Sporty

The homily spoke to me this morning. Not that I necessarily got more out of it than usual (or that I didn’t! It was very good! Sorry. That came out totally wrong.), but it made me smile.

First, covenant.

Um. Hello. Jewish Studies major. I am all about the covenant. I freaking love the covenant. (I like mine more. Because I get eternal life and the Eucharist. But the original- still pretty good.) In fact, I could even carry it through to the twentieth century and tell you about a bunch of rabbis who think that because of the Holocaust there could never have been a covenant in the first place…but I won’t. Because it’s depressing and I happen to vehemently disagree.

(Of course, I’d love to tell you why I vehemently disagree too…but that’s kind of heavy for a Sunday afternoon and it basically ends with the above- my new and everlasting covenant is better.)

Second, there was quite a lot of sports talk.

Stop laughing.

I’m not a huge sports fan. You know this. I really don’t care that you can hit/kick/throw/I’m sure there’s something else you could do to a ball. I really don’t care that you get paid more than many small nations to do so. I go to baseball games to people watch and drink.

But…the Olympics have been on. And I love the Olympics. I love tearful sports triumph stories and feeling very nationalistic and Bob Costas and all that! I love that!

Which is why I think that, had I been born yet, I would have been glued to the television during the 1980 US/USSR hockey game. Because I love to cry. And I love to beat the Russians.

I’m sorry. Sometimes the Polish in me cannot be quelled.

I actually watched a movie about it, once. I know. Shocking. Well, until you realize that it was the 2004 film “Miracle” and costarred Eddie Cahill and I was sixteen and very into CSI:NY at the time.

But I still watched it. And I’m not going to lie, I got a little bit teary at the end.

So. I’m mad that Canada won this afternoon. But at least it was better than the Russians.

It’s really too bad I was -7 years old in 1980.

I apologize…

…for the lack of post yesterday. I know, you were disappointed. But see, there was figure skating on until really late at night. And there are four things that I’ll stay up past eleven for- sequins, power ballads, tearful sports triumph stories, and Johnny Depp.

Thankfully, the ladies figure skating final provided three of the four. Not bad. I’m not going to lie, I was hoping that the little American twit would fall on her face. She wouldn’t have to really hurt herself…just screw up enough that Dead Mom Girl could get a medal. And she did! (Screw up. Not fall. Whatever.)

Yeah. So there was that. And then I fell asleep. Which was hardly worth a post anyway.

Oh! I know! I wanted to talk about National History Day! And some observations I’ve made!

(I don’t know why I’m still using exclamation points!)

This weekend is kind of crazy hectic because for some reason the deadline for applying is roughly six minutes before the start of the competition so I have to finalize the program and make 400 copies and then HAND STAPLE on the covers because they haven’t figured out how to make the machine do that yet and make room signs and judge badges and oh, yeah, can you inscribe these 368 certificates of achievement by tomorrow morning while you have your actual job and a paper to write?

I mean, I don’t mind. Because they’re paying me more than I would make being a prostitute.

(I think. I don’t really have a whole lot of experience.)

But as I was using a glue stick like a six-year-old to make exhibit signs this afternoon, it occurred to me. They’ve only had the grant for an assistant (me) for two years. Which means until two years ago, my boss was doing all this menial stuff by herself. I’m sure she really felt the Ph.D. was worth it when her hand was cramped from writing out a certificate for the eighteenth Mikayla of the day (SERIOUSLY. There were a LOT of kids named Mikayla/Michaela/Mikala, etc. in the early ’90s.)

She probably felt similar to the guy who has to share her office with four other people. (Colleen: I’m sure he feels really good about himself. Sitting at a desk next to the 22-year-old who doesn’t even have a bachelor’s degree yet.)

Yeah. I’m kind of overwhelmed and I’m paranoid that I’m going to forget something major like the exhibit tents or I’ll wake up on Saturday and I’ll have forgotten something for all 368 contestants.

What? I’m paranoid.

(But being paid for it.)

