"Wait, I don't get it. Why is this Jew wearing a Santa hat?" you might be asking yourself. I'm all about sending mixed signals, obviously, but this one is really quite simple: this Santa hat screams fabulous. Plus, it's practically a cipah that just happens to be red with white fuzz around it, replete with a coiled spring and ball at the end that's reminiscent of something one of the Jetsons might wear. If it helps, consider it a designer cipah. A faux fur number by hip menswear designer Calvin Klein.

All this is to say, festive greetings for a wonderful holiday! Whatever holiday(s) you celebrate, may it be a fabulous and festive time!

It's been quiet here at ATP since I came back to New Mexico for break, mostly because I've been loving my time off. As soon as school was over, I promptly got sick. Then I hopped on a plane, landed in Albuquerque, and stayed sick for the next few days. To borrow the immortal words of Calvin & Hobbes, my days are just packed. Not in the sense that I'm superbly busy and running around constantly; it's more that I'm rather distracted by the company. In my spare time, I've been working on a little side project. I started it about a month or so ago, working a bit on figuring out some of the details and the direction of it. Then I bit the bullet, bought another domain, and have spent the last week poring over PHP and CSS code. Tonight, I spent more than two hours trying to figure out how to make the blog title text invisible so I could have a masthead of my own design without interference from a WordPress theme. I've yet to figure out exactly how to fix that without removing the titles to individual blog posts. Once I get figure it out, and iron out the details, I'll unveil it. In the meantime, anyone know how to fix this CSS issue? I'll love you if you do.

It figures that as soon as my semester is over and all that stress ends so suddenly, I get hit with a head cold. Maybe that's a gift from the semester that I repeated cursed for the last three months, I don't know. It certainly made traveling back to Albuquerque a fascinating endeavor, me sitting in my seat clutching my little pocket pack of Kleenex and sniffling constantly. But more on that in a minute. First, having been inspired by J-Money's notes from her recent trip, I decided to have a go at my own. (You may want to skip this part and just go read hers, as mine is considerably less funny/interesting). Consider yourself warned, especially since I wrote this in my little journal while I was waiting for my amazingly delicious deep-dish cheese and tomato pizza.

1.) Wow. Just stepped off a CRJ 200, a notoriously small plane that seats only 50 people. Thanks to Priceline.com, I had no assigned seat until I arrived at the gate. (Note: I was not at my most attractive upon said arrival, panting and sweating and cursing the long line through security.) And what fresh hell am I met with? They gave me a seat in the very first row. Which I'll consider first class, thank you very much. Considering the seats are designed for people whose waist size is only slightly larger than the average Pomeranian, I relished the extra six inches of leg room. I was proud, though, of my uncanny (and unparalleled) ability to fold myself into my seat, not unlike an Oscar Meyer wiener squeezing itself into a bun intended for miniature sausages.¹

2.) The man across the aisle from me on the way to Salt Lake City² was pretty much annoyance personified. he was one of those guys who's deluded himself into believing he's funny. To our stewardess, he quipped, "So, when does the movie start?" She ignored him, much to my delight, and I loved her instantly. And then, wait for it, he REPEATED HIMSELF not two minutes later. And she ROLLED HER EYES. It was all I could do to suppress the urge to leap up and hug the woman. Said funny man later complained that his Minute Maid Fruit Punch was "just too sweet"--hi, it's fruit punch--and asked that it be diluted. I can think of something else that needs diluting.

That's all I could muster in my ailing health. Which leads me to this next topic.³ All I wanted for dinner was some chicken soup, and Robert, sensibly, suggested we go somewhere that served green chile chicken soup. I heartily agreed, and made the unilateral decision that because the chicken was cooked with green chile, it MUST be kosher. I got soup, protein, and vitamin C all in one fell swoop, and whoah, the green chile chicken soup was amazing. I want seconds.

¹ You know what? That could be the gayest comparison EVER. I should get some sort of award for it. ² I tried to look around the airport in SLC and pick out all the Mormons, but it turns out the only success I had was picking out obviously closeted gay men. ³ Do you like my lousy segue there? So do I.

Curiosity got the better of me today. My little house has a tendency to like extremes. The wood that comprises the majority of walls can trap heat, and then turn around and trap the arctic winds. It's been doing the latter lately, which means that as the temperature outside dips to the high 30's and low 40's at night, my house likes to follow suit, which means that I wake up only to find that the temperature in my house is 50 degrees. I caved last week and turned on the heater, but only run it for about an hour at a time if it gets that cold inside. The bathroom is another story. Despite being mere feet away from the heater, it doesn't benefit one iota from the heater's warmth.

