I was telling Christa (somewhat playfully) today how good she would be at cross-country.

"You could probably beat your brothers," said I, "if you trained, because even without training you're all muscle."

(This is not an exaggeration. She, less than ten years old, has the tone of a body-builder without even trying.)

"Nuh-uh," she protested. "I stretch too!"

"Well, yes," I explained, "but you stretch your muscles."

She gave me the look of an enlightened skeptic.

-GB Shaw-

Shaker of crushed red pepper in hand, Christa approached me almost immediately upon my arrival home and somewhat plaintively inquired:

"Is this good to put in noodles? 'Coz I sniffed it and it made my nose go all weird..."

o_O

[edit:]

In other news: HUZZAH!!!

[excerpt taken from A.A. Milne's 'The Complete Tales of Winnie-the-Pooh']

The Piglet lived in a very grand house in the middle of a beech-tree, and the beech-tree was in the middle of the forest, and the Piglet lived in the middle of the house. Next to his house was a piece of broken board which had: "TRESPASSERS W" on it. When Christopher Robin asked the Piglet what it meant, he said it was his grandfather's name, and had been in the family a long time. Christopher Robin said you couldn't be called Trespassers W, and Piglet said yes, you could, because his grandfather was and it was short for Trespassers Will, which was short for Trespassers William. And his grandfather had had two names in case he lost one--Trespassers after an uncle, and William after Trespassers.

"I've got two names," said Christopher Robin carelessly.

"Well, there you are, that proves it," said Piglet.

-Thomas Boston-

Today consisted of nothing much but scribbling at my O.W., contemplating a small stack of homework, knitting at my scarf (which I have affectionately nicknamed my 'skunk' project...it's furry and has dark & light stripes) and staying more caught up on work than usual. The snow continues to fall outside; so far today I have only seen one (impressive-looking pick-up) truck attempt to drive out of our neighborhood. I am assuming it is better in town, but of course all attempts to make roads drivable end at the start of the treacherous slopes leading to my house... Thankfully someone else will again be able to cover my shift at work, because there's no way I can get out in this. Poor Rhonda has been iced shut... she will probably need a good deal of TLC when this all is over, at least (and especially) regarding her tires. I've been backing up my computer's music stores during this impromptu break, and every so often I'll finish burning a disc and really want to take Rhonda for a spin just to play it in the car, but can't. 'Tis very sad.

My brothers have joked about hiking out to the robotics shop... it's a mile or so down the highway, so of course my mother won't allow them, but the thought is rather funny. They've been gainfully employed with all sorts of grand endeavors regarding beanie babies, but I am not to divulge specific information upon the pain of death (or at least severe exposure to said beanie baby characters...). Greg keeps popping in to borrow my camera (unrelated to said project, or nearly so). I told him to be careful the first few times, but now I barely even shrug. It's not going to last forever anyway.

I've felt thoughtful all day but haven't been able to direct the thoughts properly--like one who thought he was sitting in a chair and instead finds himself rushing headlong towards eternity. Perhaps I will go for a ramble around the neighborhood and see how many times I can fall over in the course of two or so miles. If school is canceled tomorrow, the boys and I shall go for a hike in the woods between this neighborhood and the highway, and we'll get our jeans torn and wet while playing games full of silliness with hands full of numbness and heads full of wonder and laughter.

I am struck with how full this world seems--and yet how empty.

-Mark Twain-

Ice! Ice is brilliant for walking along--or should I say sliding along, so long as you bear in mind that the wet spots are likely to be slick and the 'dry' looking spots are definitely icy (as one of my Greek classmates so helpfully pointed out). I think most of the brilliance comes from the way that, in the enjoyment of the cold and the ice, I'll occasionally look up and find someone returning my smile--someone else who isn't cursing under their breath but is just beaming, half from the fun of it and half in self-aimed humor at the few times they nearly/actually fall.

Of course, then there were the many cases of swaggering young lads who fell onto their posterior one too many times and hollered "screw this!" (an exact quotation) and stormed back to their dorms (teetering and sliding all the way). That just makes it all the more fun. Not-so-amusing were the stories of the numerous spills another of my Greek classmates experience while attempting to bike to campus. (Of course, said classmate being a male, these tales were told with the utmost calm and - dare I say - pride, so one can't feel too badly for him.)