However, my alternative for this weekend was the confirmation retreat. So while I am kind of going crazy and I can’t move my right hand because DO YOU KNOW HOW LONG IT TAKES TO WRITE (NICELY, NOT ALL SCRAWLY) 368 FREAKING NAMES A LONG TIME THAT’S HOW LONG, I’m pretty sure I’ll be getting significantly more sleep.

I used to be a psych major.

In Psychology 101, you learn that the brain can really only store seven pieces of information in your short-term memory at at a time. I’m choosing to believe this is why I cannot remember what Origen, Hippolytus, Gregory of Nyssa, John Chrysostom, and Augustine said about the Jews. Except that it wasn’t nice.

(Side note: Try saying “Chrysostom”. It’s fun. Seriously. Say it. Isn’t it fun? I think it’s fun. But then again, I need a life.)

I’m also having serious trouble keeping my not-ritually murdered victims straight. I’m good with William of Norwich (1144), but I get very confused about Hugh of Lincoln (1255- good to know), Simon of Trent (1470-something…probably), and Andrew (-ol, -eas, -something else entirely that I’ve forgotten) of Rinn. Him I remember because his body was exhumed and carted around on his feast day and you know what? THIS is my problem with visions and miracles and stuff. Because frankly a lot of that stuff smacks of European superstition and I am neither European nor superstitious.

(Although I swear there was a ghost in the lady’s room at the King’s Arms Tavern. No. For reals. Colleen will back me up on this.)

Yeah. I don’t know where I was going with this. Except typing it helped me remember some stuff. (John Chrysostom said five things- the Jews were like diseased rats, worshipped Satan, their synagogues were brothels, killed Christ, and they were looking out for any chance to kill a Christian kid they could find.)

(But his name is fun to say.)

(And he was pretty big in the spread of Christianity in Antioch.)

(Still. You could have been a little bit nicer.)

Three Things (Okay. Kind of four. Maybe Five. Tops.)

I had a meeting with my thesis advisor this morning, and wow! He actually looked at me a few times! I know, right? Emotional growth. Because for the first few meetings, he refused to make eye contact, preferring instead to stare at the wall and lean backwards in his chair so far that I was really nervous that he was going to fall and wow, I so do not need this.

But he looked at my face a few times today. It was pretty cool.

He also said that my paper was wonderful and he had to grope for issues. Aww. Now I really care if you fall backwards and crack open your little head.

***

We’re doing the Reformation in my class today. And the doctrine of purgatory is taking a hit. And it’s annoying me to no end. Because I love purgatory. And I really feel that it should be explained properly.

Also. I’m like 90% sure the professor is drunk.

***

I get to use the department copier again. This is tremendously exciting, because I love making copies. Almost as much as I love spiritual purification.

I also got to chit-chat with the adorable professor who shares my boss’ office. I freaking love my job. More than I love spiritual purification.

***

I’m probably going to need some time in purgatory.

***

I’m saying novenas that the plumber is at my house fixing the dishwasher as we speak (write?). Because I seriously dislike this whole “hand-washing” thing.

***

I think there was a bonus sixth item. But I don’t remember what it was. Sorry.

Unholy.

So…there’s this ice dancing couple.

Now, I must admit. I don’t like ice dancing. It’s slow and boring and there aren’t any cool jumps and I’m not even that fond of pairs skating, so yeah. Dislike. Except that it is ice skating and on a night when there is nothing except curling or something ridiculous like that, I’ll take what I can get.

ANYWAY. This pair are brother and sister. Which is cute. I mean, at least it seems cute. Until you watch them skate and molest each other in front of millions of people and then it’s just…strange.

I love my brother. I really do. We’re quite close. I have never felt the need to dress in spandex and cling to his leg on the ice, though.

I think that’s a good sign.

Meanwhile, if you’re concerned about my dishwasher- it’s still not fixed. Tomorrow. Hopefully. If you’re concerned about my hands and how I look like a fifty-year-old from the wrist down- I’m like this close to just slathering petroleum jelly on them.

Housewife from hell.

Okay. I wouldn’t make a good housewife. You might think I would. I don’t really like to work. I wear skirts and lipstick a lot. I vacuum unironically in high heels.