Which lead me to my ether-smelling Curious George incident of the day. There's this metal grate on the wall of the bathroom that I've long suspected is a heater. I could practically see my breath in there, so I decided to flip the switch on the little heater, something I've been dying to do pretty much since the day I moved in here. Smoke started pouring out the top within two seconds, naturally, so I immediately turned the switch off.

It's like some Pandora's Box of heaters, it turns out, and once those coils turned orange they never turned back to. The heat was fantastic for all of ten seconds, at which point it suddenly turned into a sauna and I started sweating and my back suddenly flared up, the unfortunate result of a previous bout with heat rash from four years ago.

I've since made several attempts to turn the hateful thing off, but even when the switch is off, it mocks me with its hot orange coils, not unlike the evil furnace in Home Alone.

You'd think this would teach me not to play with the old things that make up my humble abode, but it won't. But I'm thinking I want both heaters off and I'm going to take Maxie's advice and get myself a space heater. Electricity is so much easier than this gas business. All it took was one night and I already feel differently about a cold toilet seat. Weird how that worked.

Hey kids, what's a great way to spend a Saturday night right before final exams on Monday? If you answered going to an ugly sweater party, you are correct. After spending the better part of my day studying neuroanatomy, I also wiled away my afternoon doing the same thing. Around 7, a very important chat with Dr. Vina was interrupted by my landlord and his wife. The two of them very awkwardly invited me to the big ugly sweater party, an invitation partly because they like me and partly because, were I to stay in my own quarters for the evening, I wouldn't be able to get anything done thanks to all the people talking loudly, running around, and trying to snowboard on the fake snow someone dumped in the grass.

I ventured warily to the house, figuring I'd make an appearance and then leave after half an hour. The ugly sweaters were pretty much what I expected. That is to say, one main reason I was able to handle being around some of the crazies who came to the party was because I could openly laugh at them for looking like they'd just stepped out of a Kmart ad. The other main reason was because of the artichoke dip and the beverages. For most in attendance , there's no alcohol strong enough to handle being around them (I'm looking at the ones telling racist jokes, the group who's currently trying to sing choral style outside right now, and the girl who scrunched her face when her friend mentioned Prop 8 - The Musical. She was all, "Ugh, gay--it's just so wrong!" And I was all, "GIRL, IF YOU HAD A GAY FRIEND, HE WOULD NEVER HAVE LET YOU WEAR THOSE SHOES. GET WITH THE PROGRAM." There were a few gems among them, and given that I quickly realized that I couldn't escape the madness, much less leave the premises (my car was blocked in the driveway anyway), I decided to eat brie and shoot the breeze with them.

I've escaped after a couple of hours and am now rocking the iPod and attempting to finish reading some articles for class. It's 12:45, this chicken is home to roost, but that probably won't happen til all the rowdiness subsides. You know it's a sad time when studying is preferable to socializing and carrying on with people. This means either (a) I'm a grinch, (b) I'm totally focused on finishing this semester on a good note, or (c) this is, overall, a lame group to party with. All I can say is that that artichoke dip was a fucking lifesaver. Seriously.

In the history of weird days, I think my Friday today takes the cake. I offer the following evidence, quoted directly from a text message I sent Robert this morning: Have I been having the most bizarre day so far!

1. I had bed head so bad that even my goatee was all over the place. 2. I discovered that I got some sun recently, as my forehead is red and peeling slightly. 3. I lost the tie to my bread earlier this week, and when I went to put water in my tea kettle so I could have oatmeal for breakfast, I found it IN the tea kettle. 3. As I was getting dressed, I put my shirt on backwards by mistake.

I didn't notice at the time that I included two number threes. I suppose they're equally strange, but I totally wasn't that clever at the time, and meant for that second three to be a four.

While I was hoping that the rest of the day would be a little less wonky, it wasn't. Awkward conversation with a "former" lesbian about sexuality and deities? Check. (And then I couldn't resist temptation, and started talking to this newly uber-religious ex-lesbian about evolution. I'm such a stellar communicator.) Running into a girl at Trader Joe's who I know I know but couldn't place from where? Check. Reading research articles and studying on Friday night? Check.

Heck, the only really normal thing that happened was that I fell asleep studying, and now it's a quarter after one in the morning and I'm blogging. Is it December 16th yet? Oy vey.

