went to a concert, i chanted mentally.
"we just got back from the opera," he replied.
"and it's snowing, and our gloves and scarves and long coats are drying by the fire," i said, getting caught up in the mental imagery.
"yes, it is. and right after the concert, we went out for wine."
my mind laughed, remembering our professor who got wasted in Europe; i opened my mouth to say, "except there's no wine, because karl drank it all," but he beat me to it.
"but karl's along, so there's no wine left."

it's still over a month to Christmas Day, but already, this is most amazing Christmas i've ever had.

The time of my life

We take late-night walks around town, wandering for miles, keeping each other's hands warm in the 27-degree weather, discussing everything, enjoying each other's presence. I am more at ease, more comfortable, more complete than I ever have been. It was reassurring this weekend, when we were at my parent's house and it felt as though he fit in - as though he belonged there. My parents think he's wonderful, and are so delighted that we found each other; his mother said that, amongst other things, I'm the sweetest girl he's ever known. He's someone I can be proud of; someone with convictions and morals, someone who has amazingly deep respect for me. We spent the weekend together, hours and hours of travelling in a car, and never tired of each other's presence. Yesterday, we were separated for 12 hours and couldn't wait to see each other again, so we met at 11:30pm and went for a walk. I love that his face lights up when he sees me; that he shows affection in front of his friends; when we're together and he's talking to someone else, he reaches over for my hand, just to let me know that he's still aware of the fact that I'm there. We meet for coffee in the mornings, and it's such a beautiful way to start the day.

Life.

I won't be posting much over the next while; life has gotten so busy. The main catalyst is that I've had late midterms last week and this week (four papers due this week alone, as well as some last week), and it has created havoc and destruction, making it difficult for me to stay on top of what is usually a normal load. I've fallen behind in my work-work because of it, and that's driving me crazy.

Add in the fact that I'm completely enjoying someone...and the end result is that my schedule is bursting at the seams.

it's been a while...

it's been a while...

...since I've posted. It's not that I have nothing to say; my brain is overflowing, but I don't want to say anything here yet.

I'll share soon. I promise. But for now, just be content to know that life seems like a beautful dream - but better than a dream, for I don't have to fear waking up and finding that it vanished.

From one of his friends: (haha)

Message: 11.03.05 12:50pm B: You are cordially invited to the upcoming student senate meeting. A John K. has informed us that you are a prospect of his and that he would like you to see him in intellectual action. He'll probably stay awake if you're there too. I know he seems a little pedantic, but give him a chance. It's not a bald spot, it's a solar panel for a sex machine.


Reply: 11.04.05 1:59pm Danika: I would like to extend my sincere thanks and convey my deep appreciation for the cordial invitation to the upcoming student senate meeting (which I accept, of course). I am delighted to be considered a prospect of a John K, even though he has a funny last name; and from what I've seen of his intellectual action, it's pretty hot, even after a few drinks. And have no fear; to me, pedantic=really, really, really great.

all-nighter

The First (and will be the last, for a while, anyway) All-Nighter I've Had in a Long Time

He likes that I'm articulate; he appreciates my vocabulary and my ability to state what I think (apparently. you can laugh, if you want). He loves the fact that I'm gentle, and thinks I'm entirely appropriate. He couldn't believe we met because of his roommate.

We talked from 10 pm until a quarter after five this morning, about politics, religion, school, health, having children; music, beds, reincarnation, the topic of If We Could Be Anyone from History, Who Would We Be?, board games (he was always Professor Plum; I was always Miss Scarlet), food, growing up, "Is there anything really bad about you that I should know? Because if there is, please tell me now", and travelling, while relaxing on the futon.

Nothing happened, nothing uneasy or forward; instead, it was beautifully comfortable, yet exciting; a time of amazing conversation that could've happened anywhere; lying under the stars, or on a walk, but we were both tired from a long walk and a little alcohol and everyone else was sleeping, anyway.

We talked and laughed -- at one point, just after our Board Game episode of the conversation, he sighed, "I'm going straight to Hell," to which I giggled and replied, "Do not pass Go. Do not collect $200," and we both found that insanely funny for a few minutes -- and then we talked about how strange it is that we have managed to not meet for the past semester and a half, when we have the same majors and freakishly similar interests (hello, Big Band Music?).

When he had walked into the room, I was introduced to him, then stayed and sat on the floor and talked with him, because somehow I knew that of all the people there, he was the one I would want to talk to, want to get to know.

I told him this morning that when I first saw him, I felt as though I knew him; no, that it was more a feeling that I should know him.

"That's the perfect way to describe it. It was the same way with me," he said.

Later, I said something brilliant about growing up, becoming one's own person, thinking and believing and having likes and dislikes because of yourself, not because anyone else wants you to; being able to develop without succumbing to peer pressure. And then there was silence, as he took a deep breath.

"what?" I wondered about the sudden deep inhalation.

"you gave me butterflies. I looked over and saw you, and got butterflies."

Teacher's Pet

teacher's pet

In my favourite class, we have been discussing/critiquing various memorials dedicated to WWII's holocaust. Today one of the critiqued memorials is a monument in the Ukraine, dedicated to around 2,000 Jews who were slaughtered there. It's a beautiful monument, but there's a funny twist: Nowhere on the monument does it mention that the victims were Jewish; instead, they're listed as "Citizens of the Soviet Union."

My professor asked if there's a problem with that, with not recognizing the victims' Jewish heritage; for, when we separate people into different categories, are we not adhering to some aspect of Hitler's beliefs - that people are not inherently the same?

I raised my hand, unable to sit still; the professor looked at me.

"Yes, but the problem is, they weren't killed because they were Soviet citizens. They were killed because they were Jewish."

And thereafter commenced the following conversation:

d: I love it when I get the answer right.
k: And the way he looks at you when you do...
d: Totally. It's all, "You. Me. My office. Now."

Happy Hallowe'en

Happy Hallowe'en!

Jme: "I ran out of real candy, but here; you can have a candy cane or string cheese."
kid: ". . ."
Jme: "Here, take the string cheese, but be sure to refrigerate it when you get home!"
kid: "Fiiiiiine."

Grand Finale (oh deer).

Grand Finale.

