Last night I dreamed that Billy Idol was a very charming, slightly older, African American gentleman who had come to my (church? high school? workplace?) to give some sort of (presentation? concert?). In waking life, I own his Greatest Hits, but in the dream I was convinced that it was Rebel Yell.
It was one of my less bizarre and disturbing dreams in recent memory.
August 31st was my golden birthday, so I threw myself a party. I'd been wanting to have a party on the lawn of this house pretty much since we moved in; I may actually have been scheming about it even before the snow melted.
When August finally rolled around, I sent out invitations on sparkly gold paper left over from our moving announcements. I discovered cake pops and was inspired to make other foods on sticks: caprese salad skewers with garden cherry tomatoes, garden basil, and fresh mozzarella pearls; Greek salad skewers with garden cherry tomatoes, kalamata olives, and feta; and fruit skewers with pineapple, grapes, and strawberries. In the non-stick category, we had Martha's carrot-ginger mini-cupcakes with orange cream cheese frosting; hummus with pita and crudités; and sparkling cocktails.
I set everything up on cream and gold tablecloths I'd found at the thrift store, with little gold napkins. We had golden balloons, candles in ornamented jars and lots of hanging lights--strands of regular mini white lights, some tiny Japanese paper lanterns, and even a random strand of spiky Ikea lights.
But! They don't call my Kitchen a Disaster for nothing. I spent all morning and afternoon cooking, baking, and running last minute errands, and David and our downstairs neighbor did yeomen's duty getting lights strung, and still things were crazy until right up to party time. Our other neighbor came up to lend me a hand with frosting cupcakes, and then they both did skewer duty. At one point, all four of us were in the kitchen when we heard a crash; investigation revealed that Brrrrrruno had managed to knock over a tray of cupcakes and consume at least one, liner and all, before we were able to separate them!**
At 15 minutes before the time listed on the invitations, I left my tireless helpers in the kitchen to throw on some make up and my party dress. I was still making little labels for the food and drinks tables when the first guests showed up! So. I don't have many pictures at all, which makes me very sad, because it was such a beautiful party.
It really was. The little lights made everything feel remarkably festive. It was a lovely evening, and the rather brisk breeze was countered by a roaring fire in the fire pit. There were girls in party dresses*** and tasty treats and lovely music, thanks to an iPod Hi-Fi boombox we found at the thrift store for $19 (2006 retail price $349. Oh yeah!).
Anyway, here are the pictures I do have. Try to imagine everything golden and sparkly, the way it is in my memory!
*Which I had to make twice, because the first batch tasted and looked pretty bad
**For weeks afterward when he would come up to our apartment, he would lick the floor and rug at the site of the crash.
***I wore my dress from a few Halloweens ago; how many chances does a girl have to wear a dress like that, anyway?
So, I'm back from my whirlwind Tokyo trip, and am blaming jet-lag on my lack of ability to get much of anything done since (including blogging).
I left Tokyo Wednesday at 2:50 p.m. and arrived in Mpls at about 11:50 p.m. the same day, which was a bit of a thrill. 
I made it to a lecture that evening after just a short nap, went to bed at a decent hour, and thought I'd be able to get up the next morning, but was sorely mistaken. Opening my eyes after a good eight hours of sleep, I saw speeding trains,* kanji characters, and wobbling lines, and decided I was better off leaving my eyes closed. The lines were still wobbly when I opened my eyes at noon, but I was able to get out of bed, anyway. Friday, I was fine. Friday night, I slept another twelve hours. But today I woke at a reasonable hour, ran a sunny six miles with a friend, and have high hopes for being finally completely recovered.
Thankfully, I had none of this trouble while I was in Japan. 
After arriving Friday evening, I did wake up at 4 a.m. Saturday, though I had, after all, been sleeping on a floor so hard it left my hip bruised (and prompted me to switch, for the following nights, to the 4-foot long love seat/couch). I was able to sleep until 6 or so, and thereafter had a completely normal schedule.
Here are pictures, mostly of Saturday, but also with a few from the flight and the Friday night arrival (click here to view the entire album and larger images):
More to come!
*I've dreamed about trains every day I've been back.
Strovska posted a link to a pretty amazing logic puzzle over at her blog. In my case, the puzzle started out as completely frustrating, but in the end proved extremely satisfying, in a totally nerdy way.
If you've already completed the puzzle, or don't intend to try it, you can click here for a glimpse into the inner workings of my mind (spoiler alert!). I wish my dissertation would come together like this puzzle did at the end, with all the pieces sliding right into place.
I also posted a distinctly creepy and surreal dream fragment over at the dream blog.
This morning I had that super-heavy, glued-to-the-mattress feeling, even though I'd been sleeping for nine hours (I know! the luxury! It's, like, double what I averaged my first year in Mpls). It took a ridiculous amount of time to get out of bed.
And then tonight, I couldn't even make it through the movie David and I started with dinner (Bubba Ho-Tep, which I first [and last] saw at the awesome Ross theater in Lincoln), and passed out on the couch at maybe 7:30. I had vivid dreams, and now, predictably, am not very sleepy. Sigh.