"I've never had those before." That was my reply when a friend of mine in clinic offered me a Starbucks Frappuccino this afternoon. The look on everyone's faces when I said this led me to believe that, with the exception of those aged three or younger, I was the last person on the planet to drink one of those things. Emphasis on was. I've never been a big coffee drinker. Which, given my general level of energy even when I average 4-5 hours of sleep every night for a week, has caused similar sputterings of disbelief. But I digress. I drank the frapper, I liked the frapper (I had caramel, and was sent home with two mochas and ordered to drink them as soon as possible), and with the addition of super sugary frosted sugar cookies, I have to say that I ended clinic on one hell of a sugar high. I chased it five hours later with a dinner that consisted of bread and sautéed potatoes. I have no idea if carbs and starch equalizes the sugar intake, but it felt bland enough to, so I went with it.

Speaking of going with it, look at this!* That would be the end-of-semester gift from my clinic supervisor. This is what happens when you decide to get your Master's degree in Speech-Language Pathology, my friend: you get a MOUTH for a gift. And what's more, you're positively thrilled about it. I wish I was kidding. The thing even has a name: Mouthy Mouth the Finger Puppet.

Despite it's hokey-beyond-reason name, I love it. And if, for some crazy reason, you're interested in seeing more, I might consider including Heir Mouth in my first ever video blog. Feel free to applaud or reject this in the comments, and I may or may not decide accordingly.

*Also, check out those amazing blinds behind me! I told you out with the drapes, in with the blinds, was the greatest unilateral decision I have ever made. They're amazing.

Sweeney Todd was awesome on so many levels. Hello, new take on the classic show! The insane asylum idea is pretty cool. I scoffed at the mimed food until Robert reminded me it was a loony bin. This lady behind me at the theater griped all through intermission how Sweeney just looked TOO NORMAL, and I was like, "HELLO! People who look freaky are some of the nicest people ever, and just because you don't look crazy doesn't mean you're a total sociopath hellbent on revenge." I loved that the actors sang, acted, and played all the music themselves. I loved the minimalist set, how it was versatile and clever. The only thing I found a tad off was the part where Antony was singing about Joanna's "yellow hair." Because her hair was brown. Crazy house, yes, but not color-blind. Meh. On another note, graduate school and my body are currently at war with one another. I'm not taking sides at this point, mostly because I'm hating them both with every fiber of my being. I'm exaggerating. But that doesn't mean the pain isn't real.

I spent a solid three hours tonight alternately pacing the house, trying to sit and read, and collapsing to the floor in agony before righting myself and trying to stretch my poor, aching muscles. My hips are taking turns, each side, delivering a dull yet throbbing pain through the rest of my legs, and it's all I can do not to lop them off with the spare binder clip lying on my desk and then chuck them into the pool. The extra annoying part was that, even at the theater, my hips and legs were threatening even to stab me in the back in an effort ruin my experience.

I'm supposed to have an eight-page outline plus a two-page response paper typed by tomorrow night, and all I've been able to type is this post, which is the brilliant culmination of eight minutes of sitting down and using every ounce of brainpower to ignore my legs. December 16 had better hurry the fuck up and get here. The rest of this semester can suck it.

This weekend has been intense. It's been considerably more busy than my usual, lazy weekend. I feel sort of how Katelin must feel sometimes, having that super busy social calendar. Speaking of Katelin, I got to meet her on Friday, thanks to a certain blogger gathering. Friday night was awesome on many levels, including the level at which I turned my empty beer bottle into a microphone and broke out in karaoke song to Elvis's Kentucky Rain. I'm not sure how much my fellow bloggers appreciated this, but whatever. The drinks were good, the cheesesticks were unstoppable, and the people rocked. The roundup of who attended: me, the fabulous Katelin, the always awesome Nico, the hilarious RS27, the well-dressed So@24, the quick-witted Chardsy, the blog-meeting Tara, the one-of-a-kind Michelle, as well as her boyfriend and LA guru Matt.

(Oh, and another highlight was that we all discovered that we share a common love of Stella Artois. I never imagined that Stella could unite bloggers, but indeed it has.)

We're hoping to set up another gathering after the holidays, perhaps in January or so, and bring in even more of us.

Moving on: In a mere hour and a half, I'll be at the theater to see a new Broadway touring production of Sweeney Todd. I've had my tickets since the end of September, so I'm pretty much excited beyond reason.

I'd like to take a moment to thank everyone for their kind words over the weekend. I had no clue what I was in for, and your comments have meant so much to me. It's been an interesting week so far, to say the least. Everything seems to have happened at once, and with considerably less humor than I generally require on a daily basis. After a rough start to my week, my Monday afternoon suddenly delivered the unexpected: an opportunity to stop thinking and just laugh.

