Beginning of the end

Today I had my first final of spring quarter, and what better final should start off the whole trip than my global warming class?

I only took this class to fulfill the core requirement, as 98% of the other kids in the class did. My attendance reminded me of when I took psychology my senior year that began at the ungodly hour of 7 AM. The only demand I placed on myself was that I show up at least once a week. I think I fulfilled that quota pretty more or less for this class, but the only problem was that I actually knew someone in this class. In high school I was blissfully alone in the class, so I could slip in whenever I wanted to and wouldn't care when all the goodie goodies, who thought they would single-handedly be able to reform all the potheads and open up all the football players' true hearts around school because they were taking AP Psychology with a young! and pretty! teacher, would stare daggers at me for blasting light from outside on the power point presentation of sexual repression. So when we did happen to attend class the same day, there would be a whole lot of catching up to do.

In writing.

While the teacher was lecturing.




















The pigs with kites are covering up deep and intellectual conversations we carried on. The actual writing is all the note-taking I did in that class for the day.

Overall, though, I am happy I took this class. We read Elizabeth Kolbert's Field Notes of a Catastrophe, which was interesting, and well, I guess I won't go and get an SUV now.

The highlight of this class has been, however, the text book the teacher wrote for the class. In a desperate attempt to keep his students' attention at least at home, if he can't even get them to show up for most of his classes, David Archer injected his text book with wit and humor deserving of any stand-up comedian at the finest club in town. He also tried to achieve a homey, conversational tone of voice in his book, which, while heartwarming and inviting, did not do much to make me remember what the silicate weathering disaster was on Venus.

Let's have a look.
concerning the "rich, spectacular, wondrous chemistry" of carbon...
I scoff at the cliche from Star Trek, 'carbon-based life forms' spoken as though this were some sort of novel idea. Perhaps I am close-minded, lacking vision, but I have difficulty imagining life based primarily on any element other than carbon.

The biome response is strong there because the climate change is intense, because of (let's all say it together) the ice albedo feedback.

talking about the Larsen ice shelf...
If the blocks are taller than they are wide, they will have a tendency to tip sideways, expelling the rest of the blocks out to sea and provoking them to tip as well. Kablooey.
Kablooey indeed.

talking about gas compression...
Imagine a wall made of compressible bricks. A row of bricks is thinner at the bottom of the wall, because they are compressed. Batman climbing up the wall would pass more bricks per step at the bottom othan the top.
After laughing about this one for a while, the obvious question came up that why didn't he use a Spiderman analogy instead of Batman?

*long drawn out wheeze*

I was in Bonjour Bakery the other day reading (oh-HO! Don't I seem all unnecessarily intellectual and cool? (for some reason, saying I do homework in a coffee shop seems to me to be trying...so...so...hard... to be cool, so I cringe whenever I say it)) when I looked across the street at a scrolling thermometer at the top of a building.

"113 degrees" it said.

Obviously, broken. But not broken enough, because I was absolutely positive it could not be anything less than 118.

With a humidity index of about, oh, 146%.

Was supposed to post something important yesterday for a very important occasion. Shall do that after I make it through classes today.

How are you doing?

RUN everyone!

Everyday I come in to the room, I survey the bathroom, windows, drawers, closets, and shelves to make sure there are no dead bodies. I usually half expect either Mary Kate, Julie, or Kat to be strung up from one set of our now nearly-completely depleted Christmas lights as they desperately fought it out for the last roll of toilet paper.

Alas, never have I found their bodies. What WOULD have been more likely to be sitting quietly decomposing in our room would have been a wee little mouse that has allegedly been keeping us company for the past couple of weeks.

All we have managed to catch in the sticky trap so far is:

1. Dust
2. The top part of a mechanical pencil
3. Hair
4. Dirt
5. My toes
6. Paper towel bits
7. Someone's severed body (EVERYTHING'S more fun with dead bodies, right?)

Our method of catching a mouse has taken the following course:

1. I saw a mouse
2. I said "There's a mouse in the kitchen!"
3. Julie started wailing and nearly called the ASPCA on me when I suggested using rat poison instead of luring it out with...what else? CHEESE! BRILLIANT!

