I I do so love incense and chrism.

Thirty-six hours until I’m back in school! Well, until my sister is back in school and I’m killing another six hours before my class, but whatever. I’m not splitting hairs.

Meanwhile, I had my first little catechist meeting tonight…yes, that’s right, I decided I liked Confirmation more than I like watching How I Met Your Mother. I know, right? Emotional growth. Also, I really like being involved in big fun Masses at the cathedral and yep, there’s pretty much only Confirmation for that. ANYWAY. It was fun. Probably more fun than the Learn-How-Not-To-Molest-Your-Students meeting I have to go to later this month. I’m not thinking it will be too much of a problem- I didn’t like seventeen-year-olds when I was seventeen. The entire first session seems to be devoted to role playing with flags and crazy awkward questions? I don’t know. I’m sure the Holy Spirit will pop up in there sometime.

To be perfectly honest, I don’t remember a whole lot about the prep classes I went through, even though it was only a few years ago. I remember that Mary and I were the only ones who showed up in ninth grade, I remember being ridiculously uncomfortable during the two hours of sex discussion with Father Ken in tenth grade, and I…kind of blanked on eleventh. I remember my interviews, and thinking that was pretty stupid because it was with a man who knew me quite well and knew that I was coherent enough to have consciously decided to be confirmed. But other than that…nope.

So. This should be a whole new experience!

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Stupid technology, messing with my oversharing.

Facebook won’t let me upload pictures. And that knows that very important people in my life like that kid I went to grade school with and my old priest won’t get to see pictures from our cupcake/Phantom of the opera viewing night last weekend. Which was actually less viewing and more shouting increasingly lewd comments at the screen as the evening wore on.

What? I’m sorry. You cannot expect me to be mature during The Music of the Night. That’s crazy talk right there.

So, I will have to try again tomorrow, when I’m supposed to be doing all sorts of other things that I’ve ignored for the past few weeks because on days I have to work I prefer to expend all my excess energy on watching Doctor Who episodes and trying to figure out if it’s possible to hate someone as much as I hate Billie Piper. Cleaning the pit that is my office so that I could theoretically compose a senior thesis in it this year? Not so much.

All that and a trip to Wal-Mart because I’m too poor for Target ($25 for fitted petite workout pants, Target? I think not.). Exciting!

I know, it’s been a few days.

Last night, babysitting:

Zoey: Where’s that blue lady?

Me: Who?

Zoey. That lady that was with you. The blue lady.

Me: Um…oh, my sister? Colleen? She was wearing a blue shirt, that’s very smart of you to remember.

Zoey: Is she coming?

Me: No, she had to go out with her friends.

Zoey: Oh. *pause* She wears your shoes, you know.

Me: Yeah, I know.

Zoey: That’s silly.

I’m going to miss that kid.

I fail at being an adult.

Oh, internets. A week from tomorrow I’ll be heading back to school and I won’t have to work a whole lot and ah, yes, the world shall be right side up again. Because while I do enjoy that whole oh, hey! A paycheck actually gets deposited into your checking account thing, I don’t care how many reserves for The Lost Symbol we get. In fact, I think Dan Brown kind of sucks as a writer (!!!). My problems with The Da Vinci Code were less that I disagreed with the subject matter (which I did…but FICTION PEOPLE) and more the with dangling modifiers. I don’t know if it had an intriguing plot because I couldn’t figure out where the verbs were in most of the sentences.

Again, I’m not allowed to say this.

I’m also not allowed to say, “Oh, thank God you’re locking it in at 40% off. Because trust me, you do not want to pay more than $16.87 for this.”

But in a week! In a week I will be back in art history and history and Jewish studies and ZOMG SO HAPPY. *squee*

Apologies

In June, we rented my Grandpa’s house. The house that kind of technically wasn’t totally finished yet. The house that still had, oh, a lot of stuff in the closets as well as the stuff we needed during the year it took to get it ready (tools, cleaning supplies, industrial size bottles of Maker’s Mark, etc.). When we rented it to the family that lives there (or God’s Gift to Landlords, as we refer to them, or, depending on how much I’ve had to drink, I Want Them To Be My New Mommy and Daddy I Love You But You Don’t Pay My Tuition) all that stuff had to go somewhere.

Shockingly, our house wasn’t quite big enough to absorb everything from there (I know right? Because if my grandparents were known for anything it was their sense of minimalist decor.), and finally it just become a “oh, screw it, stick it in the basement and we’ll deal with it later” sort of situation.

(We had a lot of those during this whole experience. Shocking, right? Because it’s so completely unlike us to ignore bad things. It’s all Grandma’s fault- the genetic root lies with her.)

The place it ended up getting dumped in was my room in the basement. Not a big deal because I really only use it as a study during the school year, and my GRE study guide could be safely ignored from my bedroom upstairs. I generously offered them the use of the floorspace that doesn’t technically belong to me at all in any way, as long as it would all be cleaned up by the time school started again.

School starts next Tuesday Wednesday. (I totally thought it was Tuesday until yesterday.) As of last night, there were still eleventy jillion boxes and bags and some dead animal that my grandma called a fur. I may have expressed some thought that it would not be cleaned up by the time I needed it in a few weeks.

(By expressed I might mean screaming and yelling. Again, so unlike me.)

But lo! I needn’t have worried. My mom was completely true to her word and everything is gone except for a teensy weensy bile of boxes in the corner that I hardly notice because, hey, it’s not like I’m that clean, either. My clutter just originates post-Reagan era, that’s all.

So my apologies, Mommy. You totally kept up your end of the deal.

Dear Phantom*,

Hi! I’d just like you to know that since that whole thing with Christine didn’t work out, I’m totally available to take your calls. I mean, completely. I wouldn’t stomp on your heart or anything. I’d be totally into all the dungeon sex and the dioramas of my life and even the weird Dress Up Barbie doll you’ve created of me. All good things.

So…yeah. Not all of us are stupid whores who are probably secretly lesbians because why else would you leave with that pansy Raoul? Huh?

Just thought you should know.

Love,
Kathleen

2004 Movie Version Phantom Need Only Apply

I’m not going to tempt fate.

I would say that I’m finished taking the last standardized test I’m ever going to have to take, but I’m sure then God would think it was funny to make me go get an MBA or something that would require ANOTHER admissions test that would require ANOTHER morning spent chewing on my bottom lip and dragging my mother to friggin’ Brookfield because I knew if I was alone in the car it would just lead to more major freaking outage and I CANNOT HANDLE THAT. Yes. Haha, God. I see what You did there.

While we were driving out to the testing place, I asked her if she was nervous before she took the LSAT. My mother’s LSAT scores are something of a legend in my family. She worked ridiculously hard and earned a ridiculously high score that she maintains is due entirely to her practice test acumen and I maintain is due to her innate intelligence and STOP PUSHING THE KAPLAN BOOKS AT ME WOMAN I DON’T WANT TO WORK THAT HARD.

ANYWAY. I figured she must have been pretty nervous about it, seeing as there are also stories where she blanks and loses it during a law school exam. My kind of person. No wonder, half of her DNA makes me!

She kind of thought for a minute and said, “Yeah, I was a little nervous. But I also hadn’t told that many people. I didn’t PUT IT ALL OVER THE INTERNET.”

Pssh. You know what? This the 21st century, Mother Dearest. And if I want to overshare, dammit, I am going to overshare.