So attractive.

It’s probably a good thing that I don’t belong to a gym.

Because if you happened to have been in my basement this afternoon, you would have gotten to watch me in lovely Target yoga pants, a tank top, frizzy pigtails (stupid rain) spending an hour on the treadmill.

Not only that, but talking to myself. Because clearly, an hour? What else is there to do with that time but study? At first I was just reading my notes, but then I thought, dude, I’m in my basement. I learn better when I say things out loud, so dammit, I will talk. Yes. An hour of my fevered mumblings about Home Rule and the potato famine.

Deep, academic thoughts like “Okay…devotional revolution…Paul Cardinal Cullen…I know I’m going to call him “Edward” on the exam…massive building program…motto: what is good for Catholicism is good for Ireland”…stopped handing out Roman collars like candy…get off your girlfriend and read the Bible occasionally, Father…ooh! literacy! 45% in 1845, up to 90% in 1880…” and “Kitty shacked up with Parnell…Billy finds out she’s nailing Home Rule Boy…wants cash…old aunt dies…” and “2.5 million emigrate post-famine…most to the US…women work really hard…guys get drunk…number one criminal is the Irish male…except crimes of a sexual nature…possibly because they were drunk all the time…and they are pissed.”

Oh yeah. It was a whole new low for nerdom. But I should do well come Thursday.

Still don’t know what antidiluvian means.

Ah, God smiled on me today. It’s like He said, “Okay. I get it. You’re a little stressed because you’ve been up at five o’clock for the past nine weeks and you still feel nauseous when you think about taking the GRE and yeah, you really should get on that, so I’ll give you a little something.”

A little something called NO METHODS CLASS. Oh sweet baby Jesus, that was amazing. I’m not sure my wedding day will be this thrilling. Because today we were due to discuss two articles on post-war gender studies, the first about how lesbianism and prostitution are both considered sexual deviancy and I don’t know, I kind of tuned out after that, and the second about how pinup girls are more than “masturbatory aids”. (I could seriously cite that for you if you’d like. It came from a real academic article. I hate the world.)

Ookay. I don’t understand what, exactly, that has to do with Marxist historical theory or writing a thesis. I mean, I still don’t really understand what Marxist historical theory is (even after last week’s three hour seminar on it).

And I’m writing my thesis on an ecumenical council.

Now, granted, I haven’t read all of the Vatican II documents but so far I haven’t come across anything that involves Betty Grable, or her legs, or how her legs weren’t really valued for their sexiness but for their Americaness (that’s not a word, but you know what I mean).

Maybe those just haven’t been translated to English yet.

A very Irish birthday…

It is my dear mother’s birthday, and it turned into quite the Irish celebration (and no, not just because of the booze). We watched a tour video with my father-in-law, and then viewed some slides from when she was there in June of 1981.

(They didn’t go to Belfast.)


Apparently, they didn’t go a whole lot of places that didn’t have a store. For instance, they didn’t make it to St. John’s Castle (site of the Treaty of Limerick, signed October 2, 1691 promising no revenge and religious freedom for the Irish Catholics.) because they got waylaid at Dunratty’s Cottage, buying stuff.

Also, there was a runner for the IRA. One that my crazy mother wholeheartedly supported. I’m sure.

I have a hundred years of failed Irish rebellions to memorize.

Me: Hi, what can I get for you?

Little Boy: Do you know if you have a new elevator certification?

Me: I don’t…what?

Little Boy: Your elevator certification.

Me: Um…

Little Boy: It’s out of date by a year.

Me: I…um…I’m sure we’ve gotten a new one.

Little Boy’s Dad: Haha, yeah, we think he’s going to be an inspector.

Me: Haha, yeah, I don’t care.

God, don’t these people know I’m trying to study here? Order something or leave me alone.

I need to move.

Re: Yesterday. Apparently, grilling out is an acceptable verb. Both on a technicality, as both Sarah and Hannah pointed out, in that any and all grilling should, in fact, be done “out” because otherwise the chance for explosion increases exponentially, as well as a normal thing like tailgating.

This is another thing I must admit I’m not terribly familiar with. I have a distaste for anything that involves grown men being paid more money than my poor little over educated brain will ever see in my lifetime to throw a ball. I went to that stupid “Return to Titletown” thing twelve years ago, and while I know there was definite tailgating going on, I don’t recall much except nine-year-old me crying in anguish because it was probably warmer on the surface of Neptune than it was in Green Bay that day. And we all know how how I feel about baseball.

Whatever. I’ve never heard it.

C’mere once.

Apparently? The Bachelor 174 hooked up with some chick from Milwaukee? After dumping another woman? I don’t know. This is like the one bottom-feeder show that I don’t watch, so yeah, I’ve got nothing. I mean, that show that Monica Lewinsky hosted? I was there. I was salivating at the thought of marital discord on Jon & Kate Plus 8 last Monday. But The Bachelor? Meh. Don’t care.

Except. Except this. I’ve lived in Milwaukee my entire twenty-one years, and I have never, NEVER, heard anyone say “grilling out”.

You may be having a cook-out. You may be grilling. We do both of these things. A lot. But no one “grills out”. In fact, I don’t think you would even say “cooking out”. It just doesn’t work as a verb.

I know we talk funny, okay. I have spent hours trying to get rid of the talking funny part. I don’t need your help with the stereotype, Bachelor Dude.


There was lots of randomness today…

*watching Angels and Demons trailer*
Mary: Wait, was that Ewan throwing a little tantrum?
Me: Yes.
Mary: *giggles* And that little cape is so hot!
Me: That’s a cope.
Mary: Whatever. It’s still hot.


“You’ve got a little something in your hair.”
“Oh, it’s…a piece of chicken. God, why am I five years old?”


“Is this lab seriously telling us to “gently spank the tube”?”
“Okay. I am not mature enough for this lab.”