(It did not work. Because, come on, this isn't Tom and Jerry we're talking about.)

Then as the mouse started being spotted in different random places, the sticky traps have been moved to corresponding locations. By this time, the sticky traps look little better than 5 year old lint rollers, but no matter, we have FINALLY made it to about 2 feet away from the front door, so hopefully this mouse, which has seemingly been repelled by the sticky traps, will be propelled out the front door.

On Friday afternoon, I got to take care of Matthew and Ethan for a few hours while the parents were out to eat with the graduating seniors. Normally, this would have been the job of Juan José Lado.

Juan knows how to put together the slide game that is I swear is so intricate and so POORLY depicted that a physics major who just figured out how to get to another dimension would not be able to put it together. There are no ACTUAL directions. There is just the picture on the box which, what'll you know, is covered up by SMALLER pictures and wording exalting the child-friendliness and excitement of this game! Get the whole family together! Watch dad use all those words you had to cover your ears for in that one movie when he's trying to figure out if that red slide is actually the longer or the shorter one.

Sorry. I don't like giving up. Anyway...

Juan knows how to work the DVD player. Juan would give out 80,000 candies instead of just 4.

After exhausting all possibilities inside, including playing the game of "let's see how much mac and cheese you can fit on your fork," I decided the only move after that would be to adjourn outside at the playground. Not only are there not too many sharp corners outside, but there are also woodchips on the playground to douse in gasoline and light afire in case I need to get rid of any toddlers who annoy me.

So out to the playground I go. Ethan wants to play in the sandbox, Matthew wants nothing more than to climb up and down a staircase pretty far from the sandbox.

This is an honest question now: What are you supposed to do in this case? Is it ok to leave a 3-something year old kid alone in a sandbox with lots of other people around while you go and watch a 1-something year old laboriously heave himself up a staircase in another part of the playground? Are you supposed to NOT cater to both of their desires?

Because, guess what. I did. While Ethan amused himself in the sandbox, Matthew and I went over to the staircase, and I let him climb. And did he ever climb. I was kind of pissed off that I forgot my camera, because the photo opportunities were numerous. Already worried about his figure, Matthew was treating this staircase like it was the Stairmaster for Squirts. He had a little trouble at first, and there was a huge traffic jam while others clambered to go up the staircase, but he would determinedly put one foot in front of the other until he made it to the top. If I dared to help him at all, like boost him up a stair or two to hurry him along, he would kind of look at me like "GOD, don't you get what's going on here?", would return to where he was, and would step up on his own. After a mere 20 minutes, that child conquered the art of going UP stairs. Going down stairs was another matter entirely different. That took another good 30 minutes.

By the end, though, he was flying up and down those stairs like nobody's business. Woodchips churning, his legs a blur of speed, Matthew could charge at that staircase ferociously enough to strike fear in the heart of any jungle gym. After reaching the top and the bottom successfully, he would proudly turn to me and bellow out "YAAAAAAAAY!"

I was kind of surprised anyone was left at the playground. The macaroni and cheese we had for dinner had long since traveled through his digestive system and erupted into his diapers. However, ever conciliatory, and not particularly eager to change a diaper with atomic poop, I only took action until absolutely necessary. Namely, after 3 ladies asked me when I had him, how old he was, and after I noticed that Ethan's toys were fast becoming the communal sand box toys while he was cowering in a corner away from all those insane toddlers.

I grabbed Matthew by the waist, trying to hold him as far away as possible, because, dear God, the stench! while he flailed desperately to get ahold of any uncovered inch of skin on my body. Because he likes to touch bare skin, as Sarah clarified for me a different day. So there he was, desperately flailing up and down my shirt simultaneously as I tried to make sure his bottom was as far away as possible from me.

Thursday and part of Friday I had what I could only self diagnose by placing chocolate candy on my forehead to watch melt within 3 seconds as a fever. I guess not sleeping properly caught up to me for a little bit, because I felt like I had a plastic bag covering my face and every step I had to climb up a staircase felt like I was carried up into the atmosphere at least 50 feet, and the oxygen up there was fast thinning. Maybe it wasn't THAT bad, but well, I haven't been sick for a long while. Thursday I wanted nothing more than to take a bath and sleep. That turned into take a bath, nap and drool copiously, and do homework. Wa, wa.

