I will not ever be a journalist, even if it is your birthday wish.

Happy Birthday to Sr. Birdman, who turns...older...today.

I know what M4 got you. I'm not telling, but it's cooooool. And when I say "I'm not telling," I probably still mean "I'll tell if you really want," like I did when I was four.

You know, according to my English prof, you shouldn't write more than a page an hour.

I just wrote 14 in 3 hours. That's some crap on a page, right there.

Halfway between Never-Never Land and Utopia

I finally received my placement information for the Austrian Adventure. I'll be living in the village of Stegersbach, in the Burgenland. Don't tell me you've heard of it, because you haven't, unless I've already told you about it. Only 2,395 people live there.

Does it have a castle? It certainly does.

Anyway, important things to know about Stegersbach. It is about 120 km south of Vienna, on the far eastern side of the country. Only 70 km from the border with Hungary. It is home to Austria's first (and hopefully only) economic school with an emphasis on golf sports. Not coincidentally, it's the home of the largest golf resort in Europe—45 holes on 190 ha. Also has some fine thermal baths and is in the heart of Austrian wine country. Evidently 300 days of sunshine per year equals good grapes. Stegersbach is home to Austria's first helical church, for you architecture buffs.

So that's where I'll be, kiddos. If I survive finals.

Finals update

I hate everybody and everything in the world. Special "oustanding achievement in the field of uselessness" award to my thesis advisor.

Things my cat eats that she probably shouldn't:

egg salad
paper
mozzarella cheese
mint chocolate chip ice cream
roaches
spaghetti sauce
caulk
butter

She also chews on electrical cords and drinks out of the toilet. Needless to say, I don't like it when she tries to lick my face in the morning.

M4 and I spent an entire vacation crushing my brother's head between our index fingers and thumbs because he was so irritating, but we had to be in a car with him 16 hours a day.

I've read a fair number of romance books (I know, it's embarrassing, we're moving on), and they always freak out about finally saying "I love you." What's the deal with that? "I love you" is relatively easy to say. What's hard is "I love you but you are making me homicidal."

M3 and I have been discussing this for the past hour, and neither of us has a clue about how to tell someone you love that they just make you want to squish her head, and not in that Kids-in-the-Hall-joke way. It's hard to do without feeling self-centered, because essentially you're saying, "Pay attention to my needs, you selfish brat! Gah!" but you don't want to hurt his feelings, even though he probably deserves it. On the other hand, if you don't speak up, things are never going to get any better.

So if you've got any advice...spill.

Sumer is icumen in—loudly sing cuckoo!

Louder, dammit. Sing, ya bastards!

I have big plans for this summer. You've seen my reading list, and I promise you that's just the merest hint of the fun looming on the horizon.

This summer is my last Houston hurrah, at least the way things look now. I want to make the most of it. I plan to work and read and apply to grad school, of course, but I also want to:

go tubing (Houston kids, stay posted for further info).

improve my German.

cheer on the Astros at Minute Maid. Perhaps I will even condescend to eat a hot dog.

take a road trip.

have a cookout. The essence of summer is dining al fresco.

attend a concert.

spend multiple days doing nothing of import.

buy a new computer. Not exactly a summer activity, but fun!

go berry picking.

make pie from said berries.

I'm sure other such wholesome activities will pop into my brain, and I will want to do them as well. Attendence is required to get your participation grade, so be sure to know when you're available for summer fun. It's going to be an idyll. A halcyon idyll.

Red-letter day

It's been a good day thus far, and it's only two p.m. I had my last classes as a Rice student (bonus for mild intoxication), my new watch came in the mail, and my computer at work was finally upgraded. Later I'm going shoe shopping before finals set in tomorrow. The weather is sunny and cheerful. Life is good. I'm a sap.

Warning: Rated PG-13 for Language and Innuendo and EG for English Geekiness

I have to say, this is about the funniest thing I've seen in forever. The Milne and Hemingway send-ups are particularly priceless. "Woke up. Shot breakfast. Damn neighbors mouthing off about the noise again. Shot neighbors." Yeah you did, Earnest.

"We're going to have to remove that frontal lobe before your thesis defense, ma'am."

I had to help my professors show a film clip today in class. I don't know what it is, but it seems like getting a humanities Ph.D. blocks all practical knowledge of how technology works. Neither of the professors could get the DVD into the DVD drive, click on the DVD player in the cleverly labeled menu, and hit play. I saw them having trouble and asked, "There isn't a DVD player under the menu?" Dr. M. looked at me in all seriousness and said, "Menu?"

