I feel like I should be wearing Aviators or at least Wayfarers while I listen to this song. If I owned either I would surely wear them…simultaneously if possible. It’s just a cool song.
I mean, just listen to it start to crazy-go-nuts around the 2:42/44 range. And, I’m sorry, is that a sax introduced at 3:01?
Seriously, listen to it.
I don’t particularly like taking quotes out of context, especially those from Shakespeare because they seem to be so often misused, but I stumbled upon this one during my Shakespeare class last week and I would be remiss not to share it with you. It comes from the play, Troilus and Cressida, and this simile about time has to be one of most unique ones I’ve heard.
I think it’s kind of perfect, actually.
For Time is like a fashionable host,
That slightly shakes his parting guest by th’ hand
And, with his arms outstretched as he would fly,
Grasps in the comer. Welcome ever smiles,
And Farewell goes out sighing. (3.3. 159-163)
It’s amazing, yet sometimes troubling, to think of the fluidity of time, the way we hardly recognize that it is moving along, or more aptly, passing us on to another event.
Incredible that Shakespeare can so easily address everyone’s fear of oblivion and that a concern 400 years ago is still frighteningly relevant today.
Oh, time, you mischievous creature.
We turn again to look at some of the eclectic and intuitive search terms used to find this up-to-date and trend-setting forum.
I actually can’t remember a time I talked about catheters, never mind offering up pictures of various styles. I am not currently employing the use of one such bag, so I can’t really tell you what they look like, but I suggest a more expanded Google search.
I wouldn’t say I put a plethora of pictures of myself on the blog, so I don’t know if this person found what they were looking for. Additionally, I don’t think I have particularly broad shoulders. Although, one time last summer at the clothing store I offered to try on a jacket for a woman to see how it would look on someone of a similar size. She put me in my place by telling me that I am far more broad than she (not true). You can see more of my aphorisms here and here.
Seriously, what is it with the urinary-related queries? And when is a bladder funny? I’m not sure I can point to what is so comical about a bladder, so let’s just move on.
I like this one because I think it’s such an intriguing question. Will his affiliation, or lack thereof, affect your understand and/or appreciation of his work? Leave to people with such religiously specific requests to find there way here. Read more about Franzen or Mennonites and form your own opinion…if you dare.
What the dernit is a sandwich massage? Are you eating a sandwich while you get the massage? Do you get rubbed with a sandwich? Does the sandwich itself get the massage? Maybe just peruse some photos instead.
How to love bajillion is an ancient tradition. One that I am not at liberty to discuss at this moment. But, if you promise to come and visit my blog everyday (and tell all your friends about it) I will reveal it to you over time.
There are little-to-no words to describe some of the photos I saw today. Buzz Feed created a compilation of “48 Pictures That Perfectly Capture the ’90s.” You absolutely must visit this site.
It’s Friday, so I know you need a little fuel to get the day going (it’s the freakin’ weekend, right, R Kelly?) and I think this list is just the trick. I included a few photos as a visual snack, but this is only to whet your appetite. Check out the list and let me know which one is your favorite. OK, I realize that’s too hard, so maybe narrow it down to a few you’re totally crushing on.
This screen shot is so intense. Whatdya say we go back to these graphics?
If you were a girl in the '90s you loved Lisa Frank. Don't even try to deny it. The more rainbows, the better.
I just don't...I just...I don't even know.
A smiley face with a tongue? Superman tee? Justin's squiggly hair?! HEAVEN!!!
Oh, expletive, this is legit.
This is pretty much what all the surf shops in Charleston advertise. (Are those censor bars?)
Sex sells.
all photos courtesy of Buzz Feed
Yo soy una genius.
One part of the degree requirements for my graduate program is to prove competency in a foreign language. One might say, “Yo, girl, why do you need to know a foreign language for an English program? That is loco.” I know, it is. But it’s all a part of that whole liberal arts thing that is so hot right now. And for the record, it’s not only my program that has this stipulation. It’s pretty much standard across the board for English Master’s programs. Well maybe not for online programs, but let’s not even get into those…
You can fulfill this requirement in one of three ways: show that you took at least two years of a foreign language in undergraduate and earned a B or higher, take the Old English course, which is essentially a foreign language, and pass it with a B or higher, or take a translation test in a language of your choice and pass it with an understanding of the general idea.
Well, it has been about 9 years since I last took a foreign language I felt comfortable with (German doesn’t count because I never really learned to speak it that well–seriously, learning High German in Zurich is like trying to learn Portuguese in Spain) and I wasn’t sure that I could pass a Spanish translation test, so option 3 didn’t look that good. Obvi, the first option was out since nine years ago I was in high school and no one could shoo me near the foreign language department at undergrad. I was so over español. So that left me with option number 2: Old English. To say I was not interested in taking this class would be a gross understatement. Gag! Postmodernism is my thing, baby. The last thing I want to do is cruise back a thousand years and start hacking out syllables that don’t make no sense. And in the summer! Yes, the course is slated to be during summer school.
So, early in this semester when I started my Chaucer class (which is in Middle English, a super snazzy transition between Old and Modern English) I started getting a little sweaty under the arms thinking about taking Old English this summer. A little muchacha with a sombrero started speaking in my head, “You should take the translation test, señorita.” And with those first Spanglish whispers I knew I needed to make this test a reality.
Cut to me hyperventilating looking at all the material I needed to try to reteach myself. Um, there’s a lot to learn in Spanish and it had been nearly a decade since I had studied it. For two weeks straight I woke up every morning, made a coffee date with my Spanish dictionary (sexy, right?), and hit the translating hard. I found a tutor through Craigslist and met with him over coffee for some extra practice. I was studying like cuh-razy.
And then I took the test.