What are the blessings of ice? Perhaps the fact that an otherwise not-so-wonderful teacher had us all write our names down just for coming so that he could 'pay us back.'

Or the fact that we got out of a very tedious chem lab (...now you measure the cylinder and calculate the density of the metal...blahblah...ooh, look, kids, we get to use thermometers! can you say therm-o-met-er? Gooood!) an hour early.

Or the way the bus to the parking lot was so packed that I actually got to stand up (...and you can just stop laughing, because standing up on a bus is too fun and exciting and that is so not a small-town sentiment...)

Once I got to my car, however, I realized the ways that ice isn't so brilliant after all, because it's a quarter of an inch thick all over poor Rhonda (oh the joys of arriving around eight in the morning and not leaving 'till three in the afternoon...). Determined to be cheerful, I turned on the heat and let it warm from the inside out while I diligently scratched away on the outside, thanking God that I decided to buy the larger scraper over the small ("more space efficient") one.

Then began the laborous trek back home. It went fairly smoothly--the parking lot was the most treacherous, but Rhonda slid along in all the right directions and once I got to the main roads it was fairly clear. Once on the highway I think I made it up to 45 mph, which was cruising at the time.

I knew my neighborhood would be a problem, so I was determined to do it properly. I let the car slow down all by itself, didn't go on the nasty looking shoulder, etc... But when I got onto the frontage road to make the right turn up the hill (the nastiest part of the neighborhood), halfway through Rhonda decided that going right didn't suit her anymore and she would much rather just keep going forward at an awkward angle. Fortunately, it was uphill, so there was no dreaded sliding or scraping or screaming--at some point I just realized 'oh. The steering wheel isn't doing anything anymore.' And then I realized if I tried going more to the right, I'd hit a sign, and that more to the left would land me in a ditch, so I just braked and parked the car. We were perched on the grass going uphill with the emergency lights blinking, but it wasn't anything dramatic. I tried reversing, but the wheel still wouldn't work, and only then did it occur to me - 'oh. I almost went into a ditch.' It was such a calm event that I didn't really believe it happened. I called my mother and explained the situation. She said she'd bring two boys and see what could be done.

I sat in the car, waiting for help to arrive. While I waited, another car--similar in proportions to my own--inched past me and successfully made it up the hill. I gazed rather sulkingly after it. What did that car have that mine didn't?

Mama came down a few minutes later with Ben & Greg, one running cautiously on the grass, the other sliding and guffawing down the hill (I'll leave you to decide which one did which...). She looked at the car and said she'd try to get it out of there, so the boys and I clambered to the top of the hill and watched her back off the grass and laboriously begin climbing the hill. The tires shrieked in protest the whole way up, and the air smelt of burnt rubber. I'll probably be replacing those soon...

Rhonda made it up the hill and disappeared around the bend, so the boys and I began trudging back home, joking about finding the car in the middle of a neighbor's yard after poking our way along. Ben and Greg slid as much as they could, Greg using my sleeve to pull himself uphill (the kid needs more body mass...seriously) or sometimes just up when he was about to fall. When we reached the house, Mama was still in the car, listening to music. I ran across the grass and, forgetting the icy driveway, started to run across that too. Somehow I didn't fall but just sort of slid breathtakingly, gloriously into the car, catching myself with my hands. I retrieved my bookbag while Mama jokingly complained about me hoarding good music in my car.

Once inside the house, I called Jean (the woman I work for) and explained that our neighborhood was pretty well sealed off and that I was fairly certain that, even if I made it out of my neighborhood, I wouldn't make it into hers (it has some rather nasty hills with sharp turns at the bottom which, if taken wrongly, would land the car in a lake...). She made a few calls and then called me back, saying that someone else could come tonight and take my shift. I thanked her profusely--I didn't want to attempt that drive without Papa--and checked my email. Another blessing: my psychology writing assignment, which I had sort of vainly hoped for more time on, because it's written but I'd like it to be better, had been given a week-long extension.