Now, I know this man has a computer in his office. I know his cohort—who, after watching me put the DVD in the drive, couldn't get it back out—has one as well. I have seen both of them type on said computers. These are smart, smart guys, and they've been trained to use the classroom equipment. However, they were outclassed by an English major who uses her virus-infected HP P.O.S. for papers and chatting and nothing else. Standing up there, clicking like a trained monkey, I thought to myself: "When I'm a Ph.D., I'm going to make one student be my technology bitch all semester, and it'll just seem like I can't be bothered. I'll still be hip." And then I realized: yeah, not so much of the hip to start with.

And my first name is evidently "Insanity"

In between checking and entering and a multitude of other tasks today at work, I've been surfing English grad school websites. I'm trying to compile a (revised) list of places to which I'm going to apply this summer, so I can have somewhere to go when I get back to Austria. Evidently, "long-range planning" is my middle name.

Anyway, the thing that's frustrating me. I'm investigating rather competetive schools, and they won't give me a profile of a successful applicant, damn them. They're all coy, like, "here's what you need to do to apply, but secretly we're never going to let you in—we just want the application fee." I need to know if my GRE score and grades are high enough, or if I need to be Wile E. Coyote, SUPER Genius.

Schools currently under consideration, if you're interested (and want to put your 2¢ in): Berkeley, University of Illinios Urbana-Champaign, Notre Dame, University of Chicago, University of Virginia, Johns Hopkins, Nebraska, Iowa.

I'm just bitter because my chocolate rabbit melted in transit.

What's with Easter and the weird candy? Peeps and Cadbury Creme Eggs (mmm, mucus) and black jelly beans: all gross. Eggums? Not normal. And what about those chocolate rabbits that are hollow? How upsetting is that? "I'll buy five inches of chocolate—except half of it isn't there. Hey, that's a stellar deal!"

I'm ready for Halloween. Normal candy and heathen practices, the way God intended.

Things that I almost certainly will not read, but firmly intend to as of this moment:

May I present my summer reading list.

Children of the Storm by Elizabeth Peters

Summerland by Michael Chabon

Confessions of a Dangerous Mind by Chuck Berris

The Satanic Verses by Salman Rushdie

Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix by J.K. Rowling

Name of the Rose by Umberto Eco

The Nanny Diaries by Emma McLaughlin and Nicola Kraus

Running with Scissors by Augusten Burroughs

Shoeless Joe by W.P. Kinsella

Ender's Game by Orson Scott Card

Blue Highways by William Least-Heat Moon

Der Bleichtrommel by Günter Grass

Wives and Daughters by Elizabeth Gaskell

The Cheese Monkeys by Chip Kidd

If you have suggestions for additions, I'm definitely amenable.

Special headwear optional for fertility rites and resurrections

Somehow, and I'm not quite sure how this came to be, Easter is the holiday of ridiculous headgear. Men are mostly free of this vile trend, but women and children get stuck wearing cutesy little straw hats with ridiculous bows that they wouldn't wear for a MILLION dollars any other day of the year. I especially despise little boys being stuck in those stupid pseudo-sailor hats. You know the kid hates it, why bother? Even dogs aren't immune.

Here is the thing. Santa hats at Christmas I can kind of understand; it's cold out (you know, if you live somewhere with seasons), the hat is stocking-caplike, it's all good. But Easter? You wear the hat to church and to brunch, neither of which takes place outside in the direct sunlight. You're just blocking people's view in church, and nobody likes a view-blocker. Hats off.

Dear M!: Thanks for not using the spray bottle; hope those bruises on your arm heal quickly.

I don't do well with horror movies. At all. I don't like being scared, and I'm extremely susceptible to the tension of screechy string music and stupid weaponless girls sneaking around abandoned houses by themselves at night with a serial killer on the loose. Frankly, I don't feel one whit sorry about their gruesome, horrible deaths.

Anyway, knowing all this, knowing an episode of Star Trek: The Next Generation once had me curled up and whimpering on the living room floor while my parents laughed, I lost my mind last night and convinced the Ms to rent The Ring with me.