I've been sitting for a while trying to figure out what exactly I want to say. God knows I don't frequently wish I could wear diapers or just be young enough to have everyone do everything for me to solve my problems, since I value the so-called independence I have now of deciding when to take a nap, or that I will indeed take responsibility for screwing up yet again on something. I guess what I wish would occur more is that I could simply solve someone's problems, or make someone feel better by simply being.

Here comes the running part. This is NOT me being maternal.

So I didn't really mind walking around a crowded playground with more skin that decent showing. Because Matthew felt better, and so did I.

Christ. This is one long post.

Couch potatoe (potato?)

Right back at you, Juan. And Mary Kate.

Maybe it's just the weather

I was sitting at a table outside today, trying to trick myself into thinking I was INDEED actually retaining the Global Warming material I was at the moment imagining to be an exhaust pipe when I heard a squishy, suspicious "PLOP" near me. Lo and behold, a bird poo had lodged itself right in between my drink and my notebook. Right smack dab in between the two items! Like this:













I don't think you guys comprehend the significance of this. Juan Jose Lado probably does.

This is the first time I've been minorly lucky in the face of the elements. Had this been any normal day, that piece of bird excrement would have been the size of a meteor and would have landed so hard on me it would have knocked the wind out of me. Had I been standing in a huge crowd, that feces would have singled me out and would have "honed in on me like a guided missile" (to use an expression from Match Point). This event prompted me to jump up and ask the nearest person if I had any sort of unmentionable on me, and receiving an answer in the negatory, I nearly skipped off to class.

My life has been going a lot like this lately. To make another completely appropriate parallel, when crossing 55th Street, occasionally there are no crosswalks, and pedestrians sort of hang out on the painted lines dividing the road in half. One step this way or that way would guarantee pedestrian pancake for the hungry drivers, and sometimes I feel like the drivers are just passing me by the stubble on their chins. I feel like I've been getting by in everything I do by the skin on my teeth, and I'm feeling pretty antsy about everything. I want the academics of the year to be over, but I'm not ready for the summer to start in earnest.

I wish I could either decide to panic or to play it cool.

Friends!

(01:50:31) piggyluver529: ok i'm sorry but i had to sign back online to tell you that i just took all my clothes out of the dryer and i found a poop bag in the dryer

(01:50:43) piggyluver529: i thought it was really funny so i had to sign back on and tell you

(01:50:54) GhibBby: eeeeeeeewwwwwwwwwwww

(01:51:00) GhibBby: did it have poop?

(01:51:07) piggyluver529: and i don't know which is more pathetic...me finding a poop bag in the dryer or signing back online to tell you about it

(01:51:11) piggyluver529: and no there was no poop in it

(01:51:18) piggyluver529: i dont put poop in my pocket silly

(01:51:31) GhibBby: well thank GOODNESS

(01:51:35) piggyluver529: but its one clean poop bag now

(01:51:45) piggyluver529: alright gotta go fold the clothes...talk to you later

(01:51:56) GhibBby: and your poop bags

(01:52:02) piggyluver529: yes exactly

(01:52:08) GhibBby: bye bye!



Stacy and I BOTH ran out of underwear AT THE SAME TIME. We BOTH had to wear the underwear you wouldn't want to see the light of day yesterday (Mine has frogs on it). We BOTH have to do copious amounts of dishes.

And we BOTH have to get lives.

Our Christmas lights are looking a little shabby lately

Sometimes you just know it's time to leave a place.

Today I happened to wander into my bedroom when I noticed, among other things (like my clothes of the week scattered around everywhere and my suitcase from my Boston trip still sitting delightfully unpacked right next to my bed), that our moon and star doorway strand fell and was scattered dejectedly on the ground. Then I sat down on the couch and I noticed that the burning lights to unburnt lights is about 1:18. And the ones that are burning are definitely on their way out.

