Break

Saturdays during break are marvelous. For the first time in a long time, I didn't have to set an alarm, and none of my roommates are here, so without anything to wake me up, my body happily gorged itself on sleep. Yum.

When I finally did get up, I spent most of the afternoon cleaning my room. It's nice to be able to kick off a new term feeling organized, even though that feeling will likely deteriorate by Week 3.

Though my day was surprisingly productive, it made me very thankful that my friend convinced me to come home with her for most of the break. Spending most of the break alone in my basement would have be lonely, and to avoid getting all introspective and gloomy as I'm apt to do when left to my own devices, I would probably have distracted myself with stupid sitcoms all week. Or I would have done school, which could be considered equally as wrong, because breaks are for relaxing.

So, instead, I went to Washington where I met M's family. They have fourteen kids, so it was a lot of fun. One night, we were watching TV, and three children climbed into my lap. One eventually toddled off because the other two kept elbowing her, and one of the others fell asleep in my arms. It was good for my soul, which has been child-starved for the past nine weeks. I miss the church kiddos back home...

When we weren't hanging out with her family, M and I went shopping, watched a hockey game, went sight-seeing around Seattle, and visited this adorable little Bavarian town on our way home, where we both indulged our German sides with sauerkraut-laden bratwurst slathered in horseradish and brown-ale mustard with salt and vinegar chips on the side.

In other news, my sinuses are all cleared out . . .

I feel like our Seattle trip deserves a post all of it's own, but I need to get up early tomorrow, so that will have to wait for another time. Probably tomorrow.

I miss and love you all...and today, I especially miss my harp and the tabebuia tree in our yard. Don't ask me why I miss those two things specifically. All I know is that I would be thrilled if someone sent me a care package containing either (or both) of those items. I would also be really impressed, and I would probably feel guilty about the shipping costs.

Shopping

I was talking to my dad the other day, and he said that he was looking at my pictures on Facebook, and he noticed that I wasn't wearing as many clothes as the other girls. At first, I thought this was a fatherly exhortation on modesty, and I was very confused. Then I realized that he was just telling me that I have stretched my native Floridian wardrobe long enough, and I needed to go shopping for things like coats and sweaters. Duly noted, Dad.

I've been trying to shop as much as I can during break. Right now I'm in Seattle (a friend from school invited me to her place), but before I left home (a word which here means "the place I live in Idaho"), my roommates and I exhausted Moscow's shopping possibilities.

And now, a bunch of stories about me shopping, because that is basically the only thing I've done all weekend.

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I went to Wal*Mart looking for a pair of black tights. Last time I wore my current pair, I felt my toes poking through them and decided that they were on their last leg. (Oh c'mon, that's clever...) The only tights Wal*Mart carried in my size were turquoise, tie-dyed, and sparkly. Um, no. I decided to mosey over to the girls' section, and I found the biggest size they make for girls. They were a dollar cheaper, too. When I tried them on at home, however, they were a bit too short. I was about to feel sad, but then a smile crept over my face because this is the first time I can ever remember being too tall for something to fit. I should shop in the kids' section more often. I think my self-esteem would improve.

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I was trying on shoes at Ross when I heard someone call their mom to come over and look at something. The woman replied, "Well, I'm trying to get over there, but Tara's blocking the whole aisle!" I looked at her stupidly, trying to figure out how she knew my name. I was getting ready to apologize profusely (this lady did not sound happy), when I realized that this woman's daughter was also named Tara, and she was blocking the aisle more than I was. Ha.

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I found fleece pants at Old Navy (which incidentally was the worst purchase ever, because I want to live in them, and part of me dies every time I have to take them off and put on real clothes). Anyway, my roommate and I were waiting in line for a dressing room. We waited, and waited, and waited. All seven dressing rooms full. The dressing room attendant, whom I will call "Nick," just because I don't want to type out "dressing room attendant" all the time, tried to join our conversation about how frustrating shopping for pants is. I told him that since he was a guy, he had no right to complain about pants shopping, because all he had to do was find his waist size and his inseam. He then told me that his problem was finding jeans that were loose enough to fit his thighs, because "people in Idaho think that everyone has chicken legs!" As fascinating as the conversation was becoming, I was happy when a little girl sauntered out of the dressing room. At last! But no. She was sharing the room with her mother, who was still trying on clothes. Seconds later, a woman walked out of a different room and shut the door behind her. Nick walked over and knocked to make sure it was vacant. A man responded that he was almost through. (??)