This is perhaps the scariest movie ever. And I didn't even see the really scary parts, because I was hiding behind a throw pillow, with M3 clutching one hand and M! trying to disengage the other from around his bicep. (If you haven't seen it and want to, stop reading here.) Dude, that creepy, evil girl climbs out of a T.V. She could climb out of your T.V.! Samara knows your telephone number, and in seven days, she'll just scare you right to death! She just wants to keep killing, for no reason at all. I could be next! Thank God we watched the DVD version and not a tape, or I would have been incoherent.

I realize, in the bright light of day, that this isn't very probable. However, at 11:30 p.m. with the wind blowing the trees about threateningly, it seems like it just might happen. Especially when M!, the kid who isn't scared of anything, is babbling a little, and M3 keeps asking if I want to sleep on the couch, like she's going to show me the movie again so she can be free of its curse and I can start scratching my face out of photos.

Next time I go to Blockbuster, I promise I won't laugh when M3 suggests The Carebears Movie II.

She was afraid of thunder and she wouldn't eat raw vegetables

I miss my dog. She's been dead for seven years and I still miss her.

We got her when I was three, and that's the first clear memory that I have. Of anything. I got to pick her out, and I don't remember why I chose her, but I remember that I loved her floppy, silky puppy ears and her eyes that were brown just like mine.

She was almost perfect. Sure, she ate my dad's ducks (they clogged up the spring in the backyard, so good riddance, I say) and hated all UPS men, but she was loyal and protective and good with kids. My brother and I used to go on long walks—"journeys" to the mailbox a mile away at the end of the lane—and B.R. would always have to be half a length in front. If you tried to walk in front of her, she would trot ahead, back legs not quite in line with the front, tail wagging. She liked to swim.

She died when I was fifteen, I think, of old age. I was in high school, busy and inattentive, and, I know now, scared of it. I remember my parents taking care of her when she was too sick to go outside, too sick to stand up. I didn't ever see her when she was like that, but every time I think of her, it kills me that I didn't—that I didn't do anything, and I didn't see her, and now she's gone. She's buried in the backyard at my parents' house, guarded by St. Francis and scattered pansies. I avoid that corner of the lawn when I'm home.

Someone told me last year, after I told her about my wonderful golden lab, that someday I would want another dog. No, I thought, I won't.

I already have one.

Tonight I had mint chocolate chip ice cream and strawberries for dinner

and really, I feel fine about that.

Thesis update

Rough draft finished. Not kidding about the rough, but if you would like to whore your editing skills, I could probably make you a decent deal involving cookies, alcohol, or whatever your little heart desires (you know, within reason).

The thesis is 46-48 pages long right now, no intro, no conclusion, and missing a few pieces of research information here and there. Never let it be said that I am not verbose. Academia, here I come.

Things that will never, ever happen, list two (fictional characters edition)

Now with explanations!

Mr. Darcy from Pride and Prejudice. He refuses to waste his time with stupid people, and you gotta admire that. Also, he turns out to have a heart of gold and a HUGE mansion, which is always a plus.

Crash Davis from Bull Durham. The "I believe" speech alone is enough to get me all hot and bothered. And baseball is always sexy.

Calvin O'Keefe from Madeleine L'Engel's A Wrinkle in Time and subsequent books. He is so sweet to Meg that I can't help but love him. Highly intelligent, as well.

Radcliffe Emerson, blustering hero of The Crocodile on the Sandbank by Elizabeth Peters (check her out, if you haven't; great, funny mysteries). He's a nineteenth-century archaeologist whose nickname is "The Father of Curses." Hot.

Dr. Cox from Scrubs. I am hopelessly in love with this guy. Just the right amount of evil, and cute, too (I realize it's really John C. McGinley, but go with me on this). Curly hair is adorable, as is smirking.

Also-rans: Hawkeye Pierce from M*A*S*H, Benedick from Much Ado About Nothing, Batman, Spock (inner geek then ruthlessly mocked until it cried), J.D. from Scrubs, and Fred & George Weasley from Harry Potter.

All right. Bring it, people.

On letting things go:

Man, I hate people who play favorites when they're supposed to be impartial. Especially when they act like they like you and then secretly tank you in deliberations.

For T., who should be working on her thesis and not reading other people's blogs:

I like to be the pot who calls the kettle black.

I went to Goodwill today on a break from homework, and had an all-around good time. There's no Goodwill store close to my house, so I had to drive to one in B.F.E. all by myself. I felt very brave and independent, and I found it on the first try. As I pulled in to the parking lot, I actually said to myself, "Who's a badass? I'm a badass." Clearly, I need to do more things on my own.