Now I am sitting at my desk, eating chicken soup and knitting a scarf while clearing up some things for my other work. The day has been crazy, but I find that the craziness gives more marked signs of God's goodness... I have hope for eighteen. :)

Isaiah 43 and 44 are the passages I meditated on especially yesterday, but they've stuck with me through today. If I could I would paste the two chapters in their entirety into this, but I don't think that would accomplish what I want--because I'd like to throw them at everyone I love and have them see even much more clearly and wonderfully than I see it the beauty and love and wonder expressed in these passages. If you've got a moment--for the Word of God, so that's a trick statement--go read Isaiay 43&44, and I pray they'll stick.

I'm quoting just a few verses; bold/italic/emphases added by me and in no wise divinely inspired.

Remember these things, O Jacob, and Israel, for you are my servant; I formed you; you are my servant; O Israel, you will not be forgotten by me. I have blotted out your transgressions like a cloud and your sins like mist; return to me, for I have redeemed you. Sing, O heavens, for the LORD has done it; shout, O depths of the earth; break forth into singing, O mountains, O forest, and every tree in it! For the LORD has redeemed Jacob, and will be glorified in Israel. (Isaiah 44:21-23)

I've got this writing assignment for psychology due in about a week. I'm supposed to find a song that describes in some fashion a psychological disorder and write about what that disorder might be. The disorder cannot be diagnosed within the song; that's my job. I've got a few ideas, but I thought I'd send up a flare for a bit of input.

...I am deeply grateful for the astonishingly large amount of input that I received.

Yes, this is me being sarcastic.

It's actually alright that no one responded (with the exception of FB's very good self), because I've decided and more opinions might have created conflict within myself. You know...the anguished, melodramatic, forehead-slapping, hand-wringing sort.

Anyway, I'm using Coldplay's Viva la Vida.

"And what are the theoretical and academic divisions which you deplore?" asked Lamiel, "for I strongly suspect that you refer to such highly practical matters as the distinctions between the regenerate and the unregenerate, the baptized and the unbaptized, the saved and the damned."

"Oh, come, come!" said Dr. Primrose [Director of the BB Department], obviously shocked. "We must be careful how we use these most misleading words. Really it is better if we don't use them at all; for they have the most unfortunate associations with outworn superstitions. Salvation is a case in point. It comes from a word meaning 'health.' ... I do not like the modern derivatives at all...er...I always speak of mental health myself. I think all our members do. We recognize the dangers of pressing home archaic ideas. No, mental health is so much safer than salvation. It puts the discussion on the right intellectual level, doesn't it? It prevents misunderstanding."

"I should have said myself," Lamiel replied, "that it destroys all possibility of understanding."

"Yes," said Dr. Primrose, "yes, er...I think you and I are really saying the same thing. It's a question of words. I'm sure we agree at bottom."

"Apart from the fact that where I say understanding you say misunderstanding, there is of course complete unanimity upon one point."

"Exactly," said Dr. Primrose, "and that is the kind of unanimity we must seek. It's so much better than all the old bickering and controversy."

"I cannot deny," said Lamiel, "that you have hit upon a technique for making controversy impossible. Indeed, you are well on the way to making rational communication impossible."

-'The Devil's Hunting Grounds,' Harry Blamires

Wake up, my sister!
I cry with love.
The night is over,
The sun's above.
I wish you'd wake
And get out of bed...

So awake, my sister,
Thine head.

To be sung to the tune of 'Goodnight, My Someone' from The Music Man at the earliest hour of morning possible ('morning air' *snerk*). Don't you think it such an improvement on the original? I sang it to Ruth this morning, but she seemed most ungrateful. Hmm. Perhaps if I revise it again, she'll be more appreciative?

-Flannery O'Connor.

My schedule is sort of the inverse or contradiction of itself in at least two ways:

1. My MWF classes (with the exception of the M lab) are all led by teachers who clearly have much experience. Both of my TR teachers are not far ahead of receiving their PhDs.

2. My MWF classes all (again with the exception of the M lab) are optional attendance (that is, your final grade is not directly influenced by the lack of attendance). My TR classes both require attendance (after you miss X number of classes, your final grade will drop by Y% each time).