"Hell of a way to end your weekend," remarked the trucker as the wrecker's bed slid towards my car. I looked at him; the glaring lights of the tow truck lit up the pitch-black darkness and illuminated tiny flakes of snow swirling towards us.

I agreed with him, a dry laugh working its way out of my mouth. "Yeah, I know. The Grand Finale." I gazed at the bits of drying animal flesh pasted onto the hood and side of my car; the smashed hood, the puddle of fluid under the car's body. I'd always hoped that if I ever were to hit a deer, I'd hit it hard enough to kill it; the memory of the deer appearing in front of me, then the massive thud, the sight of pieces of animal flying across and over my car, landing far away in the ditch, assured me that there was no chance it could be alive.

I swallowed hard, trying not to connect the delicate beauty of the animal with the horror of the scene in front of me. My neck ached and my pulse thudded in my head. It had taken forty minutes for the police and wrecker to get to the scene; forty minutes in which I shook and listened to the hissing of the radiator, trying to contact someone to help me. I had pulled out my phone and dialed 911, and the phone, even though on silent, played music as I hit "send," a sweet chime that assured me that help would be on the way.

Girl Problems

Girl Problems

roomie: It's because, you know, I have PMS. Well, not PMS. More like MS.
me: Oh no! You have Multiple Sclerosis?
roomie: Yes, that too.

Revealing

Revealing

There are so many times I don't post; I write posts, yet don't publish them. It's not that I find my thoughts particularly disturbing; instead, there are a few topics which, if I write about, make me feel naked. Those posts, I save as drafts to be re-read over and over by myself. Many of them are about someone; the posts about him I was hesitant to publish, mainly because I didn't like having a public electronic record, in case things don't work out. But lately, I'm realizing more and more that even if things don't work out the way I'd like them to, these thoughts are still here and won't change. Will I always be able to remember that I loved spending time with him? Yes.

There are a few random snippets I am okay with sharing, though.

There are so many students from Japan here this semester, living in my dorm. They're all so small and skinny, with tiny jeans and cute shirts and feathered, highlighted hair, and always ALWAYS cheerful, smiling and bobbing their heads whenever someone walks past. "Good morning!" they chirp, dipping their heads and grinning so hugely that it seems strange they don't have a ton of smile wrinkles yet.

In dance class...his arm around my waist, my hand on his shoulder, his fingers on my ribs tapping out the beat, and our bodies moving together as though they can speak a language of their own, one in our subconscious; we waltz like Cinderella and the prince, only closer; Cinderella in a short denim skirt and tights, and the prince in gym shorts and a t-shirt.

I walk alone on my side of the pavement, dodging the uneven parts, remembering a conversation we had, and my eyes look up and to my left, expecting to find themselves met by a pair of intent, calm eyes, anticipating seeing a brown knit cap and a ready smile.

I was a bit anxious about our last dance class, the one after The Talk. But I shouldn't have worried that it might be awkward. Instead, everything was perfect, and we danced together better than we ever have before. Rather than awkwardness, there was comfortableness; instead of being overly careful to maintain distance between ourselves and not touch each other, we were relaxed and close; I gave him space, but his arm drew me closer.

immaculate conception

Immaculate conception, Take II

Tonight I was reading a history book about Genghis Khan, and found out there are myths surrounding the circumstances of his birth. One is that his mother was "impregnated by a ray of light." I did a double-take and snorted, then read it to my roommate.

D: "...impregnated by a ray of light." What an excuse. Can you imagine? "So who got you pregnant?"
M & D: 'Oh, it was, you know, a ray of light.'

Is there really a parent dumb enough to fall for that one?

transference.

transference.

J. was my best friend two years ago. I met him at my other college, and we were together nearly 24/7 for over a year and a half. I felt more comfortable around him than anyone else I'd met up to that point, and then we moved to different colleges and grew apart a bit. This spring when my dad was in an accident and I was home alone, I didn't want any of my other friends with me, or even the guy I was seeing at the time; I just wanted J. Not to talk to, particularly, not to cry on, but just to know that he was there.

There's a guy here in one of my classes, who reminds me overwhelmingly of J. Not in amazingly similar looks, but in the shaggy hair and the sweatpants, the laid-back attitude, and the habit of slouching around most of the time, then catching you off-guard with some deep, philosophical thought. It's funny, how I've transferred the feelings I had for my friend, onto this complete stranger; I feel comfortable around him, like there's a piece of home with me in each class we have. Last night, our class watched a movie, and I sat on the floor; this guy came in late (as would my friend) and lay down; I had an overwhelming urge to give him a hug and to lie there, too, sharing a backpack as a pillow.

Until I saw this guy, I didn't realise how much I miss my friend.

i'm too sexy for my shirt...

There are many people I find attractive (I think almost everyone is beautiful), but there are very few people I'm attracted to. Actually, there are only a couple people I've ever been really attracted to. Therefore, I don't go around commenting on people's sexiness because, hello? I don't find them sexy.

Tonight, however, I saw someone who has been one of The Ones for quite a while. I was talking to one of my friends, and when I leaned over to whisper a reply to her, something about plans for next weekend, the only thing that came out of my mouth was, "Hot. Hot hot hothothothothot."

Someone, please slap me.


(tangentially related: I didn't know facebook was going to turn out to be used as a dating service. I've gotten offers/invitations from italians, argentinians, and some U.S. guys - I haven't taken any of them up on it, but it's flippin' sweet.)

That time of year...

That time of year...

It's October, and the feeling I was anticipating has finally struck.

This is the "I want to chop off all my hair" feeling, when I long for any radical change to my hair. Usually when this feeling strikes, I go somewhere and get something done to my hair -- I've weaned myself off cutting my own hair (for the most part).

So I did something different this time, instead of giving in to my scissor-happy fingers, since I'm letting my hair grow long again: I dyed it. I've dyed my hair several times before, but this time, I dyed it purple (and I love it!).

That was a few days ago; today, I saw "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind" for the first time, and felt as though I belonged. I loved her hair.

Needing therapy:

D: On a lighter note, a motorcyclist tried to pick me up yesterday afternoon.
G: Did you play 'hard to get' with him too?
D: You mean, like not hop on the back of his bike and go with him? um, YEAH.
G: You're so frigid.