Anyway, Goodwill is a plethora of treasures, but more importantly, it's a good place to practice saying, "What the hell were you thinking?" I had to resist buying a lot of stuff just so I could take it to my friends and say, "Can you believe somebody actually bought this once? Uh, I mean...." For example, there was one very fine black tulle dress with paper flowers glued to it. Terribly tempting, but not my size. There was a plastic jewelry box shaped like Flounder from The Little Mermaid, a red T-shirt that said "Weiners on Telephone Road," and a blue snakeskin belt with a buckle the size of my palm. The book section alone was the most informative thing I've read all week. I learned that the apocalypse is coming (if you're not Baptist, you're evidently screwed), the Atkins diet works, I can learn to speed read in under a week, and, that "nice girls do." That last was an actual title.

In the end I bought a grey tank top and four children's books. The most exciting one is called Me Too Iguana, which I have been looking for in aeons so I can show my friends. They are always confused as to why I use the phrase "me too, iguana," to sympathize, and now I can prove that I didn't just make it up. Jacquelyn Reinach did.

Yeah, my thesis is never getting done.

Things that will never, ever happen, list one*

Everybody should have a list of the top five celebrities that they get a "free pass" with should the opportunity ever come up. If you don't know what I mean, just...don't worry about it. My list, in no particular order:

Zach Braff

Peter Krause

Prince William

Jon Stewart

Hugh Jackman

Yours?

*Coming soon, list two (fictional characters edition), and list three (time-travel edition)

I do miss puddle-jumping a great deal

Got a phone call from an old...from a person I've known for a long time today. Complicated relationship, complicated story, water under the bridge.

Water under the bridge.

Strange to be able to say that and really mean it now, or at least mean to mean it. I would have gone to see him at the airport if it had been possible, but his layover is too short and the drive is too long. Besides, I think the phone conversation proved, by becoming a little awkward after only six minutes, that we don't have anything that pressing to chat about. Better to keep the interactions short and not risk any deeper feeling. That aspect of our relationship is gone, and I don't miss it. It was nice, but it has no place in my life now—it would be like missing the red rubber Winnie the Pooh boots I wore every day when I was three. They were great and fun and cute, but there's no way they would fit on my feet anymore, and I would feel silly trying to make them work.

It's okay. I don't have to.

Beisból has been berry berry good to me:

Watched the home team get their 30th win in a row tonight (8-0 over A&M), plus Sinisi hit two home runs in the game, so everybody who was there gets free ice cream at Stucchi's tomorrow. T. and I will be attending that, to be sure. Also the debut of the shirts harassing T.'s boyfriend, the team catcher. Mine says "#12 is my rally monkey."

Rice baseball is soooooo better than studying, which I clearly did not do. I'm about to, though, because what do I want to do tomorrow night? Go to the baseball game. Thank goodness they're going out of town on Friday.

Things that have made my day (besides the rain):

Was called "mon petite chou" earlier
10 o'clock class cancelled all week
new mix CD
M3 has actual job prospect
Have shiny sorority-girl hair, yet am dressed like German academic
M2 has blogged twice in two days
fishsticks for dinner, much like being six again

This is Faubion. He'll be joining us.

I've said for a long time that if I ever become filthy rich, I'm hiring a masseur to just follow me around. In my mind, he is following me from high-powered CEO meeting to my huge corner office and from there out to my private Concorde so he can massage my shoulders as I make billion-dollar deals and fly to London for the evening. I don't know why I'm a CEO in this fantasy; I'm not even interested in business. Anyway, that's not the point. The point is, massages!: I'd like to get more.

I give damn good massages (if you ask nicely and don't wear out your welcome), but reciprocation from the world at large does not seem to be forthcoming. Right now there is a knot in my neck (my neck!) and tension all down my spine, and I'm starting to think that pinched nerve in my shoulder is back, and I can't even get my cat to walk on me, let alone attention from someone with opposable thumbs. So if you want to come rub my back, or pet my head, or poke me repeatedly, please do, and I'll, you know, bear your children or something.

Dear Dad:

Remember last summer, when I drove home for the College World Series with Tex, and you and E2 came with us to the Sunday afternoon game? It was ridiculously hot for being only 80 out, and you bought us all giant sodas and hamburgers, and they had that funky garlic ketchup that we thought was so interesting. Remember that?