I didn't run today, and I only ran two miles yesterday. I've also been averaging a lot of sleep recently.
I don't know whether to hope that I'm just lazy or that there's something actually wrong with me.
Granted, I have run a half marathon and a whole marathon in the past six weeks. It is November, and the short days always get me down. I'm stressed about my dissertation and the (complete lack of a) job market. And I am trying to avoid all the flu going around.
So hopefully it's nothing that a bit more sleep can't fix.
The main thing I accomplished today was submitting a 250-word abstract for a conference I'm applying to in Toronto this summer. Writing abstracts is, on the one hand, much easier than writing even a short paper, in that they are very few words; you can sort of make almost anything up; and if your abstract isn't accepted, you don't have to write the paper and then deliver it. On the other hand, it can be very challenging, because you're trying to describe, as concisely as possible (every word counts when you have a limit of 250) something that you probably haven't actually written; to make it fit the theme of the conference, if there is one; and, of course, to be accepted to the conference.
These days, writing even those two paragraphs feels like pulling teeth. Still, I got it done and submitted, and feel okay about it. Apparently it's one of those great big conferences that accepts a lot of people, so I'd say my chances of getting in are decent.
In happier news, we ate some seriously excellent food today. For brunch I made my sister's famous cherry peach bread pudding. At least, I think it was the same recipe she uses; weirdly enough, I found it online here, at our local paper's site. Then David made me enchiladas for dinner. They're seriously amazing. Instead of a lot of cheese, he fills them with refried beans and vegetables (red and yellow bell pepper, white and green onions, spinach), black olives, and cilantro. We had them with sweet corn tamales from the Global Market, where we headed for a walk when my brain was overheating from the abstract-writing.
Speaking of brain-overheating, I also posted over at the dream blog.
So, about that jumping out of a plane!
My DVD from Skydive Oregon arrived today,* and for any of you who may someday be forced to watch it, I'll just warn you that there's a preponderance of smiling, bobbing, and a bit of jumping up and down. I was really thrilled to skydive, albeit slightly dampened in my enthusiasm by approximately 15 pages of waivers wherein I signed away all my rights (including, for example, the rights of my next-of-kin to sue even if I were harmed or killed by deliberate negligence on the part of the company).
For a while it looked like we might not even be able to go; they will jump in partly cloudy conditions, but not through clouds or in rain. Both David and I and Paul and Ter were driving to Molalla from Portland, which was only about 45 minutes away, but a friend of Ter's who was to have gone with us decided, after calling S.O. early that morning and getting their advice, not to risk the ten-hour roundtrip from Walla Walla. It was raining when we pulled in, but by the time we'd finished our paperwork a large patch of blue sky had centered itself over the runway/landing area.
As we were in our mini-training class (proper fall position, emergency procedures, more waiver-signing, etc.) we heard a plane take off, and were out of class in time to watch the plane drop its tiny occupants and see them come floating to the ground. I got even more excited. The jumpers came out into the viewing area after they'd changed out of their jumpsuits inside, talking excitedly with the friends and family who had watched them jump. I was thrilled that we'd get to jump after all.
But, then, nothing happened. Although a large area of blue sky remained over the runway, dark clouds began to creep over the trees. It began to rain again. We discovered that despite appearances, there was another group of jumpers scheduled ahead of us. Deflated and starving, David and I decided to run to town for a bite to eat.
And then! As we were driving, S.O. called to tell us that they had just sent up a load of divers, and our group was up next! So, still unfed, but now oozing adrenaline, we turned around and drove back, arriving just in time to be called in to suit up. I was giddy.
They put us all in jumpsuits (mine was huge!), silly pointy caps with attached goggles, and gloves. As soon as the plane got back from dropping the previous group, it circled around and picked us up. Each of us sat in front of our own instructor, straddling two long, narrow benches running the length of the plane. They closed the door and we took off!
The ride up to 13,000 feet took about 15 minutes. Looking out the window, I could see a picturesque green and gold patchwork of fields and trees. 
At one point it occurred to me that I'd soon be dropped, plane-less, high above that vista, but the thought didn't worry me as much as I thought it might. 
What did finally drive that idea home was when the plane door opened and I saw Ter, strapped to her instructor, scoot to the end of the bench and then disappear over the edge, as if sucked out.
I hardly had time to ponder that, however, before it was my turn, and I was sitting in the open doorway, my legs curled under the edge of the plane and my head tilted back to look up at the sky. Apparently my instructor asked for the necessary verbal confirmation that I was ready, and apparently I gave it; I don't remember much other than the cold, rushing wind and the brilliant blue of the sky.
I've had more anxiety about far less dangerous activities, such as going off the highdive, being double-blobbed, or going down a speed slide. Each of those activities allowed plenty of time to work up nervousness, and required more of my own volition; I was responsible for launching my own trajectory.
In the plane, however, I hardly had time to think about it--and, thankfully, didn't have to take any action other than holding onto my harness and keeping my chin up. There was the cold, the wind, the brightness, and then we were tumbling over the edge, with the ground spinning below us and the air blasting our faces.