And what do you know, I kicked that bad boy’s butt! I crushed it! I went all TOTAL-DOMINATION! Please excuse the slight exaggerating. But, for realsies, I passed it. On the first try. And I feel awesome. That means no summer school, no Old English, no more funny Spanglish as I run around my apartment saying things like, “Yum! This manzana es muy tasty!”
But, the best part is, I get to start a new book. I bought The Marriage Plot the same day I bought my Spanish dictionary and told myself that I couldn’t start reading it until I passed my test. Who has two thumbs and rewards herself with literature? >this girl<
Some recent pins that have been keeping me occupied…
wish list for summer
hair
color combo. plus, i'm loving the silky blouse right meow.
library card catalog turned into a coffee table.
pattern
Find me here.
Shortest weekend EVER. It feels like it absolutely flew. Somehow in the midst of the wine and gin and tonic drinking, Southern food eating, and laaaaazy Sunday retreating, I only managed to snag a few photos.
Myself and Courtdazzle
Adam and I
My good friend, Kathryn, and her boyfriend, Chris, were also in town for the weekend.
It was a terrific weekend. Lots (and lots and lots) of laughing, a healthy helping of indulging, and just good ol’ fashion fellowship. I kept telling Courtney that her stuff was getting shipped to my apartment this week because she is moving in, but she doesn’t believe me. I have my ways…I’ll make it happen.
She’s coming today. It’s so major. Every day since I last saw her has been leading up to this weekend.
Cue insanity.
Courtneydoodle’s coming to town.
I hatehatehatehate it when things don’t work. Not being able to open a jar can send me into a tizzy. I put so much faith in objects (be them electronics, piggy banks, or window shades) that when they fail to perform for me, I get irrationally upset. Like over the top. I start using unnecessary or unintelligible expletives, breath really heavily, and let’s just go ahead and fully disclose my immaturity here, actually stomp my feet. It’s adorable.
This time it’s the cable box. I’m not receiving a signal in my room. Last night I almost went into Level 3 Whimper Attack because all I wanted to do was lay in bed and watch Top Chef. But I couldn’t. After talking with a Representative on the phone for a while, attempting to reset the receiver, the next step was to take the cable box in. I had a sneaking suspicion that there wasn’t really a problem with that receiver/adapter and it actually had something to do with the cable line, but I decided to take the sweet precious time out of my morning to deal with it. Long, painful, frustrating conversations ( I swear to you, if one more person wants to recite their Satisfaction Guarantee to me, I am going to roundhouse kick their headset off—through the phone!) later, I KNOW the problem has do with the cable connection that is living underneath my washing machine.
You see someone was over to fix the furnace the other day and he had to move the washing machine to get to it. My gut is telling me that when he shuffled all those appliances around he disturbed the carefully tapped cable connection that lies under there. And that is the root of the problem. Actually, the real root of the problem is that despite my mega-muscles, I am not strong enough to lift the stacked washer and dryer combo. So, I need a bigstrongman to come over here and lift it up so I can fix the cable.
Gah!!!
This is a rant. I know this is a rant, and they are not fun to read. But blogging is cathartic and somehow I feel better.
Prostitutes.
I can’t think of a better day to talk about them then today, Tuesday.
This semester I am in a class about memoirs and stories about race written in the graphic novel form. To save space (and not sound like a jackass trying to church it up), I’ll just say the course is a study on big comic books. It. Is. Awesome. In graduate school and reading comic books? Neat!
Of the three books we have read, all of them deal extensively with sex (surprise!) in some shape: a lesbian coming out to her parents and then dealing with her father’s suicide only months later, a young teenagers recollection of his first love, a man’s experience giving up the “evil institution of marriage” and only having sex with prostitutes. RECORD SCRATCH!! What was that?!
Yes, this week we are reading the graphic memoir, Paying For It by Chester Brown. And to be frank, it was one of the most interesting books I have read in a 
millennium. A man thinks that monogamous relationships are awful because they are inherently possessive and always lead to resentment. He argues that people were not meant to romantically love only one person; it’s not in our nature. After three unsuccessful relationships, he swears off girlfriends and signs up for whores (his word’s, absolutely not mine). Paying For It recounts several years of his sojourns with prostitutes. Each chapter features a different woman or experience. And let’s just say, Brown is not shy about laying it all out there. I’m pretty sure half the book is him lying naked in bed with a woman, just talking. The nudity is not the most interesting part I referred to earlier, however. It’s his firm, nearly staunch belief that this is the way to go. He has hopes that only a few generations from now, we will all be paying for sex and it will be normal and the thing to do. He would like prostitution to be decriminalized, but not regulated. He believes that prostitutes should not pay taxes on what they earn, should not be forced to go to the doctor, should be allowed to run their business without the shame and stigma that is so firmly planted now.
I just can’t get on board with this proposition (so to speak). Brown includes a lengthy appendix to back up his argument and (attempt) to fight the protestations that his idea is sure to garner. That is to say, he didn’t go into this book without being 
prepared to defend himself. But, for all his claims that women feel empowered by this line of work, that sex is sacred and therefore should be commercialized so that everyone can enjoy it, and that prostitution does not sexually objectify women, I cannot agree with him.
So what do I like about this book? I admire his bravery for being so candid about his experience. I respect him for his own decision, yet his reserve to not force this type of idea on everyone. In a literary sense, the book is very thoughtful and complex, although stylistically simple; it’s a very well-crafted comic book. Most of all I like how it challenged me to think on a subject in an alternative way, without being pushy or making me angry. Mostly it mad me sad, because I wish he could experience a reciprocal love that left him fulfilled and not jealous or resentful.
Being loved is one of the greatest feelings of all.
photos courtesy of en.wikipedia.org and comicsbeat.com, respectively
A Broad At Home 