In the middle of my clinic today, my three (going on four) year old client got all excited when he saw a card with a gorilla pictured on it. He leapt out of his chair, pounded his chest, and said, "The gorilla pounds his BOOBS." I just stopped and stared at him before grinning uncontrollably, and he said it again. "Aaaaahhhhh the gorilla pounds his BOOBS!" I only barely managed to stifle a laugh (by coughing, obviously) before I replied, "His chest. Yes, the gorilla pounds his chest."

Now I'm left wondering where a three-year-old picked up such delicate vocabulary. I applaud whoever taught the little guy about boobs, because he me made my day.

Stepping out of the car and walking through the crunchy Bermuda grass to your faded green house always made me a little nervous. I would stand by the car and stretch my legs, reach my arms to the sky above, before kicking up dust as I walked through the pale white rock that served as a driveway. I'd step carefully through the grass toward the porch steps, wary of stepping on little mounds of dirt riddled throughout the grass. The miniature mud volcanoes were the signature homes of crawfish, I knew. I also knew I never wanted to see one emerge, but was secretly thrilled when they did so. Always, I would try to pick up one of the many kittens lounging around everywhere. They were skittish and frequently ran to hide under the house, but that never stopped me from trying.

Walking through the front door would put me at ease. The house, always warm and inviting, was reassuring to me. The smell of fresh waffles right off the waffle iron, followed by fresh cooked fish and macaroni and cheese, would put my stomach in charge of my mind and it would all seem better. Spending nights in a sleeping bag on the floor in such absolute darkness was always somewhat terrifying to me, but the cold house would encourage me to stay in the warmth and safety of my sleeping bag. The rising sun, to be matched with the smell of breakfast, was easily the best thing in the world.

The backyard was an endless expanse of land to my young eyes. I never much cared for the smell of the farm. But the sheep, how I loved them. They were soft and fluffy, and those feelings alone made me feel they were harmless. I occasionally enjoyed walking toward them and watching them band together and drift away from me.

I remember the cold tan chair that, despite its hard edges, was somehow extremely comfortable. I remember you sitting in that chair and taking naps after lunch, always snoring loudly. I would giggle at the sound of your snores as they echoed off the linoleum floors.

You were always so big to me, despite being smaller in stature than my dad, your second son. You were bald from my very first memory of you, and I remember always noticing the dimple in your chin I hoped I would never inherit, but did anyway. You would walk up to me wearing that army green jumpsuit you worked in, look down at me and say, "How ya doin', boy?" Regardless of my answer, you would lean down and say "EH??" I'd shout my answer in the hopes that you could understand me, and you would say "Ooohhh" as if you understood. We had a great rapport: your strong Cajun French accent made it hard for me to understand you, and your hearing loss from all those years driving combines made it hard for you to understand me.

I remember eating the tomatoes and cucumbers you grew in your garden. Even after farming was long behind you, you maintained your garden and a bad day to you was any day not spent working in it. Your vegetables were delicious, and the answer to your favorite question about them, "They're good, eh?" was always yes.

I envied how the cats that always scattered when I approached would flock your way in an instant. I remember the time one of your favorite cats was slowly dying and you ended her misery without a second thought. I felt so sad at the time, but I understand now that you were thinking more about her and less about yourself. I remember the time my cousin's husband, who lived next door to you, had a German Shepherd, a beautiful but unfriendly dog that jumped the fence between your respective properties one day and killed one of your sheep. You saw fit to shoot the dog, and while the rest of the family was incredibly pissed off, to this day I cannot help but laugh.

It's been nearly two years since I've seen you, and I'll never again have the opportunity to do so. I heard the news this morning, shortly after you were found in your home. I know how hard this last year was for you. I know you were forgetting where you put things and I remember being scared for you when you couldn't find your rifle but then found it under your pillow. I know how upset you were when they took away your car, because your independence meant the world to you. I know the family was discussing putting you in a nursing home, and I know how much you hated the idea that you wouldn't be in the comfort of your own home, in the environment you'd created for yourself over the last 85 years. I know this, and this is why, despite my sadness, I somehow feel at peace.

I never really knew it, but I loved you. Growing up two states away did not make it easy to get to know you, and my city life made it that much harder to find that common ground. But as I think of you now, I know it's true. I will miss you greatly, RL. Rest in peace.

