Oh

Last night, as I was walking to the kitchen, I passed a guy leaning into my next-door-neighbor's room. When I was almost to the stairs, I overheard him say, "I've got to be honest with you. I've had nine beers."
He better not come back and get near my clean clothes, motherfucker.

Oh hell yes

My 2.95L container of All managed to support my laundry-doing efforts till the end of the year, with just enough left for one emergency load should the need arise. Now let's just hope that there's not a suspicious mud puddle in the stairwell as I carry my clean clothes back up to my room, and if there is, that I don't slip and drop everything in it.

The Korean guy next door always plays funky Korean music. I can hear it through the wall. My first Saturday morning in this dorm, I awoke to his passionate singalong to a certain emotion-drenched song that he's since kept on the playlist and listens to over and over. Every time I hear it I expect to hear the *thud* of the singer's broken heart splattering against our mutual wall. Aside from this song, he also plays wispy, girly, Tori-Amos-esque tunes, with a lot of piano and, again, a lot of heartbreak.

I'm one of those people who can't study and listen to music at the same time, so I guess it sort of bothers me that I can't tune him out when I'm trying to read Nietzsche or whomever. When it gets too incessant, part of me wants to bang loudly on my side of the wall, and yell, "SHUT THE FUCK UP, ASSHOLE!!". The more rational part of me wants to knock on his door and real nicely ask him to please turn it down, 'cuz I'm trying to get work done. But part of me is afraid he'll get embarrassed and not play his music anymore. In fact, part of me...a very secret part of me...wants to ask him the names of the songs, and download them myself, and put them onto a cd. I'd call the cd "Through the Wall," and play it over and over to remind me of spring quarter of my first year in college, or even just to hear them, because they've sort of grown on me.

Yum

I feel better after eating lunch. Lunch was gooood: perch cooked in olive oil, half a sweet potato, half a cucumber, half a bag of okra, and some green beans with a capful of flaxseed oil. Plus I had my vitamins and two salmon oil capsules. While eating it, I felt so clean and healthy. To top things off, when I was done, I took a shower. Despite my clogged sinuses and aching back, I'd say I feel very sleek and capable. If I had to choose one animal to represent how I feel, I would choose an otter.

Update on bird story: It's 11:50 AM the day after I found my feathery little friend. The phone just rang. It was animal control, asking if the bird was still there. "No," I said. Morons. I wonder how long I would have waited out there if the bird hadn't flown away.

I'm sick. Feel sorry for me. I'm gonna play some early 90's music and color.

A Sad Story and a Happy One.

Sad:

As I was walking home from work today, I saw a flash of yellow and brown on the steps of an apartment building to my left. It was a bird flopping back and forth, trying to get up but unable to. "Well, isn't that disturbing," I thought as I passed by. "I hope it's ok." About ten feet further ahead, I stopped, realized that if I was going to continue living with myself I had to fulfill certain moral duties, and turned around. I'd speculated that perhaps the bird was missing a foot, but closer inspection revealed that both feet and wings were intact. I wondered if perhaps it had a broken wing, and picked it up. It let me. Right outside my dorm, it squirmed out of my hands and tried to fly away, but dropped to the ground after only making it a few feet. I picked it up again and brought it inside.

The receptionist at the front desk let me use her phone to call the Humane Society, but there was no answer. So I went upstairs and banged on my RH's door, with one hand, clutching the bird with the other. The length of the pause and the frizziness of her hair indicated that I'd woken her up from a nap, but that was ok. I was a woman on a mission.

She suggested I call 311 and get the number for animal control. So I did, and they took my name and stuff and told me they'd be right over. I was pretty hungry by this time and afraid of an impending blood sugar crash, but I went outside to wait anyway. I was a woman on a mission. I couldn't tell how the little bird was feeling, but it seemed docile, and its eyelids fluttered when I petted it, so I figured it had moved beyond its initial terror. In fact, I decided, it must know that I'm a decent person who was saving its life. I wondered if it would fly back to Maclean and find me once it healed. I wondered what to name it. Maybe "Courage," 'cause its yellow bellow reminded me of cowardice, which made me think of the Cowardly Lion, who in the end realized he had courage the whole time. But it'd be cooler if it had a little red spot on its chest, y'know, like a red badge of courage. C'mon, give me a break here.

I was sitting out front when a guy walked out the door and came up to me. "Hi," he said. "Do you live here?" I nodded. "I don't believe we've met," he continued. "I'm Matt."
"I'm Danielle," I said.
He looked at me strangely. "Are you waiting for someone?"
"Yeah, I'm..." I began, but just then the bird squeezed out of my hand and started to fly away. "No! Could you get that? It can't fly!" I cried as it flew into a fence. I ran over to get it, but then it flew down the sidewalk and out of sight.
"Uhh...well, it couldn't fly before," I stuttered."
Matt looked at me sympathetically. "Well, that sucks."
"No, I mean, it doesn't suck if it can fly, but when I saw it, it was struggling on the steps of an apartment...um...."
"Nice to meet you," he said.
"Yeah, same."