Roomie

D: I love this song. It is so OCTOBER to me.
M: *silence*
D: You ended up with a really weird roommate, didn't you?
M: Yeah, pretty much.

Well, at least I don't dust the top of my box of garbage bags...

Today's Shopping Receipt:

$0.33 worth of roasted-salted-in-shell peanuts
2 pounds fresh green beans
2 bags of brown rice
1 bag of puffed brown rice
1 butternut squash
3 Roma tomatoes
1 avocado
1 4-pack Exotic Berry flavoured Malt Beverages *
3 lbs. McIntosh apples
2 cucumbers
12 small flavoured caramels from the bulk candy section


* My first purchase of alcohol (all the other alcohol [haha, I said "all the other," from which it could be implied that there was a TON OF IT] was given to me), and the clerk didn't even card me. HOW ANTICLIMACTIC.


Today is one of the days I'm homesick; not for my parents' house, but for my own; a house on a quiet street, with golden leaves in the yard and a concrete sidewalk, wet from the rain. A house with my own kitchen, in which I could take my time creating amazing food, listening to Vivaldi today, filling the house with the wonderful smells of cinnamon and nutmeg; a house with colours slathered on the walls, with my art pinned up in the rooms, with wonderful books on the shelves, with my instruments resting in the corner. I drove around a lot in the residential areas of town today, as I ran my errands to the library and supermarket; and as I wove my way between the parked cars lining the narrow streets, I wished that any of the houses were mine.

An msn message that helped alleviate the crapidity of this afternoon:

you don't have to answer,
I just wanted you to know
you're absolutely WONDERFUL
smile cuz we all love you

Collection of Equally Random reasons I feel Slightly Guilty:

1.) I have had far too much chocolate over the past 48 hours. But I alleviate my guilt by reminding myself that I get these cravings only a few days each month (the same days I'm tired and depressed and an emotional mess). And, it's not craving, so much, because craving sounds so specific -- I'm not picky about what I'm shoving into my mouth, as long as it has a high sugar/fat content/carb content. RAVENOUS might be a better word. So, basically, just give in already.

2.) I haven't completely finished the readings for this week's classes. I feel guilty that I don't feel MORE guilty about this - particularly regarding my WWII class.

3.) I looked at the nutrition panel for the bag of Organic Puffed Rice cereal I bought on...ummm... Tuesday (how sick is this, I couldn't remember which day it was, until I thought about the shirt that someone I saw was wearing?!), and it said there are ten servings per bag. They could've fooled me - I thought there were, like, four. Apparently.

6.) Yes. Six. My homeschool-raised brain skipped right over 4 & 5, perhaps in a subconscious attempt to avoid typing or thinking about the five, since I have a horrible aversion to that number. Aaanyway.

7.) I baked an 8x8 (only inches, not feet, unfortunately; otherwise I would've jumped into it and eaten my way out) apple crisp last night. It was only three apples, and it wasn't very crisp. But it was really good (do you notice all the usage of past tense?).

8.) I am currently eating Smucker's Natural peanut butter out of the jar. Off a knife. For an explanation as to why I feel only Slightly Guilty, refer to #1.

9.) I just washed my dishes, only because I ran out of silverware. Yesterday and today I had to resort to eating off knives. I told L. I was going to wash them last night, and then I didn't, and when he asked me later if I had, and I TOLD HIM NO AND HE CALLED ME A BUM, yes, I felt guilty.

10.) I feel guilty for not feeling guilty about slightly losing my temper today. It wasn't a big deal, the losing of the temper, because when I lose my temper I get really cold and quiet, but today I let my book fall onto the floor. And I enjoyed the resounding thud it made.

Collection of random, perhaps meaningless (not to me), and certainly disjointed thoughts:

1.) Currently, my most hated word is "frick." Just say the actual word, people. It's not like we don't know what you mean, and certainly not like God doesn't know what you really mean.

2.) The other night I was on my way from my art class to another building, wearing my crinkly broomstick skirt and corduroy jacket, fingerless mittens, and carrying my sketch pad under my arm. I had to walk by a parking lot, and there must've been a concert, for there were many people out sitting in their cars, smoking their last cigarettes before having to run to the building. One car, a ford focus, windows rolled down, was occupied by two young women; as I walked past, I could hear their voices through the still night air:

"Have you ever noticed that people who are, like REALLY SERIOUS about art, they wear weird clothes? I'm serious - it's cool - they look different than everyone else. Look at her funky skirt!"

3.) What happened? Why do I have this knot of unease in my stomach? We need to talk; I need to know what happened; why that comfortability became strained overnight. If you're scared of getting into a relationship, being vulnerable again, please, please don't be. I won't hurt you. I don't get really mad easily, but the thought of someone ever hurting you, makes me horribly angry. Weeks ago, when there were those creepy people walking right behind us at night, carrying tire irons, in that not-so-nice part of town, I watched them - I was incredibly tense, for I knew if they hurt you, I would want to rip them apart, and I didn't even have my pepper spray with me.

4.) I have a job. I begin sometime in the next few days, and it scares me to death. I didn't want this job; I have so much on my plate right now; but I have to have it. I wish days could've continued on the way they were; full of school and homework, yet having a couple nights a week that were free for other things (like spending time with people. What a novel idea!). Now, the only days that I don't have school booked solid, I'll be working.

5.) Okay, that post I'd written before, the one about loneliness? It sounded all great, and I totally believed it when I was writing it; heck, and I'm sure I still do believe it, somewhere. But the past few days, loneliness has totally sucked. And it wasn't even loneliness for a guy, a few evenings ago, but flat-out loneliness for human company - I took a long drive and sat in the car, tears falling down my face, needing to talk to someone; but not having anyone to talk to.

6.) I don't really have a sixth thing to write; but I couldn't end this on an odd number.

duck, duck, GOOSE

Let's play a new game!

The title of this game is, "How many different shades of brown clothes Dänika can swathe her body in this morning?!"



Five. Possibly six, but I think that would be waaay over the top.

Hop on cop

I've always been scared of getting a speeding ticket. And therapists say that you're supposed to face your fear. Right?

Today I faced my fear (ON THE WAY TO A JOB INTERVIEW) and it's costing me $169.