This Thanksgiving was completely different for me. I relaxed most of the day, then hit the movie theaters with Robert so we could go see Milk. The $13.50 matinee tickets proved worthwhile not only because the seats were comfortable, the theater was clean, and we had assigned seating, but also because the film was incredible.

I'm still thinking about it, even hours after leaving the theater. There's a part of me that wishes so badly that I had been there, that I could have enjoyed the culture and the people. At the same time, I'm reminded that one has no control over such things, and I'm in the here and now, exactly as I was meant to be. And perhaps the reason I feel this connection, so disconnected by virtue of my being born when I was, is really a sign of just how timeless it all is. I'm not only watching history happen (and repeat itself); I'm involved in shaping that history and striving for change. Since seeing the film, I've felt wowed, sad, inspired, disheartened, filled with hope, scared, and proud. All of these I consider, each in its own right, good things to feel.

On another note, related only because it happened on the same day (Thanksgiving!), I ate turkey today. It's probably been about a year since I've done so. Heck, it was last Thanksgiving that I ate the stuff, now that I think about it. Robert and I spent over two hours bustling around the kitchen cooking up our own private feast: turkey, stuffing, garlic mashed potatoes, and pumpkin pie. It was a veritable feast for two, and we stuffed ourselves silly in less than twenty minutes. To the point that we couldn't even THINK about eating pumpkin pie. I suspect that'll be breakfast in the morning.

Finally, don't just stand around and be thankful this weekend in remembrance of a time that sparked great conflict, go forth and learn more about the history of this country and celebrate Native American Heritage Month. In the words of my best friend, what have you done for your fellow Native American today?

There's a new lady in my life. She's sassy, smart (though frankly, she's something of a know-it-all), and somewhat understanding of me. She's there for me when I get lost, but she's rather impatient at times (understandable, since it's me we're talking about; but it's still irritating). And since I don't have the energy to continue this poor excuse for double entendre, and because it's a lame attempt at it anyways, I'll just say this: I've finally broken down and used the GPS on my cell phone. And here's the kicker: I love it. I generally prefer having a good idea about where I'm going, but it's been really nice having my handy phone GPS certain stores and call them up, or find certain spots within an unfamiliar area. I probably put an extra 20 miles on my car every week just thanks to getting turned around or lost. The other beauty? The fact that if I miss a turn or exit, as I'm prone to do, the GPS will say "Re-cal-cu-lating route" in its electronicky female voice and find an alternative way to get there.

As Robert and I were schlepping around town today, we decided to pull out the GPS to play with. When I suggested we see if the area had a Trader Joe's, as we needed to stop there for some food, Robert was like, "Check your phone and then we'll ask Miss Thang give us directions." So we now have Miss Thang, AKA the voice of my phone's GPS navigation system, to guide us around whenever we're so inclined. Despite her catty one-liners and her edgy sense of superiority, we kinda like her anyway, and plan on keeping her around.

Today was hands down the best Saturday I've had in quite some time. I'm talking the whole day here. It was awesome for several reason, which I'll rate in order of the lessor awesome (obviously still bitchin') to most awesome. 3.) The curtains of doom are finally GONE! I started hating those things pretty much as soon as I was living here and realized that I didn't have an evil roommate to hate. (Gotta hate something, I suppose). Long story short, I got the damn curtains off, discovered that my suspicion of cricket eggs was correct, realized that sometimes I hate being right, then got my landlord to help me install my fabulous new blinds. My house is ten bajillion times more open and spacious and happy now that those awful worse-than-the-worst-frock-ever curtains have left the building. Just as sweet? That my landlord, who previously refused to pay for new blinds because he LIKED the curtains (I know!), likes the blinds so much that he's contemplating buying them from me when I move out. Once again, fabulosity wins.

2.) I went to Le Swap today. It's no secret that I've become an avid Apartment Therapy reader, and even less of a secret that I'm quickly developing a love for interior design. Seriously, relaxation time for me has become "how can I make my place look fabulous" time.

1.) My partner spent nineteen hours of his Saturday awake, and about fifteen of those hours in a car. And then, at a little after 9:30 this evening, there he was, standing outside waiting for me in the front of the house. I would have run as fast as I could out front, but refrained from doing so because the lighting for the sidewalk is lousy, and had I done so, there's a good chance our reunion wouldn't have been nearly as thrilling as it's been. Friends often ask me how I handle this long-distance aspect of our relationship right now, and I always tell them the same thing: it's 100% worth it. I'm getting my education and I'm experiencing the world outside the city in which I grew up. And tonight, I realized one of the most amazing things: our relationship continues to grow more than I ever imagined possible, even while we're apart. Being apart, though, there are things that remain in the memory of your mind but your body has opted to allow to hibernate. And then, when you see your special someone from afar, it feels like you're meeting a stranger you've known forever but have met only in dreams. With every step closer, feelings rush to the surface, every second that passes equals a week, a month, a year, and by the time you hug him close to you, you've completely fallen head over heels in love all over again.