Initially, there was a huge rush, although it didn't feel, somehow, like falling: although it felt different from anything I'd ever experienced before, it seemed most similar to plunging through the water following a high dive--though louder, and, of course, drier. The pressure squeezed my head, it was difficult to breathe, and my ears began to hurt.
From 13,000 feet, freefall lasts 60 seconds, and it was a relief when my instructor opened our chute. Suddenly, everything was quieter, warmer, and--after, at his suggestion, I removed my goggles--far clearer. He spun us around to the right, my legs flying out as we whirled through the 360° view. We drifted gently down for several minutes, the green swath of the landing strip coming into view as my instructor had me practice my landing position (hands on my harness, knees bent and pulled up). The landing was gentle, although I did stagger for a few steps before regaining my balance (being unstrapped from my instructor helped!).
Hands-down, my favorite part was the post-freefall-drifting, although were I to do it again (and I'd like to!), I'd try to savor the initial plane-leaving rush. Floating was surprising in its seeming impossibility: the view was like that from an airplane, far above land, but without either its armored protection or its view obstructions. The quietness and warmth, after the buffeting of freefall, enhanced the sensation of peacefulness, and I felt completely safe and secure. Since then, I've had at least one dream about the feeling, and hope to have more.
The buzz lasted pretty much all day, though it was also mixed with a fair amount of physical exhaustion; apparently rocketing through the air at near-terminal velocity is hard work! It's a little bit expensive, but I would love to do it again, and would recommend the experience to anyone. I don't know about it bringing my life into sudden focus or causing me to rethink my priorities--but the views are incredible and the rush is unbeatable!
*Screenshots throughout taken from the DVD.
Because I am supposed to be re-writing the paper I gave a Dry Run for on Wednesday (which I had already re-written, you may recall, following dissertation workshop the preceding Friday), in anticipation of my New Orleans conference presentation this coming Friday (for which I fly out on Thursday); and because the Wednesday after that my students hand in their final papers (which I will have just two weeks to grade [before the final exam], in the middle of which fall my two-hour lecture for that class and my last submission to the dissertation workshop), I am, instead, distracting myself online.
I was looking up a flight to Portland for a May conference to which I was just accepted, and from there was looking at my options for getting from the airport to the conference site and the friend's house where I'll be staying. As I was looking at the map, I recognized the highway we used to take to get to school, and from there, it was the shortest of jumps to look at my childhood home on Street View. Although I've looked up my current residence, my parents' house in DHS, and countless commercial sites, it had never occurred to me to look up the house where I spent ages seven through eleven, and which frequently shows up in my dreams (including this recent one).
I haven't been back in person since we left, and at first I didn't even recognize my old house. In the 17 (yikes!) years since I lived there, the occupants have redone much of the front yard and have put up a strange wooden screen around the front door. Still, as I studied the image, I recognized the huge maple, unmistakable in the middle of the yard and looking like an old friend. As I clicked up and down the street, I remembered the neighbors who had lived in the houses around us, and the big pines where the street dead-ended at the railroad tracks, where we'd had little picnics and run around. Much of it was very familiar, and highly evocative of childhood memories and sensations.
Looking at my old neighborhood as a grown-up, though, I also found myself a bit depressed. The fact that the photos were captured on an (uncharacteristically!) gray day can't have helped. Things probably did look better two decades ago, before the Northwest weather wreaked its usual trick of turning everything mossy, damp, and droopy (if still impressively lush and green). And the neighborhood, which was always an interesting mix, in hindsight, of quite stately homes and smaller, less-kempt ones, may not have aged all that well. My idyllic childhood home, although plenty respectable, was rather generic, a bit dishevelled, and certainly aging.
The strangest sensation was the concurrent distanced objectivity and opacity lent by, in addition to the computer screen, decades of life and experience, and the surprisingy visceral intimacy prompted by a location I loved so much and filled with the memories only a child of that age can.
Many of my friends grew up in a single house, in which their parents may still live. I was always rather jealous of this. When I went to my neighbor's parents' house for Thanksgiving a few years ago, I got to see her still-intact childhood bedroom. I don't know if those people have more, or fewer, dreams about the homes they lived in with their parents.
I feel plenty fortunate that my parents left the cold Northwest for sunny southern California several years ago, and that I get to visit them there. Now that I'm older, I can even appreciate our multiple moves and the fact that I got to live in many parts of the country.
In a few days I'll be visiting New Orleans for the first time since we moved to the house I just visited virtually. I remember very little of it, though I can still conjur the scent and flavor of a French Quarter beignet and fully intend to test those memories against the real item.
I had always wanted to return to the city as an adult; after Katrina, I figured I'd never be able to return to the same city. Then again... you never really can, anyway.
Curly Sue just posted a dream that reminded me of a discussion in my dissertation workshop group today. I think we were prompted by the piece Life Writer, which will hopefully feature in my chapter addressing Artificial Life.
Somehow, we got to talking about "virtual pets." Apparently my adviser's niece has twelve or so, because she can't have a real kitty.
A: "I never understand those virtual pets. I mean, you feed them and walk them. It's the hard parts about having a pet, not the good parts!"