Psychology will be interesting, mostly in a good way - although the teacher's quality of language leaves a little to be desired (mostly vulgarity, which I can tolerate better than profanity...).

Logic looks to be splendid. I've made up my mind after a discussion with my older sister to not be the 'talker' in my classes...to sort of keep my mouth shut and force others to talk. Of course, in Honors classes that doesn't exactly work out, because there's nearly always another person who's ready and willing and able to be the talker instead. Logic is no different. Thankfully it is Honors, so most people aren't silent.

Both of them seem very interactive, which is awesome.

I think this semester will be enjoyable, if challenging. I'm looking forward to it. My desk is sort of crying out to be piled with texts and frantically scribbled-on pieces of paper. Yeah, I think my desk is crazy too. ...oh, wait, you're calling me crazy?

... leaving that topic.

By way of being random, all of my Finals have managed to land themselves on a different day of the week (I have five, the school week has five...). My last one is Greek, which makes me happy, since all last year I finished with a lit (same teacher) final ... saving the best for last, I suppose.

Mari, I didn't finish 'the books' (didn't think pulling an all-nighter before Sabbath was the best course of action) so I'm still plugging away at them between classes (I haven't much else to work on yet). Another quote:

"Men of all centuries have been disobedient and depraved. But usually they have known what laws they were disobeying and by what standards they were depraved. Twentieth-century man has no such knowledge. He is fleeing headlong from reason, and at the same time is claiming an excess of rationality." (Harry Blamires, 'Cold War In Hell.')

Just a few moments to dash something down before I scurry about and get ready for work.

1. First-Class-ly: My chem professor's name is Lionel. I knew his first name before I knew what he looked like, but as I walked into the room there was a general scurrying on the part of the last class to leave and the current class to get into the room... well, the moment I saw him down on the platform amidst all the scurrying I thought, 'I'll eat my ... (insert random inedible object here) ... if that man's name isn't Lionel!' It was, and it wasn't that he was the only 'older' person in the room because the last class's teachers/graduate assistants were still running around talking to people. He's got features that are decidedly shrewd, aristocratic, and sort of grand--with a hint of wisdom and nobility thrown in there. Very Lionel-ish, I thought. He also gave us much to memorize and more paper than I've received on a First Day from all previous classes put together. Gaarr.

2. Second-Class-ly: Greek is still Greek (that would be amazing). Of course Mr. E is still his very own self and we sort of dawdled about with a few third-declension nouns punctuated by long discussions concerning the definition of excess and the letter we are going to write to Pres.-Elect Obama (who shamefully mutilated the Greek language yesterday when he used 'criteria' where it was meant to be 'criterion'), to name a very few. I found myself the only female in the class today, which was not very disconcerting since I was not surrounded by strangers, but still... There were only three last semester, and I know one of them did not intend to continue, but one said she would ... I am holding out for her to show up on Wednesday or Friday.

3. Third-Class-Ly: Political Science... should be fun. Yes indeed. Worldviews have already clashed, inconsistencies have already been committed, yessir fasten your seatbelts and be prepared for you have lighted upon a self-proclaimed argumentative professor! He is unashamedly and self-admittedly going to try to kill every view that does not correspond with his own, but (fortunately) we have the assurance that it will be nothing personal. Apparently one's views are nothing really related to the person holding them. I am quite interested in how this class turns out. I've a feeling last semester's history teacher of notoriety will have nothing on this guy.

4. First-Class-ly (Redux): Chemistry Lab. O, the splendor! with its extraordinarily tedious safety video and the Art of Opening Combination Locks (at which I, unfortunately, perpetually stinketh). Best of all though--international TA with better quality of English than most college graduates but not a stellar pronunciation. Makes me feel right at home, as if I were celebrating Thanksgiving with many of Papa and Dr. S's students... I really am thankful for the faculty-connection and subsequent interaction experience with accents, because now I can listen to them with ease (quite a bit of it, comparatively speaking) with no worries about not learning things due to a barrier.

6. Post-classes-ly: Worrying through a bit of mathematical review for Chemistry, which would be simple Algebra if the problems hadn't been written to include the most awkward and messy calculations possible. A small amount of fear for my professor has arisen, since he writes all the problems.