At least three or four more people wandered out of various rooms in the next few minutes. But all of the rooms were still occupied. It was ridiculous. Nick was as bewildered as we were. I was convinced that there were secret passages ways in all the rooms that people were wandering in and out of.

I got so bored just waiting, so I handed my clothes to my roommate and drew with chalk on the floor. I drew one flower, and ta-da, a room was open. Life lesson: always try to have fun while you're waiting, because the second you start to enjoy yourself, it'll be your turn. I abandoned my chalk art, and took my clothes from my roommate so that she could scamper into the room before anyone butted in line.

Nick offered to hold my clothes while I continued drawing with chalk, but I think I was scaring away the children who were legitimately enjoying the chalk corner, so I declined. Nick then remarked that "my friend" had run into the room so fast that he hadn't even gotten her name. Suspicious that he just wanted to get to know my gorgeous roommate, I asked if he always asked for people's names. He said, "Yeah, we're supposed to ask, and then write it on this white board, so that we can be like, 'Stacey, how's it going in there?' or 'Joe, we have the next size up!'" Then he snickered. "Or, 'Mary Lou!' Haha! I actually had someone named Mary Lou come in today. I was like...wow. Okaaaay."

I snickered along with him, but my snicker was a devious one. Later, when a dressing room was finally freed up for me, he turned to me and asked what my name was.

I told him it was Mary Lou.

My blog is being stupid...

...otherwise I would post.

More later, when I have patience to actually figure out why the formatting is going bonkers.

Flight Announcements

My roommates showed me this skit the other day, and it cracked me up. Aunt Karen and Laura, I thought of you...I miss my Southern accent buddies!

Finals

I have my first oral exam tomorrow (Tuesday).

I've been skimming over all my notes and things I starred/underlined. Side-note: writing in books is no longer a cardinal sin in my eyes, but I still can't bring myself to highlight books. Study notes, yes. Books, no. Seeing beautiful words covered in neon ink makes me want to cry.

Not really.

Ok, really. But I hate admitting that, because it makes me sound like a snob.

Highlighters of the world, I don't look down on you for your decision to color every page of every book you're ever read with garish shades of ink. Just don't do it to my books (or anything you've borrowed from the library...), and we'll get along just fine.

Anyway . . . . I was going to tell you about finals. But now it's time for me to go to bed, because falling asleep during my oral final at 9am tomorrow morning is probably one of the worst things that could happen.

Actually, I can think of a lot worse things. Like failing. Or realizing I'd forgotten to wear pants that day. Or saying something totally heretical and accidentally attributing it to Calvin. Things like that.

Boy, I feel great now. I'm not worried about a thing. Ha.

Back to studying. I always forget what a genius Augustine was until I read what he wrote. Then it makes me want to crawl under a rock and never write or speak again because I will never be as awesome as him.

Finals

We have one final tomorrow, and then a bunch more next week. Eek.

I just want to pass, and I don't want to cry during any of oral exams. Given the comments I've heard from teachers and my history of being less than stoic under pressure, this may be a problem . . . and unfortunately, once my lower lip starts quivering, there's no going back.

I laugh whenever I remember how we gathered around my sister minutes before her wedding to pray for her. I got as far as, "Dear God, thank you for Leah..." and then I choked. I tried to compose myself, but it just wasn't happening. I didn't want to risk ruining my makeup five minutes before ceremony, so I just ended my very profound prayer there. At that point, Leah was probably wondering why she was letting me speak at the reception!

Anyway. I'm going to get back to studying. Tomorrow is going to be a rough day, but hey...I get to wear jeans and a sweatshirt to school for once. And behold, there was much rejoicing in Tara's closet. You have no idea how stoked I am that I don't have to hurt my brain tomorrow trying to come up with a warm outfit that doesn't break the dress code. Ahh, must go shopping for cold-weather dress clothes!