Me: "You must clean your virtual kitty's litter box."
A: "You can't cuddle with a virtual pet!"
Me: "Your virtual kitty has fleas.
"...You have mice, but your virtual kitty is not a mouser.
"...Your virtual kitty got in a fight, and has an infected scratch that will cost a very expensive vet bill. You have no money because you are a student and you have to pay student fees."
My adviser: "You have to ride to the laundromat with all your laundry! And your kitty! On your back in your backpack!"
It was a fun dissertation workshop day.
So David and Erin both asked about the RNC and protesting. I wish I had more to say about that. Blame it on trying to write my prospectus, not wanting to get arrested, or general laziness, though, but all I did was try to spot Republicans downtown Saturday night (they were wearing blazers and lapel pins!); attend the Liberty Parade and concert on Sunday; and participate in Take Back Labor Day on Monday. I'll go ahead and tell you about my limited experience, anyway.
Take Back Labor Day was the only time I was in St. Paul during the convention. We biked over, and traffic wasn't bad at all, until we got close to the Xcel Center. Then it was just weird; they had installed these black cyclone fences around the convention center, and between the sidewalks and the streets. There were cops everywhere, many of them from out of town; I heard people complaining that streets had been inexplicably blocked, and that none of the cops could even give directions of how to get around.
Take Back Labor Day was on Harriet Island, and because they had closed the bridge we wanted to take, we ended up taking the High Bridge over. It was a serious climb (Wikipedia says it's 160' tall), but had plenty of room for bikes, which was nice. On the other side, we took a breather and looked at the city. A mom and about six kids unloaded from a van and shared the view with us; the kids were most excited by the "boats with machine guns on the front"--in fact, the Coast Guard was patrolling the Mississippi.
The event was in a big park right across from the Xcel Center. Security there felt much calmer than on the other side of the bridge; there were a few patrols of people in T-shirts from some security company, but not the hordes of officers we'd just left. There were lots of tents set up with food and different events, but the big attraction was the main stage, where we heard, among others, Tom Morello from Rage Against the Machine, Atmosphere, and Mos Def. The event was primarily about workers' rights, which was a fitting protest to the RNC. We made a lot of noise, and I'm sure Republicans outside the Xcel Center could hear us, although I'm sure it was plenty quiet inside.
My friend and I were taking a look at the tents on our way out when we saw crowds gathered along the riverbank. As we looked, we saw a yacht with a banner that said "Stop Torture," being pursued by probably five Coast Guard boats and two or three smaller sheriff's boats. It was making quick movements and seemed to be outfoxing its pursuers, which we all cheered. Across the bank, I could see a wall of people in black, apparently officers. It looked like there were 50 or 60 of them, and I couldn't figure out what they were doing; protecting the bank in case the yacht's occupants wanted to protest torture on land?
A guy beside me nudged me and said, "Did you see the snipers?" Sure enough; as I looked, I saw two unmistakable figures standing on a building beside the Xcel Center. You can see them in this picture my friend took. It was only later, looking at this guy's photo set on Flickr, that I realized that what we'd been seeing on the other bank was the police surrounding detainees. Creepy.
We left shortly thereafter to head home. As we got back to the High Bridge, however, we were dismayed to see police cars blocking the entrance. An old man watching from the sidewalk told us we'd have to detour to the I-35 bridge, miles away. Thankfully, however, as we watched, we saw that the cops were letting pedestrians and cyclists through. We had the bridge entirely to ourselves! Although I later realized that the closure appeared to be another heavy-handed gesture to control protesters (read: freedom), gliding down that silent bridge, I felt like I was in a dream. I snapped a camera phone picture of what felt like The Future.
Later, as we crossed another bridge into Minneapolis, passing a patrol car and officer on the Saint Paul side, I felt, more than I ever had before, how really separate the two cities are--and it was a relief to be home.
As much as I heart Jon Stewart, I have to respectfully disagree with his characterization of St. Paul as "so much better than Minneapolis. Minneapolis is Danny DeVito to St. Paul's Schwarzenegger." I don't know where he was in each city to come up with that comparison... but I'm glad to live on the right side of the river (the left one).
Today I took the light rail to the Mall of America, because I wanted to pick up some makeup at Sephora that I was too late to order online and still have for my upcoming trip. I started physically trembling as soon as I walked in the door, and had to keep reminding myself the entire time I was inside the mall to relax my shoulders and face. This was only the third time I'd been there, although I have, oddly, had dreams about it--which compounded my discomfort. This is why I much prefer shopping online.
I will agree to take you to the M.O.A. if you come visit me in Minneapolis, but you may need to keep reminding me to breathe.
Unfortunately, that, running a few other errands, reading the cyberpunk novel a friend gave me a few weeks ago (it's really picking up!), making soft pretzels, doing dishes, scrubbing my bathroom floor, and playing with my new makeup is about all I've been able to accomplish today. I'd like to claim that I'm still decompressing from the conference, but I think it's mostly just depression. It didn't help that it snowed here today--not enough to stick at all (like yesterday), but disheartening nonetheless.