Tonight I bought a whole bottle of that garlic ketchup on sale for $1.11. I don't like ketchup, and even hamburgers are a little dodgy. The memory of that day, however, is delicious.

Why can none of my friends get this right?
Wary = nervous.
Weary = tired.

These are not interchangeable.

Self-inflicted injury doesn't hurt any less, it just makes people way less sympathetic

Warning: this entry deals with thesis woes. Skip if you're tired of hearing about it or object to wallowing.

My thesis is coming along despite all my best attempts to prevent it. I've given myself some sort of mental block that makes it impossible to compose at the computer; instead I have ten pages of alternating black and blue ink with various incarnations of my handwriting, from the excruciatingly tidy, minescule print to the flowing cursive that covers large amounts of space in one swoop of color. At some point I will have to type all of this, going back to find and fill in the quotes which I refuse to copy out, marking instead "(qt. p. 8)."

I have written two and three-quarters of the five ten-page segments I have planned for the project; I should really have the rough draft finished by now. At this rate, that won't happen until next Monday, which is also, somehow appropriately, Tax Day. Fortunately, those I did in February.

My writing comes miserably slowly, no more than a page an hour, unless I use some monstrously huge block quotes, and even then, it takes time to hunt them down. That means I have at least 20 more hours of serious writing ahead of me. I can't work for more than two hours straight without a sizeable break, "sizeable" meaning at least 30 minutes.

Worst of all, in the end, what I'm writing about isn't important to anybody but me, and this is the career I have chosen. Literature analysis that will be read by, if I'm lucky, a few professors and their unlucky undergraduate students, who will skim and highlight and then forget. And this isn't even good enough for that—I'm still the undergraduate.

Plus, nobody will talk to me on IM, and my house is ridiculously hot! I'm sorry, I have to go cry in my shower and then mope my way to bed.

Thanks for attending my pity party.

Who knew Santa was good with a wrench?

The plumber is at my house right now, fiixng my bathtub tap. The plumber looks like Santa Claus in overalls, which scared the crap out of me when I opened the door. I had to cast a furtive glance at the calendar to make sure it wasn't 1) December, or 2) April Fools Day (again).

I hate having people come fix things in my house. I mean, I like it when things are fixed, but the process of the fixing, which involves me calling them, them calling me, me cleaning my house (a gargantuan task, believe me), me sitting around awkwardly as the work is done, and so on. It's just not pleasant.

Quick grammar note:

Please observe.

Nauseated: feeling sick to one's stomach.
Nauseous: The quality of making one nauseated.

You using it wrong makes you nauseous and me nauseated. So...get on that. Thanks.

What a long, strange day it's been

I don't have anything coherent to say. So I will say several unconnected things:

Foremost on my mind, I suppose, my friend Amy's sister passed away this morning. It was sort of expected, but I can't even imagine how horrible it must be for Amy. As annoying as my siblings can be, one of them dying would absolutely ruin me. My heart aches for her.

E3 won a big-ass (upwards of $120,000) scholarship to Wash U. tonight. Of course, she will still have to pay $10,000/yr. in room and board costs. Is this a good idea? Probably not, considering she has a free ride to a state school. Is it going to happen anyway? Probably.

Is it wrong to be glad I'm going to Austria because I don't want to take my eyebrow ring out (as I would have to if I taught for TFA)?

Four pages written on the thesis tonight, perhaps more before bed. I tell you this because I want you to feel like the end is in sight and eventually you will get to stop hearing about it. Also, evidently I sometimes get on my high horse about the thesis and PBK and doing well in classes—no superiority intended, I promise. Sorry. It'll be over soon.

This is just about the scariest frickin' thing I can think of. Eyes the size of dinner plates? Razor hooks? Is this a freaky Navy experiment? "Johnson! Forget the dolphins! What about...ridiculously huge squid!"

Plans for this weekend: cat-sitting. Thesis. Vacuuming. Making pot roast. Good times…good times.

Vomiting, restlessness, confusion, delirium and poor coordination? Is that a disease or a Saturday night in college?

So I'm running a bit of a fever tonight. No shock; I've had a sore throat for three days, and everyone I know has been sick, is sick, or is considering becoming sick. But it got me wondering.

What's the deal-breaker with illnesses?

I mean, when do you KNOW you're too sick to do stuff? Mine is two-pronged. I know that I'm actually sick when I have a fever. I'm a borderline hypochondriac, so other symptoms can be faked by my brain, but the thermometer doesn't lie. I take my temperature incessantly whenever I think I might be getting sick, and even more often when I actually am.