The hardest part about it, though, was keeping my mouth shut. The cop's name badge said, "D. Seuss," and I had to bite my tongue to keep from singing, "I do not want a ticket, I don't! You surely will not write one - you won't!"

The agony.

BUZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ...

I had my first cup of coffee last week . . .

. . . and three today. Two cups of regular; one espresso.

Dänika, meet Vice.

The Ricecake Addiction

Over the past four days, I've eaten an entire package of Quaker Peanut butter and Chocolate Chip ricecakes. There were fourteen ricecakes in the package, so you'd think I was averaging a bit more than three a day, right?

No. That's what a sane person would do. Well, to be honest, a sane person might not even think of eating more than one a day. Or maybe one a week.

I, however, was averaging five one day, half of one the next, then four, then one, then three, then the other half.

And then licking the crumbs out of the package so I wouldn't miss any of those little, crunchy, carmelly, peanut butter, chocolate chippy calories.

But at least they're gone now, so they won't tempt me.

Fully expecting to receive a long comment from C. regarding this post and automated spam:

I hate spam. I do. It makes me laugh; it makes me utter disgusted sounds; it wrecks that moment of bliss when I think that a Real Person e-mailed me, and then find "DIAPERS ON US FOR A YEAR!" waiting for me.

But the thing I really hate about spam is that I don't get any on the weekends. How twisted is that? I hate the absence of spam, because I don't want the spammers to enjoy their weekends; I don't want them to have free time. If they're going to fill my inbox with garbage, I'd rather they slave over it all the time; not just do it in a modest 20-40 hour work week, then kick up their feet and sip a beer, watching MTV and drooling. I want them to be working at it ALL THE TIME. If they're going to make me miserable; I want THEM to be miserable, too.

100 things...

Taken from this blog (which took it from somewhere else): Make a list of 100 things you like in no particular order. Avoid the obvious (significant other, cake...) and be completely honest with yourself. If you try to think of things that you are curious about and inspired by, you'll end up discovering a lot about yourself and in doing so developing a sort of bank of your interests and ideas.

1. new water bottles
2. grocery shopping
3. bright colours
4. cooking
5. taking photographs
6. the smell of coffee
7. daily planners
8. the smell of tires
9. candles
10. wine
11. wearing a knee-length skirt and tights
12. autumn
13. red shoes
14. dancing
15. the Beatles
16. long walks
17. birthday cards
18. solid-colour mugs and bowls
19. hot tea
20. Wednesdays
21. lakes and oceans
22. strings of white lights
23. Christmas trees
24. waking up in a freezing room, curled up inside a cocoon of quilts
25. black&white photography
26. English literature
27. travelling
28. watching movies in the dark, and seeing the light from the tv flicker across the faces of the other people in the room
29. finding surprising amounts of money in my checking account
30. Target
31. Macintosh apples
32. "Amélie"
33. the smell of fresh-baked bread
34. Cathedrals
35. Renaissance music
36. succeeding
37. plants
38. good shampoo
39. corduroy
40. aerobics
41. laundry detergent (Tide or Gain)
42. Andes mints
44. acting in plays
45. playing the piano
46. finding a kleenex box with a pattern/pictures I like on it
47. dark brown shirts
48. dangly earrings
49. the stars
50. someone who stops whatever he's doing to look me in the eyes and give me his full attention when I'm talking about something serious
51. good blog designs
52. the produce section at good grocery stores
53. my sunglasses
54. gluten-free bread with natural peanut butter, drizzled with honey
55. apple anything in the fall
56. waking up before my alarm goes off, cherishing those last few minutes of peace
57. anticipation
58. seagulls
59. waves crashing on huge rocks
60. finding the perfect pair of jeans for under $20
61. the Tchaikovsky violin concerto
62. squash, sprinkled with brown sugar
63. receiving packages in the mail
64. sending cards
65. reading blogs
66. getting that 'spark' of creativity, when suddenly a story appears in my head
67. the "Emily" books
68. getting a voicemail from someone when I least expect it
69. things working out without my trying to make them work out
70. drawing with charcoal and/or chalk
71. getting my hands messy with the charcoal and/or chalk, then scrubbing it off
72. not worrying about the future
73. spacious, clean kitchens
74. soymilk - Silk; vanilla or chocolate
75. wooden cutting boards
76. beautiful hands
77. loveseats
78. rather bright solid-colour walls and fabrics
79. my burgundy clogs
80. little boys dressed in plaid and khaki or corduroy
81. my old, falling-apart sweatshirt
82. losing weight
83. Latin
84. <-- that number, as well as 26
85. choral music
86. 'le fableux' soundtrack from "Amélie"
87. stationery
88. the smell of asphalt after a good rain
89. cinnamon
90. Pentel R.S.V.P. pens - fine point - black ink
91. playing guitar
92. receiving comments on my photos or blog
93. classical guitar music
94. calendars
95. dawn dishsoap
96. British sitcoms
97. people in London
98. doing better on a test than I'd expected
99. bras from Victoria's Secret
100. temperature in the 60s

(ongoing) to-do list for Fall:

slow down
take more night-time walks
make spiced wine
enjoy my new fingerless glove/mitten things*
drink more tea
make good soups (wild rice, chili, leek and potato)
drink more water
keep the 4.0
breathe**
try to forget that I've Discovered Coffee (only decaf, but still.)
make applesauce
keep up the good work with all the fresh veggies and organic stuff
not lock myself out of my car or dorm


* purchased today; I'm wearing them right now just because I enjoy them so much. They're that lovely, fally, burnt-orange colour, and just the colour by itself makes me want to spend days outside, bundled up in sweaters and corduroy.

** Related to the whole slowing down thing, two posts ago. Certain things will work out the way they're meant to; I don't have to strive to make them turn out a certain way. That became evident to me a couple of nights ago; things don't turn out the way I plan; sometimes, the times I don't plan, they turn out even better.

The first of October (can you believe it?)

I'm ushering in the new month by eating Rice Krispies with vanilla silk and brown sugar, my window flung open to the mid-60s temperature. First, I have to get this out of my system. What is up with this weather? The high today is 75. SEVENTY-FIVE. Two days when I woke up, it was thirty degrees out. After this weekend, the weather is going to be back in the low-fifties, where it's supposed to be.

