Category Archives: navel gazing

Blargh, Blog

So, it turns out that graduate school is not conducive to blogging.

It’s not because grad school life is busy (though it sometimes is) or because writing for class leaves me less than eager to write anything else during my down time (though it sometimes does). It’s because, since I started school full-time, I no longer seem to have anything interesting to share with y’all. I’ve lost track of current events, music, and the more interesting corners of the interwebs as I’ve baked my brain into an academic jelly that, much like the meat-filled Jell-O casserole below, is filled with all sorts of weird crap that I suspect we’d all rather not talk about too much.

If sadness were a food.

Don’t get me wrong. I love school. I just haven’t quite figured out how to do it full-time while maintaining the fun, non-school things that make me feel like a relatively functional member of the greater universe. But I will! In the meantime, please accept my horrible picture of a 1960s meat and gelatin casserole as a conciliatory offering.

(Photo courtesy of’s “The Institute of Regrettable Cheer,” which is quite possibly my favorite site on THE ENTIRE INTERNET. If you’ve never wasted full mornings or afternoons perusing its pages of epically bad American kitsch, consider this tip Conciliatory Offer #2.)


one down…

"I miss videogames."

As of yesterday at 4:33pm, I am officially done with my first semester of my PhD program.  My reactions to the semester:

  1. Holy crap, that was a lot of work.
  2. Holy crap, my professors are smart.
  3. Holy crap, I get a whole month off now.

Celebration consisted of mole-drenched enchiladas and several episodes of Parks and Recreation. Then Ty put on some fantasy movie from the early ’80s called either Ragewar or The Dungeonmaster in which some dude with a computerized wristband and a foam suit of armor had to complete 7 feats devised by the evil wizard Mestema (aka: Bull from Night Court) in order to save his really annoying girlfriend from an undisclosed but implicitly horrible fate.

I made it all the way to feat 5 before I fell asleep. Which is sort of a feat in itself, am I right?

Old frocks for the old gal.

Someone’s fella got her the gift of vintage shopping for her birthday.

Guess who's going to be a '50s housefrau for Halloween this year?

A week or two back, I wandered into this little consignment shop on Hope Street called Act II on my way home from class. Now that I’m officially a poor grad student, I’m relegated to the role of window shopper, and that was all I was planning to do; it’s rare I find something in a shop that I really love and that fits and flatters me, so I mostly just visit because I love poring through the cool old clothes.

But, as the fates would have it, on this day of no-exceptions window shopping, I found two–yes, two–perfect dresses in my size. One was Audrey Hepburn via 1964; the other was Mary Tyler Moore during her old TV series. Both were given to the store by the same classy lady who conveniently seems to share my measurements, fashion sense, and, ah, shortness.

I was a good girl and put them back on the rack, but I did enough yapping when I got home that my fabulous manperson brought me to the shop this afternoon to pick out my birthday present. Sweetness! The two dresses had been sold (cue sadness), but the two lovely ladies working there got behind my birthday story and threw every other cute-vintage-short-person dress they could find at me until I tried this one on and fell in love.

The blurry iPhone shot really doesn’t do it justice. It’s an absolute beauty, with a sweet little bow belt and a full double skirt. And, just like the other dresses that my anonymous benefactor gave to the shop, it fits perfectly.

The only thing better than a beautiful vintage dress is a beautiful vintage dress that fits you beautifully, too.


Holy Moly, We Moved, Pt 2: Getting Here, or Breaking and Entering

So much space. And yet...

There’s nothing like filling a 26-foot U-Haul, one flatbed truck, and two sedans to hammer home the fact that you own a lot of shit, except maybe filling all those vehicles only to realize there’s no room left for your two sad little houseplants.

Thank goodness we had an army of kick-ass friends who came out to help load all of it, a small fleet of die-hards who rode on up with us in all those extra vehicles, and more kick-ass friends to help on the New England side of things. It almost made moving weekend into a big party, except with Advil instead of alcohol.

It took around nine hours for our little convoy to traverse the 400 or so miles. A month later, a few things stand out in my mind: 1) There are no good radio stations in Connecticut; 2) Saturday night is a bad time to attempt traveling through NYC; and 3) I should have just gotten the fried chicken at the rest stop like I wanted.

Also, Dan is a saint for driving my Miss Daisy arse halfway up the East Coast. I tried really hard not to doze off in the passenger’s seat on you, Dan. But Connecticut’s hypnotic dullness extends even to its chunk of highway.

The only wrench that was thrown in the works was the fact that, when we pulled up to our place around 1:30 in the morning, we couldn’t find the key the contractor left for us under the mat. This was because it wasn’t there, a fact that it took ten minutes of frantic looking and at least three pen lights to ascertain. Luckily, this issue was soon resolved when Ty found an unlocked window in the back of the house (um, thank-goodness-and-also-WTF?) to hoist me through.

It was not a graceful maneuver.

Next up… Part III: This Old House, or The Money Pit

Holy Moly, We Moved, Pt 1: Packing

Packing is one of those tasks that I forget how much I hate until I find myself doing it again. The one exception to this is the kitchen, since, from move to move, I remember quite vividly how much I despise packing box after box of breakable shit. You don’t realize what a genuinely retarded number of beer glasses you have until you have to wrap each one in newspaper before nestling it in a bed of styrofoam peanuts that you can only hope will keep it in one piece as it travels 400 miles in the back of a 30 foot monster U-Haul truck.

Despite my hatred, I volunteered to do the kitchen this time around in an inadequate attempt to balance out the fact that Ty had about ten times more belongings to pack than I did. And, while it did suck, there were a few saving graces:

  1. I packed everything with old issues of The Onion. Random howls were unleashed at irregular, often frequent intervals.
  2. The kitchen was air-conditioned.
  3. Just kidding!
  4. It allowed me to avoid packing little painted miniatures.
  5. I unearthed some fun shit in there. Such as:

Exhibit A: the Chinese Take-Out Condiment Bag, which we have been adding to for the past four years

Exhibit B: The Rapcat Paper Bag Kitten Jersey, which was at the center of one of my favorite controversies of 2007

What controversy you say?

Next up… Part II: Getting Here, or, Breaking and Entering

Ibubrofen and Ice

I just got back from my first 12 mile run since I ran my marathon seven years ago.

It feels really good. Except that it doesn’t.


The number of teacups that I own has officially reached a point at which it can be called a collection.

Some might argue that teacups are a bad thing for a clumsy person to collect. These people would meet the wrath of my shaking fist.

My most recent poopsies.