Oh, internets. This was a lovely weekend. A busy weekend, with my dad’s birthday and my cousin’s birthday and out-of-town relatives and working and homework and what you wanted to sleep pssh sleep is for the weak and also, how much more food do you think it’s possible to consume without exploding?

(Answer: More cake. Apparently.)

I love weekends like this where I get to see both sides of my family, especially the Confederate Brigade. Even if it is just for two hours across a table and it’s all, oh, yeah, I really wish we could talk more because I haven’t seen you guys since, like, July, and let’s be honest, I wasn’t on my A game that day, but there are like eight people in between us so I can’t. Which is typically how any gathering at a restaurant that involves more than six people is like, no?

Whatever. It was wonderful.

But real life is good too. It’s probably just my inner control freak, but I even had fun this evening packing up my ungodly amounts of school stuff that…um…didn’t get finished this weekend. You know what? I got busy. And I’ll have it all finished by the time I graduate, okay?

(Funny story: My aunt asked me today if I was thinking about going to graduate school. Ha. Hahaha. Can you tell she doesn’t have Facebook?)

Anyway. I’m going to attempt to sleep now, and probably not eat any complex carbohydrate for…oooh…about four days.

I don’t know if I am Marquette, but my mom certainly is.

Hey! Want to hear another Kathleen-is-going-crazy story?

Well, I don’t really care! Because I’m going crazy!

You all know that I applied to Marquette. And unless you’ve stopped paying attention to my increasingly fevered ramblings, you probably also know that they have not made admission decisions yet.*

You may not know that my mom actually did attend Marquette. In fact, she graduated from Marquette Law School twenty-five years ago this year! Exciting! (Or at least I assume it was. I wouldn’t be born for another three years. But the pictures make it look exciting!)

This means she has a reunion this year. Very exciting. I think she should go. I mean, really. You spend three years literally killing yourself for a degree only to end up in a job that you despise?You should go to the reunion. At least get some free champagne out of it.**

This also means that she receives a piece of mail from Marquette Law School every. single. frickin. day. About very important things like are you planning on bringing your spouse/significant other/gender neutral partner/dog along with you to the reunion? And would he/she/it/Fido like a name tag?

And guess what? The Marquette insignia is REALLY BIG in the corner of the envelope. The “Law School- Sensenbrenner Hall” mark is REALLY SMALL underneath the GINORMOUS Marquette insignia.

I get the mail every day. I see the Marquette thing on a tiny little crush-your-dreams-you’re-going-to-be-working-retail-for-the-rest-of-your-life envelope. I have a heart attack.

Every. Single. Frickin. Day.

Yes. I know I should have learned by this point to maybe look at who the envelope is addressed to before allowing my heart rate to increase like I’m halfway through a triathlon.*** But I would like to see you try to do that.

*They did not take this long to make undergraduate decisions. I have terrible memory, and honestly cannot remember much about four years ago when I was applying to college. But I do remember my Marquette story. I was out picking up my sister from school and I got a call from my best friend. She had just received her admissions packet. Now. A good person would have been thrilled for her best friend. A bad person would have choked out through gritted teeth, “Oh my goodness, I’m so happy for you,” raced home at breakneck speed, and accosted the mail person to see if her admissions packet had arrived because if she didn’t get into Marquette the world would cease spinning and she could never be friends with that person again because she would know her shame!

Guess which one I was? FYI, I got into Marquette. I stayed friends with Mary. The world continued to spin. I know, you’re all thrilled.

**Although she did get to have her wedding at Gesu. I think that’s worth almost anything. I will probably be turned down at Marquette and have to walk around the Biggest Baptismal Font In the World.

***BAHAHAHAHAHAHA. I kill me. Actually, a triathlon probably would.

Restore time for little iPhone.

My iPhone is like a baby. I’ve named it. I have a tendency to take it picture at various occasions. There has been some definite Facebook tagging. And I can’t count the number of nights I’ve been up with it because it’s sick.

My iPhone(s) seems to have serious problems with the iPod software. Like, after awhile, it doesn’t enjoy playing songs in order. I know. I know. Children are starving and orphaned and living in rubble in Haiti. I’m not saying that the fact that Josh Groban’s discography is not in sequence is the most pressing issue of the day, but I will say that for how much money Apple charges, it should work.

And it happens all the time. Much like a child with a persistent ear infection, I have spent numerous nights restoring. And restoring again. And on hold with the Apple people. And booking appointments at the Genius Bar. (Hi Jason! Jason probably knows me by now, I’m such a frequent customer.) And crying from exhaustion because WHY WON’T YOU JUST TELL ME WHAT’S WRONG IT’S ONE O’CLOCK IN THE MORNING???

*ahem* Yes. That may have almost happened once.

Heloise fell ill again this morning, and I, like a good mother, ignored her when I got home because I was exhausted seriously five classes straight I am TIRED y’all, I do not CARE that I’m 22 and in fairly decent shape you talk to me after running all over campus from 9:30 until 5. And…now we’re in the process of uploading all 600 songs back on.

Fanfreakingtastic. I’m going to bed. They don’t make iPhone Motrin.

Can I just say- iPhones. Are AMAZING. When they work. And when they don’t. Well, then not so much. They’re fun and awesome and I don’t really regret buying mine at all, but wow, so much hassle. Seriously. Blackberry. Way. To. Go.


Oh, hey, want to hear a funny story? That doesn’t have anything to do with grad school?


I had to run into Holton today to pick up some work stuff. I also had to stop at the bathroom because a.) Holton Hall water is the best thing ever and b.) I drink a lot of it. So I was scurrying into the ladies room trying to avoid anything like this. A lady was washing her hands, and she looked up and smiled at me.