I've done something I never thought possible: I walked into Lowe's today and bought an item to improve my home that is not electronic. You hear that, interwebs? I walked into a home improvement warehouse. And bought something. My first ever set of blinds, to be specific. Tomorrow, one set of the eight-foot tall by ten-foot wide curtains that are the object of my intense loathing will be replaced by a set of tasteful, simple faux wood blinds. Leave it to a home improvement project to bring out the butch in me. But, to borrow a word I learned from Thom some time ago, that's all just part of the process of fagifying a home. But honestly, it's crazy how much I've been loving this.

It's 11:30pm on this Wednesday evening, and even though this week has left me bone tired, I'm sitting at the computer reading up on bidets. It's not my fault, entirely. I blame the fine folks at Apartment Therapy for this one. There I was, innocently reading entries and marveling at fabulously decorated houses and rooms, when I suddenly read this post about a cool new water-saving flush device for toilets. As if it wasn't enough to suddenly realize that I want one of those, I just HAD to go and click on the link about an inexpensive bidet: the Brondell Swash Ecoseat. I'm no stranger to bidets, as Maxie could tell you, but I've never actually used one. I must confess that the idea of having a little spray of water do all the dirty work, so to speak, sounds luxurious. Plus, given the current state of my endlessly busy weeks, I think it'd be something pleasant to add to the daily routine.

If you'd like to know more about this newfound apple of my eye, click the link above for a nice review. I can't review it because I don't have it, obviously. (Let me deviate for just a second: I've had offers in the past to receive certain products and review them on this website, all of which I've turned down. However, I'd be willing to make an exception here. Hear that, Brondell? I will voluntarily receive and use a product and review it on this website for all ATP readers to see. All you have to do is get in touch. Plus, after reading what Khaled Hosseini had to say about the state of sewage systems in Afghanistan, I think it would be incredibly awesome if your company donated a percentage of each sale towards improving sanitation and sewage in countries around the world in desperate need.)

And in conclusion, I just learned (also thanks to Apartment Therapy) that November 19 is a very special day of the year... I'd like to wish everyone a very happy World Toilet Day! Peace.

UPDATE: I had totally intended to include this, but spaced it completely when I posted this last night. That's what I get for blogging right before I go to bed. Anyway, thanks to Deutlich for reminding me. This particular Brondell model includes a special spray for the ladies. But don't ask me, go watch this video and see for yourself. RIGHT NOW. And when you've finished that, go watch this video for some added hilarity.

Ever wonder what is the answer to the universal question? The universal question being, of course, What the fuck? I offer, thanks to my neuroanatomy class, the answer(s):

• flocculonodular lobe
• fastigial nucleus
• vermis
• cerebral peduncles
• dorsal horn cells
• extrafusal muscle fibers
• dermatomes
• Nucleus Ambiguus
• Arachnoid villa

That's just a tiny sample of the misery I've been forcing myself to study. I'd be less opposed to this information if it was first put into English before it became completely jargonized. El Profesor can barely pronounce 90% of the vocabulary we use in the course, much less wax poetic about it. Based on the sample quizzes provided, she's looking for details and I aimed for a general working understanding. I feel I'm better off, but we'll see if she feels similarly. Fingers crossed!

What do you do when there's wildfires burning throughout the city and you're not keen to go outside and frolic in the lack of proper sunshine? You do this:

Of course, this is also what you do when you have a huge mid-term exam approaching on Tuesday that threatens to disembowel you if you don't properly study for the thing. My studies have been anything but proper, but I'm at least feeling better this time around than I was for the previous mid-term.

And by the way, check out the sexiness that is my new dining table! I picked it up yesterday after having seen it advertised on craigslist in a moving sale. I haven't actually dined at it yet, as I promptly pulled out my books and laptop so I could study at it. Still, methinks I'm going to get my money's worth from it.

I've spent most of my Saturday cooped up inside my house curled up next to my air purifier. Yesterday, I was aware of more wildfires happening in the Los Angeles area. Then, this morning, news broke of a fire nearby once again, only this time eight miles away from me.