I got an e-mail informing me that this was the weekend at Kennedy Space Center where all the Floridians get in free if they bring a food item for the food drive. The normal rates for KSC are ridiculous, but definitely worth a can of corn. ;)

The last two years, I've tagged along with David and Leah, because they're just nice like that, and I have to admit that instead of writing Rhetoric and Lordship papers this weekend, I would have much preferred to be walking around sunny FL with them eating Dippin' Dots and watching 3-D movies about space. I miss you, Johnsons! :)

But I actually ended up having a fascinating discussion about space and eternity with one of my roomies yesterday as we munched on fries from Jack-in-the-Box (creepiest fast food mascot ever), so I celebrated space weekend in my own special way. ;)

Speaking of fast food, I've heard rumors that Chick-Fil-A is opening up in Boise. That's about six hours away from me, but hey--it's a start. I think they should get rid of the disturbing Jack-in-the-Box here in town and stick in a place with non-creepy mascots...like cows who wear signboards. Nobody's scared of them--they can't even spell!

Puer est!

Aunt Tara. Yeah, I like the sound of that. I can’t wait to hear my little nephew squeal it whenever I visit him . . . as long as he’s squealing out of excitement, not terror.

But I'm jumping ahead of myself. The poor kid's still unnamed and unborn. I'll let him delay learning my name until he's ex utero, but once the doctor slaps his little rear, I expect him to start working on the T sound. I've heard that's a hard one for kids.

Oh, funny story....I was chatting with Uncle Tomas on Facebook this afternoon. At one point, he wrote, "Yeah, I can’t wait to hold my little niece in my arms.”

Wait, what?

I’m not going to lie. I actually entertained the notion that David and Leah had told everyone that it was a girl except me, since I was predicting that it was a girl all along. (NOTE: Predicting a girl is not the same thing as exclusively desiring a girl. Mmkay? Mmkay.)

Around the time that I realized that Leah would never do such a cruel thing, Tomas helpfully typed “JK” into the chatbox. Phew. I wasn’t misinformed.

I'm thinking that maybe ignorance was bliss, however. Now I'm plagued with the desire to rush out and buy every bit of baby boy paraphernalia in this solar system. I think I need to go visit my personal banker Rachel. Maybe she can give me some helpful little financial pamphlet written for aunts who want to blow their life savings on onesies embroidered with bugs and firetrucks.

Don't let me down, Rachel.

The cost of higher education...

Last week at declamation, we all read another section of our papers. In my narratio, I referenced a 19th-century idea concerning higher education for women. Basically, this Harvard medical professor came up with the theory that women couldn't handle the rigors of a liberal arts education. Their brains would become overstressed which would harm their ovaries, and they'd be barren for life.

And no, I couldn't read that without laughing.

The assignment for this week's declamation is nice and simple. We have to give a book or movie review. I looked back over my reading log to see what I'd read this summer and was reminded of my newest favorite play: W;t (also published under Wit, but the semi-colon is a major part of the story, so I think it should be kept in). This assignment isn't due for a few days, but I needed a break from reading, so I sat down to write. First, I tried to summarize the play. A pedantic woman spends her entire life in the academic world and discovers at the age of 50 that she has cancer. Ovarian cancer.

Then it hit me. I can't review this play at declamations. No way. After last week's declamation, I can just imagine everyone sitting there thinking, "Why is that one short girl in our class always talking about educated women and their ovaries?"

So, yeah. I nixed that idea.

Sometime I'll post a review of W;t on here...but right now, I need to come up with another book or movie to review. I thought about Captivating, but I've already technically written a review of it on Facebook, and I also don't want to always be harping on views of women in Christian circles, no matter how wrong they are.

Maybe I can review Amelia Bedelia. Or Ramona Quimby, Age Eight. I don't think ovaries play a big part in either of those books.

And that is the final time that I'll write the word "ovaries" on this blog. Promise.

Because I'm sure you all care about my hair...

I was reading Proverbs 16:31 a few nights ago . . . "Gray hair is a crown of splendor; it is attained by a righteous life."

Yesterday, while brushing my hair, I discovered that I have moved two more strands in the direction of a righteous life.

Yeah, I'm trying to ignore the possibility that I just got really rotten hair genes from my parents. These aren't the first gray hairs I've found. I used to just yank them out, but I've stopped that. I'd rather end up like my mom (gray at 30) than my dad (bald at 30).

Uh-oh. That reminds me of something else I read in the Bible...the story about the two she-bears gobbling up forty-two kids because they called Elijah "bald head."

That story totally freaked me out as a kid, because I once told my father than his hair didn't fall OUT, it fell IN and clogged his brain. (Do you remember that, Dad?)

I didn't understand. Everyone laughed when Buddy said it to the bald guy on The Dick van Dyke Show! Life Lesson #780: don't repeat everything you hear on TV.

Also, stay away from she-bears.