5. Tomorrow-ly: Psychology and Logic. Those are the ones that, next to Greek, I'm looking forward to most: Logic because of...well, logic, and Psychology because the teacher sent out the syllabus a week ahead (...yeah, O_O was my reaction too) and it includes many very cool assignments concerning which I am sure you shall all hear enough about.

6. Currently: Here I sit, yawning my head off because...well, that yawn was because I just wrote the word 'yawn' and there's something infectious about the very thought...but also because I'm tired and a little bewildered. Things at one job are mildly stressful right now. And it is nearly time for me to get ready to work at another job.

7. Eternally: Lamentations 3:22-25 - The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases; his mercies never come to an end; they are new every morning; great is your faithfulness. "The Lord is my portion," says my soul, "therefore I will hope in him." The Lord is good to those who wait for him, to the soul who seeks him.

And so off I go - weary but resting in the faithfulness of God - to work, where I shall sleep and rise to the ever-new mercies of God...

He [Lamiel] pointed across the road to a series of WAYSIDE PULPIT placards, and his pace slackened, as if he wished me to ponder them. I read the first one aloud--


"The Divine Challenge comes to every man," said Lamiel, "but one is not happy to see the Omnipotent and All-Glorious imagined as a postman."

-Harry Blamires, see post below

Having finished A Severe Mercy (thoughts on that forthcoming), I am now somewhat frantically trying to simultaneously enjoy and finish a trilogy of books by Harry Blamires before school starts on Monday. I have just finished the first book: The Devil's Hunting Grounds (followed by Cold War in Hell and Highway to Heaven). The setting is a sort of purgatory, and the story is written from the author's perspective.

The purpose of the book as far as I can tell is not to advocate a certain conviction regarding the nature of the afterlife (in this way it is similar to Lewis's Great Divorce), but mostly takes wrongheaded worldviews to their logical ends through conversations with various people the narrator encounters and (best of all) the narrator himself.

The gist of the book is this: Lamiel (his guardian angel, much better than his stereotyped title sounds) takes the author to the celestial Selection Tribunal, which places people in an appropriate occupation for the purpose of turning them out of themselves (see quote below). They decide to let him choose his own placement, a choice between the Backward Believers' Department at the University or the College of Gnostics. He is allowed to take a tour of each place before returning to make the choice.

I shall take up my usual habit of quoting the parts that struck me especially. I shall do my best not to quote the entire work, but ... well, a lot of it struck me.

--------

[Lamiel:] "You've said far too much to yourself. I might remark that you have swamped yourself with useful information and gratuitous good advice. The self, the true self--the will, if you like, has been immobilized by the burden."

--------

[again, Lamiel:] "I have told you before, I think, that you are a child of your time. You have got a bee in your bonnet about progress. You imagine that our business is to push you in a certain direction. It isn't. Our business is simply to turn you inside out. Creatures who have grown accustomed to turn all their experience in upon themselves, perverting objects worthy of love, worship, and enjoyment to the service of their own egos, have got to learn to turn their wills outward in devotion to what is other... But do not deceive yourself that you have a journey to go. If you do, you will be tempted to bolster yourself and brace yourself and equip yourself for the enterprise. Here there is no journey. For the self that aspires to a goal, the self that would set out, in determination and in ambitious perseverance--that self has got to be destroyed. If you must image the demand upon you, remember that you are to be turned inside out. ... And you--if you ever seriously study here--we hope that you will learn to delight in what you study. You will find that a pleasant change from delighting in yourself studying it..."

--------

I might add here that Lamiel's rebukes of the author are mercilessly (or mercifully) spot on. This keeps the book from being a mere "ha ha, look what that bad worldview says!" - that is, that the author occasionally tries to point the finger at people with wrong thinking and (through Lamiel's company) continually finds it aimed at himself, and thus the reader finds the same.

--------

[when the author tries to use alleged feelings of charity to cover his vanity:]

"Though I trust," said Lamiel, "that you will learn to be on your guard against feelings, especially when they masquerade as impulses of charity. The exercise of charity is the work of the will. I am afraid that there are circumstances in which the exercise of charity will have an uncompromising, unsociable, even disagreeable appearance. I believe that neither Dr. Primrose nor yourself has found me at all times a congenial companion. There may be something for you to learn from that."