But fever doesn't stop me (sorry to those of you I've infected because of that). Last summer I went to an all-day, outdoor concert in the 90-degree Houston heat with a fever that was fluctuating from 100 to 103. Of course, it kicked me in the ass that night and the next day, spiking out at 104.3—isn't it great how high fever temperatures are like badges of honor?—and putting me flat on my back. But hey, concert tickets are expensive and Charlie Robison is hot.

No, the deal-closer for me is vomit. If there's upchucking anytime within eight hours before an event (class, work, major presentation, what have you), I get a get-out-of-jail-free-except-for-having-to-ralph card. Because vomiting is pretty much the worst experience you can have without it involving a hospital visit, I feel justified taking 8 to 10 hours of bedrest recovery.

(Un)Fortunately, no vomit yet tonight. Off to get the thermometer.

2,460.34 miles from Santa Monica, California, to Jacksonville, Florida

Sometimes, when I am tired and stressed, I want to just get in my car and drive. No notice, no map, no worries—classic escape fantasy. West on I-10, out of Houston, on and on until the interstate ends in Santa Monica. Maybe something better will catch my eye at 3 a.m. a few miles out of Las Cruces, and I will drive north for a few hours, my head resting against the seat, three fingers on the wheel, listening to "El Condor Pasa" on repeat. Watching the scenery vaguely—sagebrush and scrub pine, the occasional deer in the few minutes before the sun blasts over the desert—but mostly focused on grey pavement and the grey bubble of Tracker interior.

I would sleep curled the back of the Tracker when I get tired, then wake up and eat Tiger Tails and black licorice Nibs from gas stations as I choose a new direction. Not a new destination, just a new direction. I will not take anything but my copy of William Matthews's selected works and a credit card. Money will work itself out somehow, and if I have to wash dishes for an hour or two, so be it. My hands aren't made of sugar.

I vacillate between going by myself, singing loudly to the bad music I love and answering all the rhetorical questions on radio shows, and taking a boy—the boy—with me to let me delve through his mind to the sultry groan of tires on asphalt. Feeling strong versus feeling safe. Regardless, I will be doing the driving. I won't stop until I hit ocean, and even then I'll drive along the coast as far as I can, with the windows down even when it rains in Oregon. I will buy ridiculous souvenirs instead of dinner: garishly colored T-shirts that I will wear until I am old and they are translucent and illegible. I will not phone home, but I will send unsigned postcards that say, "Everything's fine; the stars were especially intense last night." I will not think deep thoughts.

At last, when I am exhausted and ready to sleep in my own bed, I will come back and slide seamlessly into my life again. Nobody will mention my disappearance, but I will know that I was missed.

It'll probably never happen. But some days, the hope that it could is the only thing that keeps me hanging on.

Neopolitan? What's that crap?

Things I almost bought at the grocery store tonight, but resisted (wisely):

More asparagus. Even though it was $1.50/lb, it's probably better to eat the pound I already have.

Bread. I have yet to eat more than half a loaf a bread before it gets all moldy. I don't know why; I like bread. I just don't eat it.

Duncan Hines cake mix. The mix may have been 88¢, but the frosting was still full price, and what's the point of cake without frosting?

Doritos. I didn't actually resist this one; I saw someone coming that I didn't want to talk to and had to turn down another aisle. Still, Doritos are bad for you. Better that I don't buy them.

Honeycombs cereal. I have a deep and abiding passion for cereal, but I think that's really pushing the line between "breakfast food" and "sugar in a bad disguise." Fortunately Honey Bunches of Oats were on sale, so I still got my "honey" cereal. Whew.

Cat toy for Regs. Seeing as how she'd knocked over her food dish and broken my Venitian blinds by the time I got home, I think that one was fine.

Guitar. Okay, this one wasn't so much at the grocery store as on eBay, but I want to learn to play the guitar and I am having to strongly resist buying one. Mantra: if it can't go to Austria in September, it can't come home now.

Something I did buy that I feel fine about: a half-gallon of mint chocolate chip ice cream. 99¢. Mmmhm.

From the Starshine school of color selection

Hey, that was faster than I thought.

Devolution

We're briefly back to the green scheme because Blogger ate my template last night, and this is what I could recover from my February archives. Damn you, Blogger! New color scheme soon...ish.