Luckily, my air purifier does a great job keeping my humble abode from smelling too bad. I did have to leave at one point today, to go across town (the opposite direction of the fire) to pick up a new dining table (which is fabulous, let me tell you). Upon stepping out the door, I was met with a stench that can only be described as "foul." My first thought was that this did not smell anything like the previous fires. I think I actually said out loud, to no one, that "it smells like someone lit a full pasture of cow manure on fire."

A quick glance at the grass in the yard answered my question: my landlord had taken it upon himself this morning to fertilize the entire backyard. The grass was covered in a layer of dark brown manure and, when combined with the foul smell of smoke, was enough to make me want to find the nearest machete and chop my nose off in the hopes that that would disable my sense of smell.

I managed to take some pictures from my car while driving back to my house from the coast, which I've posted on Flickr. As for me, I'm going to go to bed and hope that the winds die down, the fires get contained, and the weather cools the fuck off. Oh, and maybe once all that happens, there'll be less static electricity everywhere too. Even my shiny Mac keyboard has been giving my fingers little sparks from time to time as I type, and it's getting ridiculous.

My previous record of never having won anything from any contests on the internet is officially broken. When I checked the mail this afternoon, sure enough there was a package from Ben. (The package was already open when it arrived on my doorstep; I'm not sure if that's since it was shipped from Canada or if it was an accident during the shipping process, or maybe even if it was my landlord's wife being nosy about my mail. Who knows.) In October, the coolest dachshund blog ever held a contest to win a very special book about a very special dog. Being the literary fiend I am, I entered. My luck for contests usually ends up favorable only when the grand prize is a bushel of radishes or something equally distasteful, so imagine my surprise when I found out that I won this fabulous book!

Obviously, the first thing I did was to snatch my new treasure, plop myself into my cozy POÄNG chair to read. It's a wonderfully sweet story and I've already thought of roughly two hundred ideas for which I can use this for working with children and adults alike.

A big thank you to Who's Your Dachshund for this contest, not to mention for pointing me in the direction of this book, and I'd especially like to extend my thanks to Barbara Gail Techel for sharing her story. Don't hesitate to go purchase your own copy of Frankie the walk 'n roll dog! It's definitely worth it. And don't just take my word for it; take the word of this picture, too:

Hey, remember that one time when I got harassed by my ex-roommate about actually using the bathroom I thought I was paying to rent? Or how about the time I got bitched at for daring to put a bag in to line the icky metal decorative trashcan? No? Well, maybe the time she berated me over the undersides of plates not being clean enough? Do you at least remember when it got so bad that I wrote ten reasons why I was ready to move out? It turns out I wasn't off by much when I described Medusa's bastard child as clinically psychotic. As far as I'm concerned, the only reason I'm not 100% right is because I don't think the woman has ever been officially diagnosed. And while I suspected that she most likely suffered from Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder (OCD), as well as Bipolar Disorder, I learned about something today that's far more insidious, and probably exactly what she actually has.

See, despite suspecting OCD, the creature exhibits none of the standard obsessive repetitive routines so common to the disorder. And while she certainly had her ups and downs, I'm now beginning to suspect I was wrong about her being bipolar. See, today I learned about Obsessive Compulsive Personality Disorder. To put it simply, it's something that makes my reaction of thinking she might try to hit me over the head with a frying pan a reasonable fear. Which, in hindsight, is terrifying. (Perhaps it's time I suggest that Roommates.com start paying close attention, as it's through their service that I ended up living in that nuthouse. Obviously, it's not their fault I ended up there, but I say this because I wonder what that might do to ensure that others don't end up in my same position, having to call the domestic abuse hotline at one point because you're afraid either for your own life or for the life of someone who shares that living space.)

Obsessive Compulsive Personality Disorder (OCPD) can also, apparently, be considered "Perfectionist Disorder." And from every description I read, it's perfectionism to an outrageous extreme. According to this article my ex-roommate would check yes to pretty much every single item listed in the description of the disorder. Obviously, the immaculate state of the house and relegating me to two cabinets she frequently organized, is an easy indicator. But perhaps this is why she never knew why she pissed me off so much:

Unfortunately, OCPD insistence on doing things according to logical rules angers others. Some individuals with OCPD become aware of their impact on others but they do not understand it. Others with OCPD appear oblivious to the negative emotions they elicit. In fact, if confronted with this anger, individuals with OCPD are inclined to believe that these people have no right to be angry (Turkat, 1990, p. 85).