Can I just say that I really hate any and all social interactions in restrooms?

(That sounded dirty. I mean conversations, perv.)

For reals. I’m uncomfortable even if it’s, like, my sister or someone. I’m repressed. I know. But I’m okay with it. The repression. Not acknowledging people in the bathroom. That’s just weird.


I kind of smiled at her, because if there’s anything worse than friendly awkwardness it’s rude awkwardness. Hopefully this will be the end of it. But Holton Hall’s ladies rooms have really long and twisty corridors? I don’t know how to describe it. But she had enough time to start talking.

“You’re a lector at St. Eugene, aren’t you?”

Excuse me?

Well, I can’t not answer her. Because I am. And she knows it, obviously. And that means next Sunday or whenever will be like eighteen times more awkward than right now. Maybe. If that’s possible.

“Um….yes. Hi. *awkward pause* I hope you can hear me. I’m kind of quiet.”

“Oh! We can. And you always dress so beautifully!”

“Thank you?” Can you leave now?

“Are you a student here?”

“Um…yeah. I’m a senior.”

“Oh, wonderful!”

“Yes. I think so.” I. Am. Never. Entering. This building. Again.

Ookay. I can safely say that I have never had a discussion of any liturgical ministry in a bathroom before.

And I rather hope I don’t have to ever again.

Lest you begin to feel good about yourself…

I’m a white Christian. This means that, other than having to budget an inordinate amount of my income to procuring bottles of SPF 80 for daily wear, I’ve pretty much never been persecuted.

(I am Irish. And my people are fond of railing about the potato famine as though it were a great injustice and personal affront and…not a fungus that didn’t know you had a mammy and eight kids.)

I’m also a Jewish Studies major. (Don’t ask why. It has nothing to do with Jews.) Which means that all of my classes are about people who have actually been oppressed. Usually by people like me. This semester, my final semester, I have a lovely complement of classes.

We begin the day with Judaism, Christianity, and Islam. This tells me that I suck, but at least other people suck right along with me.

Then I have Antisemitism Through the Ages. This assures me that I have always sucked.

Next is Jews in Modern Europe. Guess what? I sucked right up through the twentieth century!

Finally we wrap up with Jewish and Christian Responses to the Holocaust, making sure that I know I have a lot of atoning to do for the sucking, don’t think you’re getting away with one address at the synagogue in Rome, papist scum.

My other two classes are self-flagellating independent studies. One, my senior thesis, is on Nostra Aetate in twentieth century politics. I suck so much that I had to convene an ecumenical council to deal with it. And it’s still the shortest decree.

The other one is a critical analysis of the implementation of the Good Friday Accords over the last ten years in Northern Ireland.

Yup. That’s right. The British get to suck a little bit, too.

Five weeks.

Five weeks is an okay break. I’m excited to go back tomorrow, but I haven’t reached that desperate point that I hit somewhere at the end of June when I’m all SUMMER CLASSES CAN I TAKE PLEASE LOOK I JUST NEED TO STUDY SOMETHING ANYTHING.


So. Winter breaks. Are good. But so are Spring semesters.

(Not, as a whole, as good as Fall semesters, I’ve decided. But they’re still pretty good. And I hold infinite hope for Antisemitism. The class. Not the concept. I’m not an evil person.)

The Cool Crowd

In the Friday paper, there used to be a column where local 20-somethings would talk about what they were doing that coming weekend. They were fabulous things that definitely did not involve going to bed at 9 p.m., attempting to not swear at the lovely patrons of Borders Fox Point, or consuming one’s weight in brownies while watching Say Yes to the Dress.

Because that has totally never described one of my weekends.

Anyway. It’s gone now. Like most of the paper, actually. I think it’s a recession thing. However, I propose bringing it back. I could write it. Except it would be called the You’re-Wasting-Your-Early-Twenties Crowd.

Make no mistake, this weekend included a large number of the typical embarrassing things. I watched What Not to Wear. For awhile. Until I fell asleep. I tried valiantly to not throw a book at someone’s head and you know what, sir? I see that you’re purchasing something from the Christian fiction section. Do you know what Jesus doesn’t like? BEING OBNOXIOUS TO EMPLOYEES THAT’S WHAT. I read at Mass. That’s not really embarrassing. It’s just dorky.

But I actually did stuff too! Except even as I was actually doing stuff, I still managed to stay firmly in the “uncool” sector. I went to the Dead Sea Scrolls exhibit on Friday afternoon. That was cultural and outgoing. But then I was so exhausted when I got home I did nothing else the rest of the day.

(The exhibit? Is long. Fascinating and amazing, but it took us two and a half hours to get through.)

I went out with friends on Saturday night. That’s normal. But when we were finished with dinner, one of us went back to the seminary, one spent the night reading Reformation-era theologians, and one listened to the last twenty minutes in a series of angry 16-year-olds hooking their angst up to amps and spewing it throughout the Grafton High School auditorium.

(Not John! John was lovely. And perfectly not-angsty.)

(Can you tell which one I was?)

Aaand, now it’s Sunday night and I’m watching the eighteenth version of Emma on PBS. And I think it may be my favorite, despite the disturbing lack of Ewan McGregor. Yeah. That’s right. I have a favorite version of Emma. Wow. Form an orderly queue, gentlemen.

Oh, whatever. I frickin’ love Emma. The lesson to be learned from this version is primarily- Mr. Elton: Reason #1 for Priests to Remain Celibate. We do not need your drama, Father.