Then I had to go back inside and tell my receptionist and RH that, if animal control comes, y'know the bird that couldn't fly? Well, it just flew away.
So I terrified a bird, woke up my RH, inconvenienced my receptionist and animal control, and embarrassed myself. Hmm. Maybe I should just consider myself the eternal Good Deed Bungler. But the bird seemed all right, which I guess is the important thing. I don't know why I called this a sad story. I apologize if you thought the bird was going to die the entire time.

Happy:
Loreal visited last weekend! It was EverythingDanielleMeantToDoInChicagoPackedIntoTwoDays. We went to a Cubs game, Belmont, Second City, the Museum of Science and Industry, downtown, to the lobby of the Sears Tower (going to the top actually costs money, unfortunately for my empty pockets), and the archway where Harry Met Sally. We also got into several friendly arguments, though mostly about very important matters.
"I don't want to be Miranda! She's like the worst one to be!"
"You're not Miranda. I was kidding. You're Carrie" (smirk)
"Shut up! You're lying. Whatever, just because I said you were Charlotte."
"I'm not Charlotte! Why do I have to be Charlotte? I'm not naive! I'm cynical!!"
etc.

We also met some interesting Chicago characters, like when that weird guy passed Loreal on the street, licked his fingers and said, "Que bueno!" and she goes, "what?....oh." It rained all day Saturday but that was sort of fun. Driving down 60th street and singing along to embarrassing 80's songs was also fun. So was eating a pita at Eat a Pita. So was causing everyone around us at the Cubs game to ditch their seats after loudly pondering rimjobs and dissing Ball State. So was "That's fawl." And it's silly, not naughty.

The Lord Be With You

I just got back from church. My church is interesting. The Eucharist is conducted in the basement of Brent House, where we sit in grey plastic chairs that are a step above rusty folding ones, and together channel the Holy Spirit through chanting and prayer according to the Anglican rite. Today was the last Sunday of one of the staff members, who will soon be ordained as a deacon in Hartford. We all clustered around him and each put a hand on him and chanted, "Jonas, Jonas, Jonas...." Just kidding. We said a prayer written especially for him. There aren't that many of us so it wasn't like, I don't know, a swarm of ants all struggling over a crumb of rock candy. It was nice and fostered a sense of community spirit and stuff.

And all jokes about meeting in a basement being like a secret cult praying to their water-heater god aside (Loreal), I actually like our humble little chapel. You become much better acquainted with your fellow church-goers because you're not stuffed in some pew. Unfortunately, being in such close proximity to other people means that you also get acquainted with their interesting hymn-singing voices. For example, today I was between two guys who really boomed out the words to Hymn #505. The guy to my right actually trilled all of his "r"s, like he was the choir director from Blubber. ("None can believe in Chrrrist and live; O Spirrrit of Life, O Spirrrit of God). I tried not to laugh. This is a cheap shot, considering I (wisely) sing very, very, very, very, very softly if at all, since I am so self-conscious about my tone-deafness. I sorta wish I could get all into it, y'know, puff out my chest and exhale the spirit and so what if my notes are a little off? But that would just be humorous, like the quiet girl finally being filled with God through music and bursting out of her shell and sounding like crap anyway.

The guy to my right, incidentally, has been an object of fascination for me since I started attending church at Brent House. He's at church every Sunday and he's REALLY into his faith. Once the chaplain said, "Our next hymn is number 207" and the guy looked up and his eyes widened and he beamed and mouthed, "yeah!" and I thought, "Oh my God. This guy has hymns *memorized* by *number*?" And, putting anonymity aside for a moment (I hope no one does a google search on him), his name is Nick Heaven. I joke not. I suppose that's cool and not creepy as long as that's his birth name and he didn't change it just to represent how God-filled he is.

One thing I dislike about church (and maybe this is particular to Brent House as well, since, again, at regular churches you can just cower in your pew) is the peace. OK, aspects of the peace, mainly how awkward it is once you've exchanged "peace be with you"s with everyone around you and you actually have to start walking around recruiting people to shake your hand, which leads to some very embarrassing moments when your target doesn't see you coming towards them and starts walking the other way and you follow them for a few steps with your hand outstretched before ending up in the middle of the room looking like a wad. That happened to me today.

And I started thinking, in such a small church with one piano and myriad silences, what if your stomach started to gurgle? I'm usually pretty hungry around churchtime (5:30) and this is a recurring fear of mine. What if it started making noises and didn't stop? What could you do? Get up and leave because your stomach wouldn't stop gurgling? How embarrassing would it be if you had to get up and walk across the room and up the stairs and into the bathroom because your stomach was making noises and you were disrupting the service? Stomach-gurgling is so not something that that's OK for! A coughing fit maybe, but intestinal disorder is something that is not acknowledged, but politely ignored, and therefore I cannot think of many things more embarrassing than a stomach-gurgling fit during, for example, communion. Everyone looks at you and is all, "Gee, *someone's* really anxious for some Jesus!"