My policy henceforth shall be to say this to a certain person whenever he/she lets out a cough in my general direction that sounds intentionally like "overachiever." It's a matter of measuring height, so there! (and all snarky references to my general lack thereof shall be duly ignored)

I've decided that New Year's Resolutions are perhaps something worse than silly. They're usually something ridiculous, like "I shall not eat any more Jolly Ranchers" or "I shall not buy any more paper clips from Wal-Mart." ...well, those are the resolutions I consider not really worth making. The resolutions that are worth making - "study my Bible" - "pray more earnestly" - "fast regularly" - should not be made on the basis of a "New Year." First, I should hope that I should be resolving to keep these throughout all eternity, not just in the coming year, and I think if I'm going to decide to eternally worship God and trust in him, I should be making that resolution on something eternal (say, Christ?) rather than a silly date. (And I'm not necessarily talking about vows here; that's a whole different ballpark. I'm talking about the moment of lifting the chin and saying "Listen here, O Sinful Old Nature, this is the way it's going to be...").

I should add that this should not be taken terribly seriously, as it is my way to rant against the cultural broo-ha of the day. This is why I can't wait for February 14th...

-Quote by T.S. Eliot.

When I was younger, I would beg my parents to not get a dishwasher, because I loved washing dishes (or potatoes, even) by hands. The water was either pleasantly cool and dirty, or appropriately warm and soapy, and my hands could sort of move of their own accord in that pleasant environment of the kitchen sink. But the real appeal was not in the sink or the soap or the vegetable scrubber: the attraction was in a window above the sink. One could look out the window and focus on the grass or the birds or the trees or nothing at all and go on in this way for hours - or at least I could - and then, in this glorious state, I would plan stories.

If Christie was right, I should have several bestsellers right now - but perhaps it is unfair to discredit her immediately on those grounds. After all, I was hardly planning a book - more inventing tales that were best left to tumble 'round my mind before they were lost in the vortex of memory. I certainly was not doing the dishes, either - a very bad pretense of doing the dishes is the most that can be said for my dreamy splashing in the water. So perhaps Ms. Christie may prove correct after all.

We had the S girls over last night, two fours of us all together, and we ate potato wedges (Evelyn might like to call them chips) and watched Newsies. Then I dashed through a hasty shower and ran off to work as the other settled down to curl hair for today's halftime show and make mysterious facial products out of ordinary inhabitants of the kitchen food cabinets. I won't say much about these, but the results held a sort of dubious allure.

By the way, I did most of the internet research leading up to this glorious facial-production, and I learned several very interesting things.

Honey - plain, by itself - makes the best facial mask. Wipe your face with a warm cloth before smearing it on; leave for 15-30 minutes and then rinse with warm water. Finally rinse with cold to shut your pores.

Green tea (and I mean brewed and cooled) works as toner.

Grapes - by themselves as well - are one of the best cleansers. As far as I can tell, you're supposed to mangle them and then rub the peels onto your face (astringency and all that).

Avocado - facial softener and all that rot. You know about this one.

Miracle Whip functions as a brilliant exfoliator. Allegedly if you follow the directions (google them), removing it takes off so much dead skin that you can feel it, leaving one to wonder (as one internet writer put so well) exactly what it does to one's stomach...)

There were millions of things to be done with pear, apple, mayonnaise, brown sugar, egg white, turmeric... and stuff we didn't have on hand, like jasmine oil, sandalwood, etc... I'm not big into beauty products or being all-natural and healthy (much less the adage "don't put anything on your skin you wouldn't eat" - because I might try the miracle whip thing, just to see, but I am definitely not eating that stuff...) but hey! The way I see it, if you have things on hand, you might as well use them rather than spending hundreds of dollars on products containing goodness knows what. Plus, the research makes for a good laugh.