There is good news, though: Tuesday I have a facial, and Wednesday evening after my last class, I once again hop a flight Left--and word on the street is that it hit 70 in Seattle this weekend!
*(Ow, my agoraphobia!)
So in the middle of the night, in the midst of a dream, the lamp fell on me.
It had been at the head of my bed, balanced on a wooden TV tray in my parents' guest bedroom, and it toppled onto my head. As my current bed situation is a bit unstable and unpredictable (two stacked twin air mattresses) and given that I am prone to flailing in my sleep, this is not as surprising as it might otherwise seem. In fact, when I recounted the event to my dad, he laughed and said it sounded exactly like the sort of thing that happens to me. This is certainly true: after all, I'm the one who once had a cactus jump into bed with me.*
How exactly the lamp made its descent is a bit of a mystery (Dad and I tried various and unsatisfactory experiments to recreate the event), but it struck my right temple and woke me with a face full of lampshade--which, I discovered this morning, had dented but was easily fixable.
I sleepily felt the sore spot on my head, and, realizing it was covered by my hair, decided I didn't need to ice it. I tried to fall back asleep, but was vaguely tormented by the idea that had I been struck slightly differently, I might have been killed in my sleep by a falling lamp. (My mom speedily dismissed this notion today, and as I reexamined the lamp in the light of day, it did seem far less heavy than I had been picturing in my sleepy ponderings.) I also considered drowsily that if I had a concussion, I should probably not fall back asleep. None of this, however, managed to keep me awake for long at all.
I'm looking forward to sleeping in that same bed tonight, but do think I may put the lamp on the floor. "Death by lamp, while sleeping" would be such a ignominious way to go; I don't think I want to take that chance.
*As this event occurred in 1992, I can't direct you to any charming blog entry about it, but please feel free to ask me to recount the story should we meet in person--and rest assured that I no longer keep potted plants of any persuasion on the windowsill above my bed.
So, my computer appears to be dying.
It has had the decency to work well and consistently for somewhere on the order of five years, and to be dying slowly enough to allow me to back up not only my most critical files, but ones like random video clips of Grant licking cigarettes and chat logs from 2004.
The wheezing (which, you may recall, was an issue last fall) had recommenced last week after a long and pleasant hiatus, but far more disturbing, as though the former has subsided in order to allow me to focus on more perplexing issues, is that my display is munched. White backgrounds are fine (which are thankfully the norm in the compose screens for Google products like Blogger and Gmail), but any dark graphics are now overlayed with what looks like a flickering fuchsia screen. You may imagine how this bothers me. In fact, when it first began on Sunday evening, I couldn't look at my screen without feeling nauseous.
The amazing Teed & Hathor Despair-Fighting Duo talked me through some diagnostics and options last night (including a download and boot-up of Ubuntu), but the sad news is that it's not just a Windows issue--this is hardware trouble. It remains unclear whether it's my motherboard/video card or screen cables, but what is almost certain is that although the parts aren't all that expensive, the labor to make the repairs would be intense.
It's also unclear whether the repairs would make sense on a five-year old, 20-pound computer that was essentially designed for a three-year lifespan anyway, with rubbed spots on the screen and keys so worn many of the letters are illegible. (I don't know if you can see this in the picture or not (as I mentioned, I'm having a hard time looking at graphics right now), but I've worn veritable divots in my space bar and vowels--and apparently only space with my right thumb and shift with my left pinky.) The battery is totally shot and the fan could irreversibly croak at any time. Actually... it's becoming clear, isn't it? The only problem is that I really can't afford a new laptop right now.
Anyway.
Yesterday Herman from Honeytown came to visit on his way to Wisconsin. He picked me up at school and got the quick tours of my corner of campus, my neighborhood, and my apartment before we brunched at the Bad Waitress. We had a lovely chat and he got to hear my Mangopeño Pistachio Parfait! dream in person before he dropped me back at school on his way east. I managed not to take any pictures, but I promise it still actually happened.
It is warming up here (it's cloudy and 24° at the moment), and I'm thinking about starting to run again. Apparently my dad thinks he wants to do a third San Diego Rock'n'Roll Marathon, and for some reason it's striking me as a good idea in advance of the October TCM. Three months should be plenty of time, but I am a bit nervous about the cold. All my driving this winter is making me soft.
Last Sunday night, my sister and I, having stayed up with the rest of the family-- including my cousin Andrew, who recently entered the Navy, is currently stationed(?) in San Diego, and had come out to the desert on his weekend off--watching Napoleon Dynamite, eating addictive sweet potato burritos, and helping my mom sew tops and pants-extensions for April's scrubs, were in bed with the lights off when it occurred to her that we should drive to Las Vegas.
I was less convinced than she was, but somehow, nonetheless, ended up in the passenger seat of my mom's car, at 12:24 a.m., as April steered us through the desert under a full moon. After staying awake until Barstow, where we made a pit stop at which we were enthusiastically greeted by a voluble, chemically-enhanced crazy on his way back from Vegas with a friend, I reclined the seat and slept. The next thing I knew, I could see the lights of the city from the freeway, and April was wondering which exit to take.