The dorm is still under "quiet hours" until noon, but I don't feel bad this once, that the people next door can probably hear my music (the Beatles, again); the other night, they were partying until 2 AM.


(slightly related: The wind is blowing from just the right direction that I can smell the Chinese restaurant that's a few blocks away. Yum!)

Don't you give up now...

There is so much to look forward to. I haven't been this way before, anticipating what the next day could bring, loving being in the moment, loving the right-here-and-now, but I so am.

It's not been easy. It's been a gradual process, oh, so slow, learning to live in the moment; not to be so absorbed with the future that I lose touch with reality. There have been too many times in my past when things don't feel real; when I think back, and can't remember for sure if something actually happened, or was just a dream. I hate that feeling. I'm learning that I can have a focus (graduating in a year and a half) without it being overwhelming; that I need to soak up every moment of my life now. I try too hard sometimes, I work too hard, and it's destructive because I've felt my life passing by...but haven't felt as though I was truly living it.

I've been spending more time outside lately than ever before, loving this weather -- some of the last perfect weather we'll have; snow will be coming all too soon. And I'm savouring every moment I spend with wonderful people, imprinting these beautiful moments into my memory. My week has been a series of beautiful moments, wonderful memories, and anticipation for what lies ahead; which beautiful moment is right around the corner?

I'm in my room, with the little plastic globe lights on above the window, glowing balls of light against the blackness of the night; listening to the Beatles -- the "Abbey Road" album -- and the quiet wave-like sound of traffic, and mulling over beautiful moments from last night...

...sitting crosslegged on a futon, knees almost touching, eating delicious food and drinking wine...watching a video that was dubbed -- and never should've been dubbed. There were times in the movie, even (especially?) the most serious parts, where he and I couldn't help but dissolve into laughter, because the dubbing was so horrendous. I discovered that he isn't a Movie Talker, thank goodness, but just does the same thing I do; no running commentary, but comments occasionally on things that strike a funnybone...being enveloped in soft fleece...surreptitiously gazing at his hands as he played with his empty wineglass; maybe it's because I was trained as a musician for so long, but I always notice hands, and he has beautiful hands; strong hands, with long, slender fingers; hands that play the guitar, work out, and cook really, really great food.

I love that there is nothing at all pretentious about him. He's open, utterly real, with no scheming or trickery - and that is something that drew me to him in the first place; those eyes, they're so honest. He is very calm, which is amazingly nice; there are times I'll stress out over an assignment, but when he walks into the classroom, all my stress evaporates. It's as though he radiates calmness, and most moments, that's exactly what I need.

TOTALLY.

HIM. COOKING DINNER. TONIGHT. FOR US.

See, Cass? So much better than Lunchables. ;)

Ye have been warned:

...or suffer the consequences.

Tangentially related, I have no outdoor plants, but I have two here in our dorm room; Florence, an ivy I bought from Target, and Freddie, a spiky/grassy/palm frond-ish plant I got for FREE.

Florence thrived for a while under the wonderful sunning and watering I lavished on her, but now she's dying. 3/4 of her leaves are all shriveled up, and even the main stalk that was flourishing, is exceedingly limp. This makes me very sad, because I thought I was doing all the right things -- and now, this.

Apparently this has had a negative effect on Freddie as well; he's looking rather yellowish and droopy, too.

WHAT IS WRONG?! I'm putting Freddie up for adoption today (open adoption; I want to be able to visit his in his new home, see if they're killing him, too). I know he can have a better life somewhere else; but I'm still confused and hurt.

MARY, did you have something to do with this?

one two three, four five six...

(one two three) Stepping forward, following back; traveling. (four five six) Spinning, twirling, stepping back. (one two three) Clasping hands, arms around each other. (four five six) Separating, dipping, coming together again. He suggests the moves; he leads; I follow. He's good at guiding; light pressure from his hand on my back guides me in the right direction; I'm good at following. We are comfortable in our respective roles, moving together. (one two three, four five six)

(one two three)

He suggests another move: "Should we travel again?" (four five six)
"Why, yes. (slight rest) Where should we go this time?" (one two three)
"The South of France, perhaps?" (four five six)
"Ah, along the Mediterranean?" (one two three)
"Yes. I hear it's great this time of year." (four five six)


The American Waltz. I swear I will have the rhythm stuck in my head -- and in my hips, in my feet, in my back -- until the day I die.

O! Ye Drunken Sloth

So tonight my brother-in-law asked if I was drunk yet. I said no, for that was at 7, and I hadn't had a drop yet - that I was aiming for around 9. I flipped back to my Chaucer (Canterbury Tales) text online, and this is what was staring me in the face:

A lecherous thyng is wyn, and dronkenesse
Is ful of stryvyng and of wrecchednesse.
O dronke man, disfigured is thy face!
Sour is thy breeth, foul artow to embrace...

HOW. PERFECT.

I wasn't a "dronke man," or even a "dronke" woman; I was a woman who went out tonight with one great person and talked and laughed over one tall amber beer for hours.

And I found out that one tall glass of beer is enough to make me want to TALK FOREVER. So I kept my mouth shut when I got the urge to tell him every single thing about me or about my family or about my neighbour's kids, the ones with the dog.

Silly me, I was so excited about spending time with him tonight that I, um, forgot to eat supper. So that beer was on an empty stomach, after walking a mile or so. We sat and talked and laughed forever, and after that, we walked some more and we played pool and talked and made more plans.

And now I'm tired - but it's a good tired. The "I just had the best birthday of my life so far" tired; the "I just spent the evening with one of my favourite people" tired; the "I had the most wonderful day, ever, and now I have to set my alarm for 6:30 AM - that is SO inhumane" tired.

Someone pinch me. I must be dreaming.

On my mind:

It's fascinating to me how, if you had a room full of people, each person is, potentially, attracted to a different person than another person is. Of course, there are the "I hEaRt BrAd PiTt" people, but that's another story.

I love watching people, couples; watching them interact with each other, wondering what it was about the other that attracted them to each other. I love seeing plain, ordinary people completely in love with each other -- and, more than that, just completely LIKING each other.

I used to think that would never happen to me, that I would never find someone I would choose above all others to spend time with; whom I would never tire of seeing; whom I could respect and admire and love and find completely endearing; whom I could spend time with, and with whom all silences would be comfortable, not awkward.