All this means one thing: it's time to move out of housing.

(This could also mean that we're doing a very shabby job of housekeeping, but I really prefer to blame the elements and the gods on this one)

However. HOWEVER. Mary Kate, Julie, and I have NO PLACE TO LIVE NEXT YEAR.

Realizing this throughout odd parts of the day either consoles me or puts me into an extreme state of panic.

This is basically all that's happening in the Central Time Zone.

Watch this commercial. Tell me what's wrong with it.

It's the one of the girl blowing the dandelion.

Something for you to do, Agi, in between checking my blog obsessively.

Here are some pictures.















My sister is wearing a crown because of a dinner banquet-y thing we went to with her friends earlier in the evening. Joe is rolling his eyes because my sister just said something really girly. And Joe things girls have cooties.





























Yeah, yeah, we don't have to point out that the princess got all the looks in the family.















So pretty much all it did in Boston was rain.




















If you pretend you rotate the picture 90 degrees clockwise, it is right-side up. This is what I call engaging your audience in your pictures.




















Oh. Then it rained some more.















Food porn. Before















After.















Then I met this gentleman named Oliver Ousterhout. He sucks at the wishbone game, but other than that, he is very nice, clever, and very handsome to boot. Oh. And he takes very, very nice pictures.

I'll send the pictures to my sister one of these days.

Ugh, my life is going to be miserable until the end of school. But fret not! I've been ok so far.

Because Mozart liked Mexican

Even though I clearly have problems at work, and I have given everyone who works there ample opportunity to be properly annoyed with me, the three ladies who run UCP decided to take everyone out to dinner. Which is very nice, because the hardest thing I've done recently is lick many envelopes shut. In fact, enough envelopes to make me salivate at the sight of any envelope, much like those dogs Pavlov had conditioned to salivate at the ring of a bell.

So, here are some pictures. For you to enjoy.











































Here, Alex is explaining the benefits of xerox-ing HIS way. Making tha face IS necessary in the process.

Gadgets and gizmos a-plenty

There is one redeeming aspect of air travel, and it's not the oversalted peanuts, the flushes with the strength to expunge an entire nation, nor the conveniently located begrimed seat pockets in front of you with the emergency evacuation information.

It's the SkyMall magazine.

This is the place to go if you want to find clothes hangers that will automatically morph to whatever clothes you hang upon it. I'm sure you could easily find a desk that has a built-in thermometer in the legs, and also a closet that automatically becomes invisible when a dead body is put into it. You can find stuff like these:






































Both of these items are ridiculously expensive, but RIDICULOUSLY COOL, NO? I LOVE THAT FISHBOWL! The minute I have lots of money to splurge (which means I would be travelling nonstop) I will have a palazzo in Venice furnished entirely with products from SkyMall magazine.

The winners for my Boston trips are these:

















This is a blanket. You buy this blanket for $99.99, zip yourself up in it, and in addition to looking like the Yeti, being unable to run away from any terrorist that might be aboard the plane, and having a very serious problem on your hands if you have the runs, you can travel in style, and EVERYONE will wonder "Where did he get that awesome blanket? Lands alive he looks cozy!" What would make this blanket complete is if it were inflatable and people could just use you as a life raft in an emergency situation.

Next we have:




















I dont know if you see it, but the standard size toilet seat is $79.99. That's probably the most expensive toilet seat I'd ever sit on. But it might be worth it, because what with all the designs on it, you would never have to clean it again. It's not like you could very easily tell if it's dirty or not, and the guests would hardly notice in the split second it takes them to sit down. Plus, if you were anything like me when I was a kid and I refused to go to the bathroom, taking one look at this toilet seat would propel me into it. Or into the other direction. Whatever direction I'd go in, it would surely have gotten some bowel movement from me. Get cultured WHILE sitting on the pot! What would make THIS item complete would be if all the designs were actually three-dimensional. Then you could have Egyptian hieroglyphs branded onto your butt after every trip to the bathroom, and isn't that what everyone who travels with United want?

