Good Samaritans & the Close of a Year

I did something dumb (well, dumber than normal) yesterday: I left my wallet on the Amtrak.

I have never, ever left my wallet anywhere before. But through some seat switching and the fact that I was SO GLAD to finally get off the Amtrak, I didn't even think about where I'd put it, I just LEFT. The last few Amtrak trips I've taken have been kind of a bummer, due to weather/cold rails/inadequate engines--from Chicago to Rochester, we were 2 1/2 hours late, from Buffalo to Albany we were 4 hours late (have you ever sat on the tracks for 2 hours outside Schenectady with a broken engine and thermostat? Don't, is my advice), and yesterday, from Albany to Buffalo, we were 2 hours late. But my Amtrak love was in some sense restored when I got a call this morning from Dave, from the Buffalo Exchange Station.

I had not yet noticed my wallet was missing, because when I got home last night I went to bed without looking in my bag, but Dave called and told me they had it in Buffalo. It was turned in to the conductor. All my cards were still there, but all my cash and change had been taken. It could have been much worse, but for a slightly financially delinquent grad student, the loss of $26 is not great. Mostly, I just felt like a moron.

Happily my wallet was in Buffalo, but I live 1 1/2 hours away, so another problem presented itself. Dave, who by this point in our conversation was calling me "hon" (a moniker which I'm not normally that fond of, but when you lose your wallet, it's nice), said that he didn't want me to have to make the trip up unless I had to. He said that he would call the bus company that makes the run between Buffalo and Jamestown, to see if the driver would be willing to pick up the wallet for me on his way to Jamestown, and then I wouldn't have to go. This was a great idea! Dave is awesome.

He called me back and said that the bus company wasn't answering their phone. (Hon, I think these guys decided to take the holiday early.) He went outside to see if they would stop (they only stop at the train station if someone asks them to, before going on the bus station), but they didn't stop, so he wasn't sure what we could do. My dad came up with plan B--go to the bus station in Jamestown, make sad faces at the bus driver, and try to get him to get my wallet so I wouldn't have to spend 5 hours in transit + bus fare. So that is precisely what I did. Except I didn't have to make sad faces, because the bus driver immediately agreed to "transport" my wallet for me, and even offered to drop it off to me at home. (I said I would just meet him when he got back.) Then I called Dave for the 76th time today, and he was delighted, and put my wallet in an envelope, and gave it to Dan, the bus driver, and now I have it.

I will write letters to Amtrak and Coach USA to say thanks (and to promote these two, who were both so sweet), and I gave Dan some mixed nuts, courtesy of my grandmother, who always has some at hand for last minute presents. I don't know if thank you notes are adequate, but it's the best way I know to, well, gives thanks.

All of this self-inflicted goofiness is actually a pretty apt closer for 2010, and a good opener for 2011. It's a reminder. To remember than people are generally kind and I should trust that they will be, but that sometimes that kindness will be tinged with something else (like, turning in a wallet, but taking all the money first). To remember to keep a closer eye on things, to appreciate what I have, to never take myself or my family or my friends for granted, ever. To deal with travel delays with patience and understanding. To someday have pride in my job, to be willing to help people, even with minor issues. To listen to peoples stories more. To be kind. To trust my instincts. To trust others.

Be safe tonight, everyone, and I wish you all good things for the new year! And to close, here's something from ol' F Scott himself.

"It eluded us then, but that's no matter---tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther... And one fine morning---So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past." --The Great Gatsby, final sentence
--I remember reading this passage for the first time in my 10th grade English class, and for some reason I loved it then, and I love it now.

"Remember, George: no man is a failure who has friends. "

I feel like I'm living in a Christmas Story, because 1. I live in Indiana, 2. it is snowing, and 3. people around me quote it constantly as, indeed, so do I.Here is the square in downtown Bloomington, in all its Christmas-y splendor. I've never seen trees wrapped so well! And it's not just the square that's bedecked. I had a haircut this morning and I go to a place which is in a Victorian house and already full of quirky wall colors and fun decorations (the foils they use for coloring are leopard print, for example), but they really went to town for Christmas. My hairdresser said they close for a day to fully decorate, and it shows--the stairs up to the second floor were completely turned into a Christmas village with houses and fake snow, mini-trees were on all the cabinets, ornaments hung from every doorway and ceiling, and gold ribbon was everywhere. I was in the small mall downtown yesterday, and it's the same thing there! The best was long strings of lights hanging from the ceiling--I had to duck to pass under them--and the ceiling is mirrored so it looked really cool.

It's been a very hard week for non-academic reasons, and I will be so glad to be home. As always, though, it had really nice moments, due to the fabulous people in my life. On Wednesday, to celebrate surviving our first semester, a bunch of us went to Grazie, the Italian restaurant on the square, and got to admire all those Christmas lights. What did I have? A campari and soda (the people in one of the mystery series I like drink those all the time), some Malbec, and gnocchi in a very tasty Gorgonzola sauce with a lot of spinach. All told, it cost about my entire weeks food budget, but no matter. Grazie is a really cool place--our server was great and the decor is classy but comfy. I'll definitely be back. Having sampled other people's dinners, the food seems to be uniformly tasty, too. After that we went to a dance party where there was ABBA records (I love ABBA and I don't care who knows it) and silliness and it snowed and snowed.