Today - long, mostly smooth drive down to Norman for the OU game. We only missed one exit and took a brief tour of scenic Bricktown. (Perhaps I have not made this clear enough: scenic is used sarcastically. As in, the parts we saw merely featured too many one-way streets and a plethora of streetbums with their lives in pillowcases.) The game was rather boring. Sooners were whomping the Eagles (Coppin State, I think) 45-23 when we left after halftime. And I now know what a sinking feeling of despair is: the "I'm not going to make it" feeling when you have four counts to get halfway across a court, and then the "I'm not going to make it any farther" feeling you get after accomplishing the previous task. The drive home was uneventful. When I drove I tormented everyone by singing along to Christian rap/pop songs, half of which I didn't know. You shake your head at me, but 'tis fun. (And a word to the wise - Valero gas pumps have weird hoops you have to jump through to pay. Or at least the ones in Scenic Guthrie. I have never had one ask for my zip code before - but maybe I've been unnecessarily sheltered. Homeschooling and living in Hickville - twice - can do that to you.)

My mother figured out I like canned soup (an odd taste, I guess - I also have a thing for Kraft macaroni and Ramen noodles. Gross, maybe, but true. Probably because they were a rarity when I was small and thus a treat.). She bought some for me when I came down with the cold a week and a half ago, and I guess she got the strong impression that I liked it (delusional ravings? I don't know). She has been making random donations of canned soup ever since. Every few days I raise my eyes and lo! the two cans of chicken noodle soup have miraculously multiplied! At first I thought it might be occuring mitotically, but my mother assured me the causes were much more pragmatically explicable. Shoot. There goes my senior thesis.

Anyway, all this comes to mind as I lift my tired, heavy eyes in the general direction of my shamefully-organized (read: piled) desk and catch glimpse of my soup supply. (I don't know why she puts them on top of my desk. Maybe it looks like a place for charitable donations of canned food. If so, this is a bad sign.)

My siblings are teasing Lib for playing computers game. Dani pretends to be one of her future children: "Mommy! Have you gotten to the seventh level yet? Mommy! It's my turn!" Ben protests, "No one cares about your Mummy's Tomb score!" (I am making up a random name...I know it involves "mummy," nothing more.)

I think I'll go watch Nancy Drew with them - I mean, did I say "watch Nancy Drew"? I meant to say, I think I'll blow this joint and go find a cool party. Because this is a Saturday night and I am in college and therefore immeasurably cool. And immeasurably cool people do not watch Nancy Drew. And my siblings aren't immeasurably cool. Yeah. You believe me.

And for those of you who might get this, Matt Smith? That's all I'm saying. MATT SMITH?!

Dance, dance, nothing but dance... Dance practice last Tuesday... Dance recital this morning, dance practice this afternoon... Dance performance tomorrow (OU b-ball)... Dance performance (two! OSU b-ball) next Tuesday... Dance class Friday...

And so I am very tired and so I am going to put my head down on that pillow just over there and so I shall sleep.

(But first, here's a picture.)

So here's a bit o' genuine feeling from my genuinely feeling heart to your genuinely cringing brain.

Ode To A New Year's Resolution

No, that will never do.

An Ode Of Epic Proportions To A New Year's Resolution

That's better.

Of all the cliches Americans rehearse,
I'm thinking of calling you the most worst.

But that is bad grammar and don't rhyme, you say.
I say...
This poem is no place for chatter.

Last year they made promises (nobody sought them).
Some said they'd send Christmas cards (nobody got them).

But almost nobody wants those cards, you say.
I say...
It's the principle of things that matters.

But that really doesn't rhyme, you say.
I say...
Chatter matters only to mad hatters.

In fact, you're a nuisance, a pestilence, a bore!
If the raven were here, he'd croak 'nevermore!'

...He might quoth instead of croak, you say.

Didn't I tell you to shut up?
Anyway, to sum things up...

And you can shut up about my rhymes too.
'Up' and 'up' rhyme--can't dispute that, can you?

The making of you is such a dreadful habit
And so I have nothing to yell but, "WHITE RABBIT!"

'Tragedy! Misery! The whole thing's bunk!
'The rhymes were all shoddy, the meter plain stunk.
'The only thing epic was its disaster--
'You couldn't hold it together with plaster!
It's not even of ode-ic proportions!' you cry.
So I say 'Whatever,' and then say 'goodbye.'