Space Cadet

Imagine, if you will (and please do, it's a fun little trip), a nineteen year old girl. Frizzy blond hair, piled on top of her head, sticking out randomly. Wide brown eyes, with a not-quite-there gaze. Puffy jacket, ratty sweater. A denim miniskirt, seemingly cut with a dull knife while blindfolded. Pink knit legwarmers that went all the way up to meet her skirt.

And moon boots.

They even proclaimed proudly what they were: huge puffy white stompers, with "Moon Boots" written in blue.

Moon boots, my friend. The ladies of my daily guilty pleasure would have had a field day with her.

Now, I advise a lot of textile and fashion marketing students who want to go to London. I've seen some funky fashions walking through my office. Some are great and I admire appropriately, some are a little too out-there for my minimalist taste. This trend, if you can even call it that, just makes me think she has some overstated aspirations as to her intended vocation.

She shuffles into the office, twenty minutes late for her appointment. "I've never been to France before, but I want to move there and be a veterinarian. How do I do that?"

It was a long day.

Pass the pipe

I must have the hookup.

I'm so smooth, I didn't even know I was smoking crack. Because, really, there's no other explanation for telling my advisor last Wednesday that I would have a draft to him on Monday.

There have been so many times this weekend that I actually wanted to post something here, but I guilted myself out of it, saying that if I were going to spend time in front of my screen, it had jolly well be moving me towards my DT.* I worked feverishly every day last week, entertained my parents on Saturday, and worked from 9 to midnight on Sunday, except for a three-hour obligatory sanity-saving M*A*S*H break. I worked on Monday all day while I was supposed to be preparing applications. I worked through lunches. I worked for all the times in the last two years that I haven't worked.

And it's crap. It's all crap. Crap filled with fluff. Fluffy crap.

I'll never finish this thing; my advisor will laugh in my face and then turn suddenly serious: "No, really, we can't let you tarnish the good name of our program by bringing this before a defense committee." I'll work and work on it and get to my defense and everything will fall apart because I didn't work enough.

Now that would be a good excuse to get some more crack.

* Damn thesis.

The Primary Objective

The newest link at right (also in this post title) actually accomplishes what I set out to do in this blog. Although he compares French life to Australian life. Nevertheless, many of the points he makes resound with me, or explain some facet of the French mindset that always puzzled me. I found him from Petite's comment box.

Here's a French/British/Canadian one.

And a similar French/American blog.

Edit: So it appears that the day after I found him, he quit writing. Or maybe he'll be like me and only post once a month. I'll keep him around for a while. Just in case.

Shock and Dismay

I guess I'm not as good at this adult gig as I thought I was.

Today I realized my rent is almost due, and I sat down to write the check. Three days early, aren't I so good?

Then I actually looked at my bank account, and realized there is much less than there really should be in there. After the bills I just paid get debited off, and after this month's rent, I'll be left with a little over a hundred dollars, until my next pay period, a week and a half away!* I even suspended my routine savings transfers until I get paid next.

*I know this is not as dire as many people, and I should even be glad to be in this situation. But it's pretty extreme for me, and this is my blog so I'm going to complain whether you like it or not.

I thought it might be a wise idea to see where all my money is going, so I reviewed the last three months of my credit card. The results:

$422.78 for groceries. I like to eat, okay?!
$189.23 for eating out. Well, I could probably cut down on the going out. Only one of those was ordering pizza, though!
$355.50 for gas. Not too bad, considering. That includes my ten-day trip to WI, along with its chauffering Frenchy and his parents everywhere. I still plan to ride my bike to work until it starts snowing.
(gasp)$747.99 for shopping. Ouch. That really needs to stop. I wonder if I can make it to Thanksgiving without going shopping? It'll be hard, I know. I don't even want to think about Christmas....
$472.87 for miscellaneous. Includes a flight to NYC, books, Walgreens purchases, etc. If I overlook the flight, this wouldn't be too bad.

Well, I guess I know what I need to do. How did my monthly credit card bill go from $300 in January to over double that amount in seven months?

Student Life

I've been thinking about being a student lately.

Not for me specifically--although I am technically still a student, having this ridiculous thesis still haging over my head, I spend a far larger portion of my time working my 8-5 adult job. More on the theoretical level.

I loved being a student. One of the main reasons I do the job I do is because I want to remain in an academic environment. I love the learning, the curiosity, the limitless ambitions. I love the crazy hours. I love the sharing and germinating of ideas, the brainstorming, the creative process, the comparing, the analyzing. I love the hammering out the best way to express your thoughts.

Since I work with students (I am a "Student Services Advisor," in the vague lingo of my university) I spend a fair portion of my time comparing my life as it is right now to what it was just a few short years ago. It really wasn't that long ago that I was in undergrad, in the same place they were, with all the drama, dreams, and drinking that they routinely engage in.

I remember a friend's mother reproaching us for complaining that we were sleepy and overworked in college: We had class for a couple hours a day, dance practice for another couple hours, and called it a full day? Try working straight for eight hours, she said. We'd see.

Well, I'm seeing. Life after college isn't all it's cracked up to be, but nevertheless, I think this period of my life is pretty good to me. I like the challenge of finding the perfect solution for each student who comes in to see me, not only the one that seems the most obvious, but the one that will benefit him or her in the long run. For every blithering idiot who comes in, there are two geniuses, and five or six normal students. I make a real, personal connection with about one in ten. No day is ever the same. When I cheekily say I work for world peace, I really mean it.

Yet, there are so many times I'd rather be lazing on a Union chair on the Terrace. I miss Danville, but I don't really want to go back. Even more, I miss Madison, and if given the chance, I'd move back there.

Hailin' Taxis Like a Pro

Hey, I just did something I've never done before! I can whistle with my fingers, two-index-fingers-style. Check out where I learned it in the posting title. Right now it's more luck than skill--two times out of three I get a proper, loud whistl-y sounding whistle, and the rest of the time I just blow.

Oh, that sounded bad. You know what I meant, though.

Now I'm sorta lightheaded. Woooo-oooo!

With Apologies to Dooce

You rotten whore.

(Story to come later if I feel up to it.)