Vegas is a weird place no matter how you look at it, but it's especially striking, I think, when you arrive by car. For miles, you're traveling through desolate desert, and then, suddenly, from the middle of nowhere, arises a blinding oasis of glaring lights and architecture that belongs to no particular era or location, yet appropriates from all in a bizarre and unanticipated amalgamation. Arriving after a scant two hours of Queen-permeated car-sleep, at the conclusion of a journey embarked upon in the middle of the night, only adds to the effect.
We cruised the strip and marveled at the weirdness (it was April's first trip) before meeting up with Bryant at his apartment near the UNLV campus. He treated us to breakfast at a buffet in the Fremont East district, which is historic Las Vegas; did you know that the strip and the major casinos aren't actually in Las Vegas proper, but rather in an unincorporated area called Paradise? I didn't.
Afterward, we took April back to the apartment so she could sleep, and then Bryant took me to coffee on his yet-unnamed, but still thoroughly charming new scooter. We had wanted to eat after that, but ended up only having time to check out the Bellagio and (briefly) the nearby Ceasar's Palace before I started to get terribly jumpy about the flight I needed to catch in Palm Springs in five and a half hours.
We had to drop our excellent chauffeur and tour-guide back at his place and then jet. Traffic was a bit snarled getting out of the city, and then there were painfully slow semis to pass deeper into the desert where the roads narrow to one lane in each way, but the sun was shining and I was powered by my first caffeine in three weeks. And although I drive slowly, if at all, in my normal life, there are few motivators like trying to make an impending flight; straight, dry roads; and a gutsy car; to make one feel like opening it up. It felt good.
As it happened, I needn't have worried about my flight--which was epically delayed--and could have spent at least part of those eight hours back in Vegas. Even so, the visit would probably have been too short... though hopefully it won't be the last.
Here are some pictures:
I just posted over at the dream blog.
That, and the news that my sister is flying in tomorrow!, are all I have for you tonight, because I have been staring at my computer for the better part of TWO DAYS working on a PROJECT,* and need to go stretch my eyeballs.
*A mostly fun one, involving things like making paintings, which neither serves any academic or financial purpose nor induces the stress generally involved with either, but which has also involved a lot of hunching over my computer, squinting at the screen, and cursing various layout programs. It may be a secret, so I won't tell more now, but I will at some point relatively soon.
So tonight I finally got my hair cut! I went to The Chair, an Aveda concept salon that a friend had recommended and that was relatively close to my house. Jim, my stylist, was great. Not only did he actually cut my hair short enough, he really took his time on the details--even shampooing me again after he'd done most of the cutting to sort of reset the curls and make sure everything would behave nicely. I was impressed from the beginning by the fact that he himself had naturally curly hair, which he wore short, but he went on to gain points by spending time talking to me about what I wanted, taking his time, and being generally funny, chatty, and charming.
Oh, and what did I pay for this relaxing and enjoyable salon experience, from which I emerged with the haircut I actually wanted? Twenty-five dollars. Thirty with the tip. OH YES.
I always look like the victim of a traumatic bleaching accident (or like I have the mange) when my hair is very short, due to the haphazard but naturally occurring red and blond patches on the left side of my head (the red streak up front looks more intentional, but that's just lucky). When I went short for the first time, in 2000, it was in Paris, and when the cute French girl had cut off all my hair, she put a mirror in my hands, spun me around so I could see the back of my head, and said, "C'est ne pas tres jolie!" before handing me the swatches of color options. I ended up choosing a vibrant red demi-permanent that I have spent the intervening years trying vainly to recreate; it shimmered and sparkled and washed away eventually without leaving any visible roots. (I imagine that such a thing may actually exist here in the States; my main problem is that I'm not willing to pay for it.)
In the past I've been disappointed by the boxed haircolors I've tried; somehow the red ones always seem to develop a purplish cast that I don't really dig. Tonight I used Clairol's Natural Instincts in the non-permanent #16 Spiced Tea Light Auburn, and was pretty pleased with the results. The blotchiness on the back of my head is still visible, but is definitely more even than it was; the weird blond spots are now a more blended red. The thing I keep meaning to try is Punky Colors, which are deposit-only colors, and which I think might be able to give me a nice cherry red cast without the purple. Also, I've avoided L'Oreal's Feria colors because they are "permanent" and I have commitment issues, but they claim to be shimmery and look like the off-the-shelf product that would be closest to my Parisian color, so I may break down and try a box. How badly could I mess up an inch of hair, anyway? If any of you out there have experience with either of those products, or something else, I'd be very interested in hearing it.
Before:
After:
*This is what a well-meaning Italian woman, with her own impressively shaggy mane, had to say about my short hair in Florence, and what I think of (with a laugh) every time I get sheared.
Bad news: It snowed here on Monday. Not enough to stick, but a few flurries. It flurried again yesterday. And so it starts.
Good news: My man Dennis Kucinich (two words: vegan pacifist) offered a bill to impeach Dick Cheney. (I realize this isn't exactly "news" anymore, but I'm so glad someone is still interested in pointing out the evil in the White House that I wanted to mention it anyway.)