Reading Heather and Jon's sites helped me a lot - helped me believe that ordinary people do find That Person. That Heather isn't Leslie Ludy or Shannon Harris helped a lot, made it more real. I love this post of hers; it helped so much.

I don't despair anymore.

Party like, it's my birthday! & St[a]ir Crazy

I make myself laugh sometimes. Hey, it's free -- and usually clean -- entertainment.

Every day, I notice beautiful little things, or special little things, but on my birthday, I notice them even more.

For example:

"The sunrise! Look at the sunrise! It's so beautiful. Well, it's my birthday, after all. Thank you, God, for the sunrise for my birthday!"

"I get to shave with my Intuition today! For my birthday! Yay!"

Then I got to my contacts; my right eye felt awful with the contact sitting on it. "Come ON, eye. WORK WITH ME. It's my birthday, remember?"

----

The stairs here are a killer. It's crazy, how mcuh doing hundreds of stairs a day can change one's body so much. This weekend, I was at Mom and Dad's putting on my shoes, and my hands ran over my calf -- and I shrieked. There, on my leg, was a defined muscle. On MY leg, there was a defined muscle. On my leg, there was a DEFINED muscle. On my LEG, there was a defined MUSCLE. (insert reverent pause here) And then after I had lots of good food for my birthday, I had to check to make sure it was still there, that the extra goodies I had consumed hadn't made it go back from whence it came.

Seriously, though, there are SO MANY STAIRS. The other day, I went up a flight, and another flight, and another flight, and another flight, and finally I got to where I just stood still and LOOKED at the stairs that were left, willing them to disappear. A guy behind me started laughing, "You know, it DOES go faster if you take them two at a time."

VERY Social Dance

"Partners are in the closed position, close together, standing erect, with cushioned knees. Movement is smooth, calm, and graceful, using long-reaching steps, and keeping the feet close to the floor. Movement should be continuous, with the partners striving for a feeling of oneness."

Mom: "'Striving for a feeling of oneness'?! I DON'T THINK SO."

Germy

Exchange between Roomie and myself:

d: NO! I totally just spilled squash on my laptop.
R: Seriously?
d: yeah, but it's okay - I'm licking it up.
R: eew. that's gross.
d: hey, nobody else ever touches it!

----

T-MINUS TWO HOURS AND 56 MINUTES UNTIL I CAN BUY LIKKER.

I need to go to down to the kitchen and steam some rice so that I can have supper tonight, but first, I have to jot down some things...

I just got out of my WWII Holocaust class, and I am overwhelmed. It's a senior-level class, with an emphasis on discussion, rather than lecture. We don't focus on what the Holocaust was, the facts and figures, but instead, we focus on the memories OF the Holocaust -- how it is remembered, why we should remember the Holocaust, what we should do with the memories (or SHOULD we do anything?). There are so many times in class when I cannot write fast enough, when I cannot get all my thoughts on paper as I wait to take my turn to speak. It is so intriguing to me, and now that I am comfortable in the class, I speak my mind much more often, with no adrenaline spike or galloping heartbeat.

Today, as we did on Tuesday, we focused on various memorials to the Holocaust. We have to understand that there IS no Perfect Memorial to the Holocaust -- that it is impossible. It can't be a Jewish memorial, for Jews were not the only victims; there were Jews, yes, but there were Roma, homosexuals, 7th Day Adventists, etc., as well. It can't be a "Martyr's Memorial," for they were not martyrs, in the true sense of the word. Yes, they died for a cause, but for the Nazi's cause, not their own. Should it be abstract? Should the emphasis be on the Jews? Even the word, "Holocaust," is referring to the Jewish portion of the victims; why is the entire episode labelled with a Jewish term?

Today one of the memorials we focused on (and the one that sparked my interest the most) was the preserved concentration camp at --I believe -- Auschwitz-Birkenau. It isn't a "memorial" the way many are, as it isn't a sculpture or work of art, a slab of marble or carefully crafted bronze. Yet it is carefully created and formed to evoke certain feelings from the general public. Many people like the fact that the barracks, the grounds, have been "preserved," yet what they are getting is NOT the true Auschwitz they think they're getting; it's been carefully reconstructed. The buildings are whole, clean, and the ground outside has grass and flowers. There is no disease, no gunshots, no death. There are no guards, there are no spotlights, there are no dogs. There is no fear. It is merely a group of empty buildings, restored to evoke feelings from us. But as I told the professor, these feelings -- they are our imagination. It is not a true memory. Instead, the buildings instill in us a false sense of authenticity, making us believe that we know what it must have been like to be there.

So should the buildings be continually restored, so more generations can "know," enabled with this fake reality, to imagine the way things might have been? One member in my group stated that he likes the way they're "preserved;" that this way, people will visit Auschwitz-Birkenau, and remember the way it was.

"But," I said, "Should we? Should we remember? They are not our memories to have." We will never have the exact feeling or thoughts that the prisoners did; instead, the reconstructed surroundings give us a false sense of authenticity; we are using the surroundings to try to imagine what it could have been like. We are stealing and warping the survivors' memories, twisting them with our own biases and reactions.

Should the buildings be "preserved"? Yes, say some, for we will Learn from the Experience; keeping these buildings there will ensure that this sort of atrocity will never happen again. I have to disagree. Obviously, the world has not learned, has not bettered itself, by having the reconstructed concentration camps -- for genocides are occurring at this very minute. We will Never Forget! is the cry of people remembering the Holocaust -- yet, truthfully, they are fooling themselves; if they truly would Never Forget, they would be doing something about the genocide in Darfur, they would've done something about Pol Pot's slaughtering of people. Yet obviously, they don't want to; if they refuse to acknowledge that the genocides are occurring, they don't have to do anything about it. That is the level to which our society has stooped, and it sickens me.

Another picture showed a crematorium; the Germans had blown it up when the Allies were coming in, to try to destroy the evidence. There it is, a mound of blackened timbers and metal, with grass beginning to crawl up the sides. And I have to say that I much prefer this memorial than the reconstructed barracks of Auschwitz-Birkenau. This one, at least, is real; it is truthful; it is not adulterated, it is not altered. It is not part of an eerie, somber "Disneyland" that tries to get us to see what Auschwitz-Birkenau felt like. It's there; we know what happened, but gradually, it's being healed -- just like the people.