And the following may explain the totally unreasonable conditions of her keeping $150 of my deposit for merely cleaning the carpet and painting a few spots on the wall (notice I said 'explain'; in no way does this excuse her actions, in my eyes):

People with OCPD will go out of their way to impress those they define as in a superior status. They are quite anxious if they are unsure of their position with these individuals. On the other hand, people with OCPD are autocratic and condemnatory with subordinates. They often behave in a pompous and self-righteous manner. They are haughty and deprecatory but cloak their actions behind regulations and legalities. They justify their aggressive approach by referring to rules or to authorities higher than themselves (Millon, 1981, p. 225). (Emphasis added.)

I suppose, given her uncontrollable desire to control everything, it's no wonder she didn't respond well to me asserting my own human rights. I don't believe I did anything wrong, but given that I witnessed (and had to involve myself in) a particularly violent outburst from her when she realized she was unable to maintain control, it would have been nice to have known about this ahead of time.

It scares me that I willingly put myself into such an environment, and makes me triply glad I'm no longer there. Worse still, I fear for those still involved in her life. But most of all, and I can't believe I'm saying this, I fear for this woman. She needs help desperately, and I wonder if she'll ever seek out that help, or have someone in her life who cares about her enough to insist on it. It seems to me that people as unstable as my former roommate, especially given her nature, have absolutely NO BUSINESS even seeking out a roommate. I just hope that my brief time spent living with her woke her up enough to realize the same thing.

The lesson of the day today is this: if you're checking the scheduled pay period for the month, and you suddenly find out you get paid Friday instead of next Monday, it's completely understandable if you want to jump for joy. Just refrain from doing so until AFTER class is over, because people will look at you funny and ask why you're whooping at that particular point of the diagnostic evaluation you're supposed to be observing.

My previous post about warning future grad students was, I daresay, a tad misdirected. Specifically, I should have pointed the warning to a specific sect of grad students: speech pathology ones. Between taking courses, working in two clinics, working at least twenty hours per week, and getting all caught up in election fervor and debates and thoughts about the atrocity that is Prop 8, it gets to be a bit much. I wouldn't have it any other way, of course, but that fact certainly doesn't stop me from griping about it from time to time. I took the opportunity of my day off to sleep in and get some much-needed studying done. I struggle particularly in science courses, and my neuroanatomy course is no exception. However, as always, I'm learning more about how I learn, and that I need to play to my strengths. One of my strengths happens to be reading, so while I'm not reading the books super intently, I've taken to reading and rereading the slides of notes. My latest trick: read five slides, then double back and read them again. Then read them a final time before moving on to the next five. Little by little, I feel like I'm making some headway.

Regardless, it's going to feel SO GOOD to put this semester behind me.

If I had to nail down a particular talent of mine related to work and school, I'd say that I have a real knack for saying I'll do something and then completely forget to do it. In fact, I'm skilled to the point that I won't even REMEMBER that I didn't remember to do it. Occasionally, I do remember, but not until long after I was meant to. Mostly, I attribute this to my current state of being: incredibly busy during the days and too exhausted by the end to actually use my brain once I've arrived home. To counter this, I've taken to writing notes to myself. I'm at least not naive enough anymore to write it down on paper, because that'll just get buried in the bottom of my bag, and who has time to go rummaging through their bag to find something important they need to? I sure as heck don't.

Which is why I've taken to sending myself email messages from my phone. The messages serve as little reminder notes for things that need doing. In theory, this is fantastic: no piece of paper gets lost, and new information and lists are right at the top of my inbox. Or right in the middle, or at the bottom of the second page. Mostly, the messages end up going unread, because I don't bother to open them for one of two reasons: 1.) I don't have time to read emails from myself because I have many more emails from other people to read, obviously, and 2.) because reading emails after a 12-14 hour day goes something like this: "Hey Phil, zdf;lkjadfadfzzzzzzzzzzzz"

That last part is the sound of my head hitting the keyboard as a crash into a deep sleep. Speaking of which... that's enough for today NaBloPoMo. I'm cashed.

Future graduate students be forewarned: graduate school eats weekends whole for breakfast and doesn't even spit out the bones. And if you think for even a minute that you can use your weekend for interesting things like little day trips across the city, trying out new recipes to change things up a bit, or even trying to obtain accurate measurements of your windows because you're going to stab your eyes out with your toothbrush if you have to look at those ugly bland curtains for one more day, you'll most likely wind up trying to kick your own ass because suddenly, grad school has eaten up two minutes for every one that's passed. Which then means that it's Sunday night and you're STILL not finished with all your damn papers. At which point you'll probably try to rip the curtains off the wall and throw them at grad school, in the hopes that maybe at least grad school will solve ONE of your problems.