Bad news: I've lost two toenails in the past two weeks, both on my right foot, thanks to marathon-induced subungual hematomas. And my left leg is still bugging me.
Good news: This morning I was at school before 8:00 and was able to put together a PowerPoint presentation for today's 9:05 and 11:15 sections (with a minute or two to spare); now I am done teaching for another week!
Bad news: North Country Co-Op, my beloved West Bank source for soup, rolls, and farmer-direct eggs, has shut its doors, apparently permanently.
Good news: The smell of death in my apartment has diminished significantly. The Indian-ish garbanzo/tomato curry and brown rice I made yesterday has also helped mask it.
Bad news: The take-home essay that has been haunting me all week is due tomorrow, and still requires some significant work between now and then.
Good news: I fly to Seattle on Friday! I'm getting out of the Midwest for the first time since May! It's hard to communicate how happy this makes me. I get to fly! On a plane! Away from here! And see family and friends! Outside of Minnesota!
And, finally, speaking of happy, today the department held an informal luncheon to properly welcome one of this semester's visiting lecturers. I sat next to one of the professors with whom I have little contact (but about whom, oddly enough, I dreamed last night after seeing him in the office yesterday afternoon--I was his TA and he wanted me to haul and label boxes of stuff), but who is widely reputed to be charming and well-loved. The visiting lecturer will be teaching the survey course next semester (the one for which I TA-ed last semester), and the professor recounted team-teaching it with the professor I assisted last year, back when the U was on the quarter system (!). He described, in his cheerful Belgian accent, a headlong dash through Western art history. "We blew a projector bulb one day," he said, "and in the 10 minutes it took to replace it, I lost the entire Byzantine period!" Awesome.
My recent kitchen ventures have actually been remarkably successful. Even my first attempt at soup in my new-to-me crockpot, which would have seemed to invite disaster on multiple levels--including the fact that I not only didn't use a recipe at all, but invited people over to eat it before I had any idea how it would be--somehow worked. I left it cooking while I was at school, and had visions of it boiling over and burning down my building, but in fact, although it had been cooking for close to eight hours, the only problem was that the lentils were still a little crunchy. I cranked the heat to high for a couple of hours, and the soup ended up very tasty and satisfying. I served it with the bread I'd baked the night before, and chocolate chip cookies for which I miraculously had ingredients on hand and was able to whip up without even splattering the walls.
However, though things have been non-disastrous on the kitchen front, today's race was a typical near-disaster. Although I gave myself a full hour to travel the 22 miles to the race site, park and pick up my bib before the 8:00 a.m. gun time, I managed to get myself terribly lost and pulled into the park in time to hear the gun--and then be told by the attendant that the lot was completely full and that I'd have to find somewhere else. Thankfully there were lots of surface streets, and although they were crowded, I was able to find a spot, run across the park to the tent where they kindly let me pick up my bib, and make it across the start line (by myself!) with just eight minutes on the clock. With my heart pounding, alone on an unfamiliar and poorly-marked course, the first part of my run was eerily reminiscent of my standard marathon nightmare.
About half a mile in, I encountered three joggers--but they claimed not to even be aware of the race! I passed them, and was encouraged a few minutes later to see an open safety pin on the sidewalk; another minute later, I was extremely relieved to see the first official mile marker, confirming that I was in fact on the right course.
I spent the first five or six miles passing people and lamenting that I'd forgotten the Marathonator in the car. Suddenly, though, as I was working up one of the (many) hills on the course, I heard, "We know you!" It was the two guys I'd passed in the first mile, and then again a few miles in after stopping at a Port-a-Potty. They had apparently just been out for a weekend long run and had decided to join the course. I took their greeting as an invitation to join them, although by that time they were definitely cruising at a pace much faster than mine. I'm glad I did, because the miles flew by as I chatted with them, hearing Jerry's stories of being a cop in southern California (3 speeding tickets in 12 years; and at least once, shooting the shotgun out of a criminal's hand as he brought it around to fire!) and the hypnosis and visualization techniques Dave uses in his job as a psychologist to help improve athletes' performances. Both were pretty serious runners; Dave, in at least his 60s, mentioned races and relays all over the country.
Jerry left us just after the 10-mile mark, where I'd first seen the guys (the course was two identical laps around the lake). Dave wanted to do 15, so he ran with me to about 13.5, then turned around to finish out his run. We'd run right up behind a group of three guys, and I tagged along behind them for a couple of minutes until they caught me laughing at their jokes and welcomed me in, announcing that they were the 9:30 pace team. I had no idea I'd been going that fast--or faster, really, since Dave and I had caught up to them.
They were Matt, Chad, and a guy who called himself Boz and was full of contagious energy. Matt and Boz had met in the first mile, both aiming for a 9:30 pace, and had caught up to Chad somewhere around 8, where he'd slowed down after starting out too fast. He was training for his first marathon, and this was his longest run ever (which is the best part of being a rookie--every distance run is the longest of your entire life!). 9:30 felt surprisingly comfortable, and again the miles flew by as Boz yodeled excitedly at the onset of every hill and Matt, keeper of the time on his fancy ForeRunner, told us we were still going too fast (I think we averaged about 9:20 over those last six and a half miles). Boz repeatedly insisted it was his best training run ever, and we had to agree. It was gloriously clear, crisp, and only slightly breezy, and the company of three upbeat and funny runners made the time fly; amazingly, I hardly suffered until the last mile, and then only slightly.