Which brings me to the title of this post, quoted from It's a Wonderful Life, a movie which I am ambiguous about. I spend so much of it being depressed, and then the ending is such a mushfest. When everyone brings the money so George doesn't have to go to jail and Harry Bailey says, "A toast to my big brother George: The richest man in town," I cry EVERYTIME. I honestly teared up just typing it. Which shows that I am a total sap, but also that Christmas movies, carols, and books are embedded in so many of my memories that I can't fathom a world in which I wasn't watching The Muppets Christmas Carol with my family on Christmas Eve, because that is what we DO.

One of the many reasons why I like this time of year is because I am a creature of ritual and tradition. It doesn't have to do with the religious aspects at all, really--it's more the fact that so many people experience it, and Christmas is such a good and convenient time to be happy and thankful. I've got a lot of Northern blood, but sometimes even for me the winters get too cold and dark and claustrophobic, and I need friends and family then, more than ever. And if there are cookies involved, so much the better!

So because I'm a grad student and really good at quoting other people, here are some of my favorite Christmas things. Most you probably know, but some maybe not. Enjoy.

"You - you said - what'd you say a minute ago? They had to wait and save their money before they even ought to think of a decent home. Wait? Wait for what? Until their children grow up and leave them? Until they're so old and broken down that they... Do you know how long it takes a working man to save five thousand dollars? Just remember this, Mr. Potter, that this rabble you're talking about... they do most of the working and paying and living and dying in this community. Well, is it too much to have them work and pay and live and die in a couple of decent rooms and a bath? Anyway, my father didn't think so. People were human beings to him. But to you, a warped, frustrated old man, they're cattle. Well, in my book he died a much richer man than you'll ever be."
--George Bailey, It's a Wonderful Life
[Jimmy Stewart is so cool. I wanted to be a senator after watching Mr Smith Goes to Washington as an impressionable youngster.]

"Whence comes this rush of wings afar,
Following straight the Noël star?
Birds from the woods in wondrous flight,
Bethlehem seek this holy night."
--"Whence Comes this Rush of Wings," which I think was originally a French carol
[if you don't know this carol, I would suggest looking it up. My grandmother has a sweet Christmas carol book from the Met, so it's got all these cool paintings in it too, and my sister and I have lately become enamored of this carol. It's got a lovely little dissonant bit at the end, and the bird imagery is neat.]

My mouth's bleedin' Bert! My mouth's bleedin!

"There was a line for Santa and a line for the women's bathroom, and one woman, after asking me a dozen questions already, asked, 'Which is the line for the women's bathroom?' I shouted that I thought it was the line with all the women in it.
She said, 'I'm going to have you fired.'
I had two people say that to me today, 'I'm going to have you fired.' Go ahead, be my guest. I'm wearing a green velvet costume; it doesn't get any worse than this. Who do these people think they are?
'I'm going to have you fired!' And I wanted to lean over and say, 'I'm going to have you killed.'"
--David Sedaris, "The Santaland Diaries," from Barrel Fever
[Not overly jolly, I suppose, but so true in so many awful ways. David Sedaris reading this is even more win, so do check that out here. It's not the whole story, but it'll give you a taster. For more Sedaris Christmas Wonderfulness, here is the text to "Six to Eight Black Men," which is the first essay of his I ever heard. It's great.]

Ms Sheilds, in Ralphie's dream: "Oh! The theme I've been waiting for all my life. Listen to this sentence: 'A Red Ryder BB gun with a compass in the stock, and this thing which tells time'. Poetry. Sheer poetry, Ralph! An A+!"
--A Christmas Story
[One of those movies that my family could probably quote in its entirety, as could so many other people.]

Oh, there goes Mr. Humbug
There goes Mr. Grim
If they gave a prize for being mean
The winner would be him
Old Scrooge, he loves his money
'Cause he thinks it gives him power
If he became a flavour you can bet he would be sour
Aside, vegetable: Yuck!
Vegetable seller: Even the vegetables don't like him!
--"Scrooge," from the Muppet Christmas Carol
[Again, my family could legitimately quote this entire movie. I also think every line from it is hilarious, and the songs are really very good, if you like Muppets. I especially love "Thankful Heart." Michael Caine will always be Scrooge to me.]

Kermit as Bob Cratchit. Genius, my friends.

"Dasher Dancer Prancer Vixen
Eisenhower Kennedy Johnson Nixon
Dasher Dancer Prancer Vixen
Carter Reagan Bush and Clinton"
--Bob Dylan, "Must be Santa"
[I bought Dylan's Christmas CD, Christmas In the Heart, last year when it came out and I'm still not sure why, as Dylan singing "Little Drummer Boy" makes the ears bleed. I think he had the proceeds go to charity, which is a nice deal, and "Must be Santa" is such good fun! The music video is GREAT. Any time I can see Dylan smoking a cigar while saying "ho ho ho," vaguely gesticulating in lieu of dancing, and wearing a myriad of hats, is time well spent.]