On my mind

It was a funny feeling last night when, for the first time ever, my DAD insisted that I call a guy.

I'm very glad he did.

And I'm very glad I did.

Because, for real, I don't know any other guy who, among other amazing characteristics, can use the phrase, "Curl up with a good book" twice in a week without sounding at all femmy.

On humanity (On, humanity!).

I hate crying, I hate being vulnerable. I guess there are just some days I loathe being human, and today is one of them. The horrid thing is, there's nothing wrong, really, nothing at all, yet I keep crying. It helps to remember that right now, on this Earth, there are millions of people who feel the same way I do.

I just finished my only class for the day, and am listening (on repeat) to Gabriel Fauré's "Pavane," played on acoustic guitar. It's amazingly lovely, and at the same time unspeakably sad. If today were perfect, I would wrap myself in a quilt, hunker down in the corner of a huge room, lean my head on someone's shoulder, breathe in the scents of coffee, organic shampoo, and laundry detergent, and just stay there for hours. The rain is pounding against the windows; the fierce, rapid heartbeat of a dreary day.

----

Yesterday I went to the Catholic Cathedral in town, and boy was it gorgeous. It had been under renovation for three or four years, and they just finished this spring. I hadn't been in it before, but I've always loved the way it looks so foreign, like a beautiful Andalucian tile-roofed church from the 1600's flung across the ocean, somehow ending up here in the mid-west. The inside is beautiful, not quite as breathtaking as the outside, but still nothing to be sneezed at. The service was quite nice, and I didn't feel quite as out of place as I had feared; I went with my friend Meghan, because I wanted someone In The Know to hiss "Kneel...KNEEL!!!" at the appropriate times.

I partook of the Eucharist, and when I got to the Communal Goblet of Wine, I wasn't prepared for the kick it had -- it was the Real Stuff (seven days, and I can buy my own ;) )!

It was a beautiful service...yet it's funny...it seemed as though many in the congregation were merely going through the motions, as though it's just something they do, with no meaning behind it -- like they don't take it seriously. I think L. hit it on the head the other day when he said that it seemed like it was, "All ritual, and no substance."

Concentration (or lack thereof)

I'm finding it horribly difficult to concentrate tonight. Perhaps it's because my brain hasn't quite made the switch from the Summer Mode to the School Mode, but I find it nearly impossible to focus my concentration on my textbooks.

Or maybe it has a bit to do with the weather. My window is to my left, and the wind is blowing gustily tonight at a beautifully crisp 61 degrees; not too cold, but chilly enough to slightly numb my fingers. I can't -- won't -- close the window, for I love the breeze whistling like shrill voices through the metal screen, the smell of the outdoors, the sound of traffic and occasional voices, the caress of the wind on my body. I love waking up when it's absolutely freezing in the room, yet I'm cozy, curled up inside my cocoon of quilts.

Tonight the full moon is golden, rising in the sky behind a bank of small silver clouds, and the eerieness and wildness of it all has me itching to go do something. The only ways I want to spend tonight are these: I want to put on a sweater, call someone, and go for a walk on this wild night; to sit around a campfire by a lake, listening to the crashing of the waves, looking at the stars, feeling the brisk wind around us, yet staying warm from the flames; to sit outside in the darkness, warming our hands around cups of hot tea; or to be indoors, windows thrown open to the wind, sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by plants and art and quiet light, sipping wine, writing our papers, and listening to beautiful acoustic guitar.

It's funny how normal things, when done with someone else, someone intriguing, are lovely and completely unordinary. I love school, I do, but right now, a series of back-to-back weekends with weather like this would be perfect.

ARE YOU READY FOR THIS?!

This morning I didn't need to set my alarm clock; I woke up at 8:40 to a man bellowing, "You wanna play baaaaallllll? YOUUU WAAAAAAAANNNNNNNA PLAAAAAAAY BAAAALLLLLLLLLLLLL?!"

There's a football field just below my window; we don't have a football team here anymore, but the local middle schools/high schools use it for their games. Today it must be middle-schoolers -- they almost disappear under the bulky uniforms. They're totally cute. Number 41 is lying on the field right now, with a group of people clustered around him. I hope he'll be okay. :(

Last night was beautiful; L. and I went for a long walk by the lake; we got there just a bit after sunset and got to see the moon rise over the water. It was so gorgeous, a trail of diamonds sparkling their way across to the horizon.

It's really nice out today, partly cloudy, in the low seventies; really great weather, especially considering that L. has an off-road bike race today that's 40 miles long. FORTY. Like, ten more than thirty. Twenty times two.

There are times I don't know if he's amazing, or just insane. Maybe both.

Social (not Dirty) Dancing

I'm in a Social Dance class that meets one night a week. Last Wednesday night we met for the first time, and out of the 20 guys, I ended up with one who had no rhythm whatsoever, and didn't even TRY to dance the way we were supposed to.

But L.* joined the class yesterday (he really wanted to, and I really wanted him to), and, MAN, it was so much fun to dance with him. It was wonderful. There were times when we would almost get the moves, and a few magical times when everything worked perfectly -- our feet took the little steps they were supposed to, our turns were exquisite, and the teamwork was a thing of beauty. The little old lady who helps teach the class came over to us a few times and complimented us, "You two look so good!" Rock on!

* He was in one of my classes when the semester started, and then, after we started talking, joined two more. And I'm very happy. There are a few days when all my classes are with him, and it's a great way to start the day, to get to see one of my favourite people.

I FINALLY SAW IT!!

"Do the chickens have large talons?"

with a quick one-two

Tonight I was stalking down the aisles of SuperWalmart --kill me now -- in search of a fan (we were melting in our dorm room this afternoon). The layout of the store makes no sense, and it's like a Sams Club, only huger and more full of stuff -- it seems like more stuff, because it's not in bulk, it's still in little packages. It's packed with hard-to-find things like fans and salespeople. GOSH.