Embarrassing Hungry Stomach Story: On the day of my 8 AM Calculus final during Autumn Quarter, I got up at 6 AM in order to study. That meant I ate breakfast pretty early. I usually get hungry really soon after eating, but I figured I'd make it to 10 okay, and I took along some Soy Nuts! just in case. Unfortunately, around 9:30, my stomach started to churn and grumble. Loudly. In the middle of my Calculus final. I hunched over, hoping no one would hear, until I had to go down to the front to ask my professor a question. As I was clarifying the details of an Intermediate Value Theorem question, my stomach starting thrashing and throwing itself against my ribcage again, and I automatically hunched over again. My Calc professor smiled at me and was all, "It's OK. I'm hungry, too." I was speechless. So I just gave her a wan smile and hobbled back to my seat, and for the rest of the day I pondered, "Should I be humiliated, or grateful?"

But seriously folks, I like my church, even if it is quiet and cultlike and sometimes a bit too close for comfort. When the chaplain noticed I wasn't taking communion, he approached me and asked me why, and I explained my myriad food sensitivites, and he went out and bought brown rice crackers just so I could have a gluten-free share of the Son. Unfortunately, they're crispy and crunch when I chew them, which, during communion is not quite as embarrassing as a grumbly stomach, but close. But it really makes me feel cared for, which is good, even when I feel that my only proof of God so far is that He appears to have kept my tummy from making noises in a silent basement-church service during my dinnertime.

Friday Night Potpourri

From WeatherBug:
TONIGHT:
Clear and cold. Near record low in the middle 30s. North winds 5 to 10 mph.

Chicago is being sprayed by the last hacking coughs of winter. Good riddance. I hope it catches bronchitis right before finals week like I did. By March, it'd dragged on so long that it took arduous effort to convince myself that I at one time wore tank tops outside. Then we had one week of 80-degree weather, which turned out to be just a temporary manic stage in the eternal bipolar disorder of the midwest. Now we're all bearing the burden of the depressed, sickly weather god. Blechh.

I am officially a Fundamentals: Issues & Texts concentrator. So begins my life of groaning everytime the "So, what's your major?" question is asked--groaning, taking a deep breath, and launching into a ten minute explanation. It's all good, though. I'll get to focus on something I'm not sure I want to find out at all, something I'm not sure I'm smart enough to justify pursuing. Wow, this blog is depressing. Seriously, it's all, well, mostly good. I'll get to read a bunch of good books and, as my pal Lucas pointed out, develop better analytical skills. I'm mainly concerned, however, about fitting all the classes I want to take into the next three years.
My other worries are utterly inarticulable at the moment so I'll just let them simmer and hopefully eventually form something that can be reined in by words.

Insult I am going to slyly start to insert into conversation in the hopes that my fellow interlocuter will find it funny because it's funny and I'm cool and witty, not because they're on to my intentions to be slyly cool and witty and a linguistic trend-setter:
"God, that guy is such a wad."

My tummy is hungry.

I feel all rich now because I have $733 in my bank account. This afternoon I was all struttin down the street because of my MUNEE! Yeah, munee! Everyone who looked at me could so obviously tell that I had da ching-ching. For one moment in time, I could pretend that I wasn't a starving college student who lives on eggs and potatoes and can't afford shampoo. I splurged on a $1.89 bottle of water because my new swank self doesn't drink tap water from her dorm's community bathroom, oh no. I bought a textbook that I was supposed to have read two weeks ago. I contemplated taking a cab from 53rd to 55th street, but there were other people in it. This will all change, however, when I write out a check for $700 to my future apartmentmate for the security deposit and the first month's rent, leaving me with $33 to pay for groceries for the next two weeks until I get my next paycheck. Welp, it was fun while it lasted.

Actually, I'm saving up money by doing psych studies and registration at the Chicago reunion to rehighlight my hair and get it cut as soon as I get home. At first it was my little secret, the money tucked into a tiny pocket in my purse, but I've never been able to keep secrets like this, so I told my mom, thinking she was gonna crucify me. But instead she said, and I quote, "You deserve to spent a little mad money on yourself as soon as you get home." I feel so vindicated. Also on my mad-money-spending-spree wish list:
-stila "e" foundation
-a strapless bra
-an eyebrow wax
etc.

A slightly alarming conversation with Undre, a first-grader at the elementary school where I work:
Undre: And Cheetahs, um, and cheetahs are the fastest animals in the world.
Me: That's right, they're the fastest animals on land. But there are some birds that are faster than cheetahs.
Undre: Uh-uh. Cheetahs are the fastest.
Me: I'm pretty sure that some birds are faster.
Undre: Well, birds aren't really animals, you know.
Me: I'm actually pretty sure that they are animals.
Undre: Uh-uh.
Me: You sure about that?
Undre: Try me. Try me.
Me: How would I do that?
Undre: Ask God.
Me: (laughing) OK, let's ask God.
Undre: But God is dead, you know.
Me: God is dead?
Undre: Yeah, God is dead. God and Jesus are dead. I saw the movie.
Me: But if he's God, how can he be dead?
Undre: I dunno.

I think I'll go to the zoo tomorrow.

Do zavtra,
Danielle