(I don’t know why my only frame of reference for housewife is June Cleaver. My own mother hasn’t work a skirt since, I think, she was pregnant with me. And she’s a lovely woman.)

But I wouldn’t be. Because I may have to wash a dish occasionally. And I really don’t like doing that.

We’ve always had a dishwasher. So while I am actually responsible for the dishes, this mostly involves just collecting them from around the house and putting them in the dishwasher. And then letting it clean them while I Facebook stalked.

At least until yesterday. When that whole side of the kitchen decided to explode and spray water and you know what, I kind of stopped paying attention because it was boring and stressful and What Not To Wear was on.

So I’m not totally sure what happened. But I do know that both the sink and the dishwasher are out of commission and everyone in the house dealt with that by…not doing any of the dishes from yesterday? And then not doing any of the dishes from today? So by tonight we had no silverware left and it took me FORTY FIVE MINUTES to wash all the damn dishes and now I can’t feel my fingers they’re so chapped?

Yeah. That’s what happened.

On Monday Plumber Guy is coming out. Thank goodness. I love Plumber Guy. I am generally in favor of all people who come to my house and make major convenient appliances work. I don’t care if you’re gross, stinky, creepy, or all three like that guy who wouldn’t stop talking to me about my underwear but whatever, he fixed the washer. I would have given him a pair if he’d asked. Hell, I would have modeled it for him.

But I especially love Plumber Guy. He also came to Grandpa’s house a few times, most notably on the day when we were tearing up the carpeting. Except the carpeting refused to be torn…and there were tears and perhaps some less-than-ladylike words and I may have threatened to tear my cousin or something, look, I don’t really remember, it was a very stressful time. But Plumber Guy came out and helped us and actually ended up tearing up most of the carpeting. And then told us lots of juicy stories about his dysfunctional family.

So. Plumber Guy. If there’s ever anything you need, I’m your girl.

Except the underwear thing. Because that was just weird.

I don’t think anyone is reading this.

Because Facebook is being dumb and not actually importing my posts even though my settings page assures me that they are doing so. Yeah. Sure, Facebook. I believe you. I’m still mad from that time two years ago when you sent out bumper stickers to EVERY SINGLE ONE OF MY FRIENDS when I HADN’T ASKED YOU TO.

Anyway. That’s probably okay. Because I have very little to contribute. Because I have been doing very little except a.) sobbing quietly about graduation, b.) sobbing quietly about being accepted into at least one graduate program, c.) doing school work so that I will be able to both graduate and actually attend that grad program, and d.) watching the Olympics.

Oh. You would like to discuss? Okay.

A.) Well, you know about this. I got an e-mail telling me to order my cap and gown and I almost shorted out the keyboard. So there’s really not anything to add to that.

B.) Happy tears! I promise! But I’m so relieved and yet really scared but still relieved because I have been irrationally fearful of losing my e-mail address and not being able to wear a UWM sweatshirt (not that I have one- funny thing no one ever talks about when you change sizes- YOU HAVE NO CLOTHES LEFT.). And now neither of those things has to happen unless I choose them. Well, I can still wear the sweatshirt. Regardless of where I go. Because they accepted me. So that’s not sad. If they rejected me I would just walk around all day in shame. So that’s not cool. What was I talking about? Oh, grad school. The emotional roller coaster continues!

C.) I’m so sick of Judeo-Christian relations that honestly, if I didn’t have the Eucharist? I’d probably become a Zoroastrian.

D.) Dude. The Olympics. Are amazing. Even though they keep having the figure skating on really late, like, TEN THIRTY and I cannot stay up that late because I’ve probably been up since five thinking/writing/studying about Judeo-Christian relations. However, I have decided to marry Evan Lysaczek, horrible hyphenated last name be damned.

Hmmm. I think that’s enough for today. I need to go memorize some stuff about allegations of Jewish ritual murder in the medieval period for two different tests on Thursday. (Can I just say? NEVER EVER CONDONED BY THE CHURCH HIERARCHY. *ahem*)

And by “memorize some stuff about Jewish ritual murder”, I mean watch ice dancing.