The very most amazing thing, though, is that a 9:30 mile pace means you finish your 20 in just 3:10, and I think we were slightly faster than that. Plus, I had started eight minutes behind, which means that today's race was at by far the fastest pace I'd ever run (I'll know my chip time and pace for sure when they post the results online), and not merely one of the most enjoyable.
Wooooo! I think I need to eat now. Again.
Last night I dreamed* I was driving somewhere in the Pacific Northwest (Seattle?), in a golden-beige convertible filled with crushed ice. It was definitely the thing to do, as we saw several pick-ups on the freeway doing the same thing. About six of us were sitting on the ice, although I noticed that I didn't feel particularly cold. There were some drinks stuck in the ice, but the driver was only having iced tea. He could have been tipsy, however, for all the driving he was doing; it was my responsibility, from the back of the car, where I was sitting perpendicular to the direction of travel, to do the steering. By rotating an empty glass in my outstretched hand (when I remembered to), I kept us within the traffic lines.
Later on, I spoke a little Italian.
It's been chilly here. I wore long pants on Monday's run for the first time in months, and although I was able to take off my windbreaker for the last mile or so, I put it back on as soon as we finished the route and were walking. Yesterday I finally closed all the windows in the house, and last night put the electric blanket back on my bed. I'm pretty sure that after I prematurely removed it in April, it ended up staying on until at least June, and now it's happily back in place. I was immensely thankful for it last night, although I still chattered sleeplessly until I woke up enough to turn it up from 3.5 to 5.5.
Then this morning the classroom for the second class I taught was so cold that I pretty much twitched for the entire 50 minutes. The advantage to a supercooled classroom was that I ended up moving around the classroom more than I otherwise might, but the disadvantage was that for at least the first five minutes of class I was shivering so hard that my voice shook as though I hadn't spent all summer defeating (mostly, anyway...) my classroom stage fright.
I am well aware that a short month from now, we could easily have snow, and that it won't be long before temperatures like this week's (there's sunshine, after all, and the wind isn't too vicious) seem like a pleasant, distant, semi-tropical dream.
And, really, it won't be that much longer before these years in Minnesota might, too. Not exactly a pleasant and semi-tropical one... but hopefully not just a cold, dark, nightmare, either. There are definitely bright spots! And if you ask the locals, we still have more warm weather in store.
*This report inspired by Mandy
Recently, I've been seized with the desire to build furniture. This is ironic, to say the least, as I've never actually built any furniture, don't own a drill or proper saw, and lost my hammer when I accidentally packed it in my carry-on luggage the Christmas I received it and had to leave it at security. (I did replace it at some point; maybe when I used it to rip out my Bowling Green kitchen countertops?)
These visions started with a bookshelf. My neighbors, whose apartment mirrors mine, built themselves beautiful, tall bookshelves (and then filled them with the sort of books that only two liberal arts graduate students can amass). They claim that building them was ridiculously easy, which, coupled with the desire to house my own overflowing books, I find terribly inspiring. I did some measuring and drawing and looked at wood (and drill) prices online, but that's where I got discouraged. Somehow, it looked like making the shelves myself would be more expensive than buying them at Ikea. Doesn't anyone sell just laminated particle board? Home Depots and stores of that ilk are hidden in the suburbs; I'll still swing by one and do some in-person pricing when I'm on a teaching run.
Next--wandering around the Ikea website?--I thought about how nice it would be to have a real bed. Right now, my bed is an air mattress resting on plywood balanced on four dining room chairs. It is functional, but a real bed would be awfully nice too. I did more measuring, drew more plans, and wondered whether there were enough 2x4s in the basement to make a sturdy frame. Apprehension of spiders and other basement nastiness have so far kept me from exploring that option (and, of course, having to actually start the project).
Most recently, I've been thinking about living room furniture. Today I finally sorted (read: moved to the other room) the multitudes of classroom books that have been cluttering my apartment for the past five weeks, and can once again see my living room floor. My new chair is in a sort of decorational purgatory right now, as the corner it should live in is currently occupied by a bookcase. Nonetheless, it is inspiring me, and I was thinking how cozy the room would be with an ottoman or some sort of bench seat under the windows. And, what do you know? The internet is full of ideas for DIY ottomans!
Given my discoveries regarding the price of wood, however, as well as of foam (it looks like a 7" deep 20 x 20" piece to replace the chair's missing back cushion will be around $30!), I thought maybe I'd find a piece of furniture at the thrift store that could be modified appropriately. I did not find one--at least one that fit my budget. As I was on my bike at the time, it was pretty much a reconnaissance mission, anyway.
What I did find, though, were the tiny curling iron I'd been looking for ($1.99!) and a pair of practically new Anne Klein tan leather mary janes ($6.99!). Sweet action.