Because I'm not going to sleep before my flight to Chicago

I present to you:

The Many Faces of a College Graduate

(This is an entirely self-indulgent post born when Agi was writing an e-mail and I was waiting for her. Please disregard the TERRIBLE, TERRIBLE frizzy, thinning hair. Boston weather does not have much mercy on it, but it's not like it's ever seen better days)















The sad college graduate















The wondering college graduate















The surprised college graduate
















The blissful college graduate















The goofy college graduate















The annoyed college graduate















The curious college graduate















The yawning college graduate















The pissed off college graduate















The distracted college graduate















The indifferent college graduate

I like to eat avocados while clad solely in my bra and underwear

Congratulations to everyone who plowed through the entirety of my previous post. I had plenty of time to fry in the airport, and then some, so that means after I finished typing, I went around to various other travelers and asked them to hold my bag for me, just for a sec, to see what their reactions would be.

I'm sitting in my sister's now more-empty-than-usual apartment, eating the majority of the contents of a jar of strawberry preserves. I am eating the strawberry jam with the end of a pen. I am doing this because only AFTER I had spied the jar of jam sitting in the fridge, AFTER I had skipped joyfully over to what should have been the eating utensil drawer, and AFTER I opened the drawer did I realize we had already packed up the eating utensils. However, that was far too late in the game to let something silly like having no spoon stand between me and a jar of jam, or stand between me and near-perfect bliss. Hence my not so traditional approach to eating a jar of jam.

It seems like this should be my sister's job, this sitting in a more-empty-than-usual apartment, eating junk food contemplatively while surrounded by the spoils of 4 years of college packed up in 18x18 nondescript brown boxes, but I'm filling in the role temporarily with the unique perspective of a younger sister reflecting on what the hell happened to the girl she used to sport spandex bike shorts with.

Packing up my sister's stuff made me feel in a way that I was packing up the stuff of a stranger. I realized my big sister did quite a bit of growing up while I wasn't around. I still recognized things, like her stuffed animals, but the rest was no longer the stuff of my big sister, but more the stuff of a young lady. Granted, this is all comparative, I know she still has a ton of growing to do, but from my standpoint as a second year in college and with the ever-growing dread that I in fact have undergone absolutely no development since sophomore year of high school, the transformation was nearly stupefying.

This feeling, while occasionally liberating and soothing, deluding myself into believing that someone will always be there to explain to me exactly what that clause means in that tax form, is scary at the same time. Although I have liked to consider myself more or less able to stand on my own two feet in certain things, on other terrain I know I am woefully unstable. I can point someone in the direction of the best discoteca in Madrid, I could, if need be, approach any stranger to talk about why I think the sun came up that day, I can go grocery shopping for an entire week, but I still can't seem to shake the feeling that all this is just an elaborate role I created for myself while I was just trying to seem like someone else.

Where is this going now?

Agi did some major redecoration while my back was turned. She's still the same Agi, but from here on out, and evidently since a while back, probably since she left for college, she's started something that I won't be a part of. That doesn't mean the more familiar part of her is gone, but it does mean that the roles I created for me and her have to change.

Agi does this now? She had this for homework? My sister went to this movie? My sister wears this lacey bit now? She can pull this off? When did this happen? How come? More importantly, how come I can't?

In short, this seems like a fitting sort of entry for my sister's graduation which she will never read. Agi, congratulations. You've got some qualities I wish I could have, but I know you feel like you're deficient in other things. I would be lying if I said you're perfect the way you are. Perfect for me, but not so perfect to face everyone else not helping you pack up your boxes. If you feel like something's missing and others don't, then the only thing that will fix that is if you fix it yourself. And I guess that's where after-college comes in. Good luck with everything.

Sorry I ruined your pen. I can give you another.

Evidence #89043214 proving United Airlines suckage

If you’ve read far enough on this blog, you would have discovered that United Airlines and I have a long-standing history of rubbing each other the wrong way. Every time I leave for a trip, I arrive at the airport with an open mind, saying to myself “THIS will be a good flight. I am going to a cool place, I will see astounding place, I will meet wonderful people, and I will be drunk 50% of the time wherever it is I’m going.”

That last part, well, it’s not true.