To get to the housewares section, I had to walk past the little-kids clothing section, and my hormones nearly grabbed a 12-Month-Boy checkered shirt off the rack and clasped it to my chest or stuffed it in my bag and took it with me. AAAHHH. It was as though my Maternal Instinct came across me in a smotheringly hormonal wave, and I wanted a kid RIGHT NOW. GET ME ONE NOW. What, they're on backorder?

Times like tonight, I can hardly wait to have a Little Boy with brown hair and blue eyes and checkered long-sleeved shirts and corduroy pants and little brown loafers; who loves to be read to, and likes bugs and dirt and guitars and frogs and watching his dad shave in the morning.

all hot and steamy

(that's incorrect; the humidity is actually 88%. THEY MESSED UP.)

Days like today, you don't even need an oven. Or a stove. Want something baked? Leave it on my desk. Here, I'll just fry up those eggs for you ON MY HANDS.

My poor roommate is sick with the flu today, in this sticky, miserable weather. We have practically no air movement in our room, even though the window and door are flung wide open, hoping to invite even the slightest of breezes. Tomorrow and the weeks following are supposed to be in the mid-60's, which is my favourite weather; maybe today is just meant to make us appreciate tomorrow's weather even more. Ugh.

High, everyone!

I spent my day in emergency rooms and two different hospitals. At the second one, I was being given anaesthetic through a PLASTIC TUBE IN MY ARM, and when it kicked in, dude, it was so totally great. I was feeling loopy, light as a feather, like I was floating. I grinned up at the nurse, and she told me it was okay to giggle.

The last thing I remember before drifting off was telling the room, "Man, DRUGS ARE SOOO COOL."

I hope they realize the drugs in question were the ones they were giving me, not, like, the four lines of cocaine I snorted last night.

heh.

(I'm okay now; I had had something sharp lodged in my throat, and the first hospital I went to referred me to a different hospital, where they got me all doped up and threaded a camera/probe down my oesophagus, past my vocal cords, through my stomach, and into the beginning of my small intestine. And I have PICTURES of it all!)

Niche marketing myself

For as long as I can remember I always wished I could fit in, to have my own little place in amongst a group (preferably without posing or pretending, but if it needed a little help, I'd do it). For a while I was in theatre, so I was in the theatre group; I was a music major for two years, so I was one of the Music Elite, and I loved that, because it was real.

I've always been fascinated by Art People; they seem so free, so themselves, interesting and unique. I never attempted being a part of the Art Crowd; when they deserted the art room, though, I'd take my homework in there and sit by myself in the huge room, the high ceilings, the enormous windows flooding the tables with light; and I'd breathe in (not too deeply, heh) the scent of oils and acrylics, the powdery, clinging dust of chalks, the sharpness of turpentine, and just revel in being.

This semester I'm taking a drawing class, and there's a gorgeous room here with tall ceilings, skylights, and so much light and air I could go crazy with the sheer joy of it. My room is messy, but it's messy with art things: huge pads of paper, Lincoln Log-esque stacks of chalks; stamps, ink, charcoals, tape, tubes of watercolours, and hairspray (a cheap fixative so the chalk won't smudge) -- and I love it so much. I've always been thrilled at the feeling of chalks, the texture of papers, the clear, smooth watercolours, but I never knew how to wield them properly. I am so excited for this semester, to finally learn how to use them all, to have my hands make what my eyes want them to.

Font of knowledge

Another thing - I always get a fuzzy little feeling of pride and contentment when I recognise the fonts used on syllabi, forms, signs, etc. My "Mesoamerica" class syllabus uses Papyrus and Times New Roman (in 12 and 10 pt font), and when I recognised that, I felt comfortably at home in the class.

Silliest thing I heard today:

"But really, if you have a question, please feel free to ask it. There are no stupid questions."

Sorry ma'am, but oh yeah, there are.

Dear Spammers...

I rarely receive e-mail from people I know; when I see that my inbox is stuffed with TWELVE! NEW! MESSAGES!, I don't even hope that they're Real Mail anymore; I'm resigned to the fact that they'll all be spam. That way, too, when I actually DO get Real Mail, I'm totally excited.

Some spam subject lines are so up-front, right to the point:
"2GB SD Card, $25 Off D-Link orders over $..."
"Truck Survey - Ford Or Chevy? Get A -$1OO- GasCard!"
"REVLON OR COVER GIRL"

I do get a kick out of how some spam subject lines are so personal, though:
"Danika, would you like to win $500?"
"Danika, are you lonely?"
"Danika, meet Christian Singles in your area"
"DANIKA, CLAIM YOUR COMPLIMENTARY $50 GIFT CARD"

And then some are just way too personal, and don't apply to me anyway:
"HERBAL VIAGRA - PERMANENTRESULT"
"HERBAL VIAGRA - IMMEDIATE RESULT"

But the one that tempted me more than any others, so that my fingers just itched to click the link:
"Your high IQ score"

That one totally made my day. It'd be great if all spam was like that one:
"Lookin' good today!"
"Hey beautiful, come get your $50"
"Revlon or Cover Girl? You don't need it, baby"

Logical...

My attempt to justify eating the rest of a Skor bar for breakfast: Later, when I'm craving something sweet, it won't be here, and I'll have to make do with an apple or ricecake, and then I'll feel so health-conscious!



UPDATE: Or, later, I might reach for the candy corn. I might not. But I might.

(I knew that late-night candy-run was a bad thing...)

Here to stay...

Fall is in the air today, and I can't get enough of it. The air is cool and crisp, cold enough for a jacket, yet I have my window wide open - the breeze washes over me and makes me want to wrap myself in dark brown corduroy and lie under the stars, build a bonfire, sip scalding cider, try some hot rum. It flutters the fabric behind my bed, the fabric that covers the cinder-block wall, the fabric my brother brought with him from Malaysia. It makes me yearn for birch trees, for orange and red and yellow maple leaves, for brown leaves that crunch under my feet. For shorter days that are full of perfect apples from our tree, tart and sweet, for hearty soups and stews, for pumpkin pie and days spent baking and mornings when the world is turned silver with frost.

Days like today, I can feel London - the heavily moist air swirling around me, the dark clouds scudding across the sky as I traipse down twisted side streets, and for a ghostly second, I can hear the rumble of carriages, the clack of horses' hooves, fragments of Old English, and then they're gone in a chilly breath of wind.