And every…blessed…time….United lets me down. And people tell me I’m too cynical and insecure. It’s because of major money making corporations like these that I am the way I am today. It’s because of corrupt oil companies that I think I’m going to fail every class I take, it’s because of Kraft that I believe everyone is judging me constantly, and it’s because of United I feel like everyone talks behind my back.

Anyhow…moving on from that digression…

My flight, which was supposed to leave at 8:45 PM, is now scheduled to leave at 11 PM, and I would be willing to bet money that it’s going to be delayed at least one more time before we actually take off.

This in itself did not bother me. I mean, great, hurray, my flight is delayed more than an hour, whatever, but it’s the PEOPLE, everyone THE PEOPLE WHO DROVE ME INSANE.

Digression 2: In which Adrianna Klara Gyorfi steals the osteoporosis pills of an old woman and uses said old lady as a luggage belt to hold multiple suitcase together

When I was standing in security for 45 minutes, I had ample time to observe everyone around me.

Behind me was the nameless OLD Russian couple who seemed to think they could Russianly cut in front of me and would impatiently Russianly prod me with Russian suitcases for me to move forward 2 inches.

It turned out they didn’t check any of their baggage in and they had to go back to check-in at the last minute. SUCKERS.

In front of me was the jolly German family with the ugly baby visiting the ebullient immigrant family in American, and took about 95 pictures while they were in the security line of their ebullient immigrant family waving from the exit. The jolly German family with the ugly baby, as opposed to the OLD Russian couple, did not seem to think it was necessary to move at all until there was enough space in between them and the people in front of them to accelerate a VW 1978 bug up to 90 MPH.

We got to a security belt, but I happened to be the first unlucky victim to be told that security belt was closed, and for me to “merge” with another line.

“Merging” for me signifies a give-and-take relationship, a cooperative relationship. You let me in when I signal, I will flash you a 100% genuine CA Listerined and Crest whitening stripped smile, I will wave to you, and we will both move on happy. Me, because you have let me in, you, because I have bestowed upon you the only gift a stranger could give you: a smile.

Unfortunately, standing 45 minutes doesn’t put people in a better mood. In fact, people turn into monsters when they are loaded down by luggage and they’re asked to wait for 45 minutes. I believe that horror movie script writers got their best material for movies while standing uncomfortably in lines for longs periods of time, I think serial killers got started on their rampages because they had to wait in lines at airports, and I think in part terrorists also only make their bombs because they are forced to wait for up to an hour in some stupid line at airports, and in that amount of time with nothing to do, you have enough time to construct a small-scale nuclear bomb or discover the cure for HIV, as far as I’m concerned.

So I tried “merging.” I tried merging like a goddamn professional (making eye contact, executing the standard “please let me in” moves), like I was born with the “merging” gene, and an old, crotchety woman puts her hands on her hips and tells me:

“Nuh-uh. YOU’RE not cutting. I’VE been waiting in line for half an hour.”

I might have let this slide by had the old woman been an old man. I have this thing in my head where all old men, if they’re mean to me, are really actually nice. But when a member of my own sex starts acting ungracefully and like authenticated bitches, my defense mechanisms automatically get switched on, and I just have the desire to prove them wrong, because I’M right, and well, didn’t your mother teach you better?

Just as a side note, I like old men better than old women.

“I’ve been waiting in line just as long as you,” says I, and I was gratified to hear a sort of “YEAH!” behind me, from the people who were also being forced to “merge.”

“YOU’RE NOT CUTTING IN FRONT OF ME!” says the woman again.

I start putting my stuff onto the table because frankly, I didn’t want to deal with the woman. I was asked to merge with other lines, and I damn well WAS going to merge whether the woman let me in or not.

After some more harping, the security guards come over to the woman’s wails and tearing of the hair behind me, telling me I wasn’t being “fair”, and the security man tells her “They have to merge.”

Then the husband of the witch starts in with “BUT THAT’S NOT FAIR,” and the security guard says “If you don’t like it, talk to my supervisor.”

And of COURSE, since the old man can’t resist proving the security man wrong, he asks for the supervisor.

So the supervisor, a tall, cowboyish sort of man, strolls over and says “You’ve been taking orders from your boss for 30 years now, right? Just let them MERGE.”

And that’s the story of how I came to be “merged.”

Digression 3: In which Adrianna Klara Gyorfi discovers that karma does exist.

Then I went to get a sandwich.

I waited for my sandwich for 20 minutes because the people never really actually got around to make my sandwich. Because I just imagined using an old woman as a pin cushion.

So before I started writing this entry, I read Rory Kelly’s blog, in which he recounts his top 10 life-changing books. I wanted to do this. Then I realized that the only books I could recall at the moment were the ones with shiny covers and pages.

In other words, lately, if I were to create my top ten life-changing books, it would include issues of Vogue, Cosmopolitan, and Self.

So now I have a mere hour to go before my plane theoretically takes off. I’m going to Bahston to see my sister arrayed in her graduation robe garbery, and then I’ll see if Joe Jerome and Oliver Ousterhout will make good on their promise to take me out.

I think it’s swell that my sister is graduating and I would here insert some sort of a long and insightful interlude about moving forward in the world, making it through 4 academically and emotionally challenging years in one piece, and golly-gee, my sister is nearly a grown-up now, but I’m not in any condition to make the aforementioned statements.

In fact, what I want to do most right now is to stretch out on these faux-leather seats and call it a day, because I know what I have to look forward to at the Boston airport is more rain and the very real possibility that my luggage won’t arrive.

True Love

My mom called me today 4 times within the span of an hour, each time frantically informing me that her face was falling off. Then we went to an apartment. There was a dog. Julie thought it was nice, but Mary Kate thought it was stupid. Kat has glasses. Mary Kate was pretty much correct. The apartment was nice and I am telling Mum to totally BUY THAT SHIT. So she will. And that's where I'll live. I think I will go pluck my eyebrows now. LATERZ.

That was an interlude written by Mary Kate.

Observe: she is an ENGLISH major, yet still managed to write "LATERZ."

LOOZER.

Back to the scheduled program.

All in all, Mary Kate just gave away the surprise.

Yes, my mom did surprise me. She and 2 of her college roommates are driving all over America letting their hair down and frequenting seedy roadside bars blasting the hits of the 70s at 4 AM each night.

So without further ado, let's get to the pictures. Yes, some of them HAVE been fiddled with, but only because they were too dark, and now they look funny. Much like the pictures my sister sticks up onto facebook after they've been mangled with on photoshop to look "artsy" and probably to hide all the zits she has on her face (JUST KIDDING! Her skin is as smooth as a baby's butt). I never realized how challenging it is to translate menus into comprehendable Hungarian.















ala Mary Kate English talk: Good, Gooder, Goodest. Guess which one is my mom.















There she is! Behind that ginormous camera!















Bad, badder, baddest. In 30 years, we'll be like the ladies sitting across the tables from us.





























So people measure a mother's love in various ways. Some people determine it by how long they were breastfed, by how often their mother did their laundry, by how many times they'll made a speacial peanut butter and jelly sandwich instead of a ham one, and by for how long they tolerated cutting the crust off of Wonderbread.

I don't. My mother's love for me is demonstrated exclusively by the number of jars of jams she gets me. This trip's grand total was TWO...WHOLE...JARS: the ones on the edges. This is a huge feat for my mom, acknowleding that I have a love affair with jams, because when she caught me swooning over a jar of jam at home with a spoon in hand and slobber trailing from the refrigerator to the corner I was standing in, she nearly used me as a battering ram to knock down a brick wall before she decided I would make a better human torch instead. These jars of jam are MINE, and I will proudly announce that I have double dipped from all THREE of those jars of jam sitting there.

TAKE NOTE: I DOUBLE DIP IN JAM. I resist nutella, peanut butter, salad dressings, and frosting, but not jam.

Unless I make a very special exclusion for some very special people.

We have nothing to eat here

Sunday: last concert of the year
Today: ate last edible items in our room, which may or may not have included assorted limbs and appendages of roommates.

Here are some pictures from the last concert.









































































































I have nothing to add. It's been that sort of an evening.