Flick? Flick who?

Rudolph: But you fell off the edge of the cliff.
Yukon Cornelius: Didn't I ever tell you about Bumbles? Bumbles bounce.
--Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer
[This movie transports me back to being 6 years old. And Hermey wants to be a dentist!]

Handel's Messiah. All of it.
[I only listen to it at Christmas, and I don't know why, because some of those arias should be heard year round.]

What are you favorite Christmas things, pop culture-y or otherwise? (I could write an entire post about lingonberries, rice pudding, korv, Janson's Temptation, glogg, pickled herring, pepperkaker and Bondost, but I don't want to make you all hungry!)

And whether you celebrate Christmas (religiously or not), Chanukah, Kwanza, Festivus, St Stephen's Day, the Winter Solstice, Boxing Day, or nothing in particular, I hope that you and yours are happy and healthy. Safe travels, and see you in 2011!!

Finals Week (Oh, the Excitement)

I always feel like kind of a waste of space during finals week. I'm busy, as is everyone else, but I'm never as busy as professors, who have to grade everything. I feel like it's not really more work than I normally have, it just counts more, but I also don't have class, so I have more time to do it. When I was in undergrad, this time was spent by sitting around with my friends and watching TV and making massive trips to the dining hall to stock up on fries/apples/energy drinks. Now, though, there is no dining hall, I live by myself, and although I have certainly been "wasting" time with friends, it's been a lot more of sitting by myself with my computer. I also don't have sit-down finals this semester, so I don't have to study for slide tests, which is pretty nice.

Finals just seem less scary and/or less important now. I think this stems from working retail and interning last year, and seeing how busy this season really is for some people. Some of my coworkers would work 2 weeks straight for the extra holiday pay. As Christmas got closer, I was only getting 15 minute breaks at the register because it was so busy. Standing for 9 hours and being polite to EVERYONE? Slightly harder than writing papers, at least for me (although, you do get paid!). I've also finally realized that everything will work out fine, that I can turn in something not quite perfect, and it's not the end of the world. A healthy attitude, although I'm not sure how great a grad student it makes me! My internet gave out a few nights ago, and rather than tweaking out about not finishing an image set, I just took a bubble bath and started an Elizabeth Peters book and went to bed, knowing that I have good time management and would have plenty of time to finish what I had to do. And I did.

So, what I have left: an Italian presentation tonight, a whole bunch of bibliographies, a paper on my "research methodology" (would you want to read that?? I certainly would not), and a scary paper for my seminar that I am sort of in denial about as it is due next Wednesday. In preparation for this paper, here is what my living room floor looks like:
A chart of seventeenth century self-portrait types, color coded by country, grouped by motivation behind the portrait (facial studies, stressing intellect of artist, status, in the act of painting, etc.) Which is all well and good, except I still have no thesis (or at least, not a thesis that I am comfortable with) and this paper is worth 70% of my grade. GAH.

Other than that, though, I need to do all my holiday shopping (which I really enjoy) and I have a few fun things planned during the rest of finals time, so things could be much worse. So far, the best cures for stress--listening to La Vie en Rose, loudly and on repeat while you waltz about your apartment, snagging free cookies from the museum, giggling a lot with friends either in person or on the phone, reading Adrienne Rich's "Claiming an Education" to remind myself why I am here, and thinking of all the fun family and friend times that await me in about a week and a half. Bring it on, finals!

How the Rare Books Library Blew My Mind

The highlight of what has been an increasingly academically frustrating week was a tour that my Research Sources class went on of the rare books library, which is handily right across the square from the art building. I was expecting just some background of the collection, how we get access to the books, how to use the card catalog (they still have one!), etc. But it was actually something much more wonderful.

I've used the rare book library on two occasions now, the first for a 1608 copy of Cesare Ripa's Iconologia, and the second to view a page from a fifteenth century Iranian manuscript for a response paper. Both times I totally dorked out, while still being totally incredulous that I can touch things that I've not only studied but that are contemporary to so much of the art that I'm interested in. Thanks to his inventory, we know Velazquez owned that same edition of Ripa. I mean, totally cool.

Like I said, though, I'm still incredulous about this process:
Librarian: Ok, here is your book. Just leave it in the foam viewing stand when you're done.
Me: Just to clarify--I can touch the pages, right?
Librarian, giving me an odd look: Well, of course you can.
Me: I mean, because it's 400 years old. I feel like I should wear gloves, or something.
Librarian: It's survived this long, hasn't it? And you only need to wear gloves if your hands are especially oily or dirty.
Me: They're not.
Librarian: Alright then.

So I knew that the library was really excellent, but happily instead of just talking about what all they have, the director showed us. We stowed all our bags in the lockers (no pens around the books, fair enough) and proceeded to one of the back kind of conference rooms. This one looked like a library in a southwestern ranch, with a beamed ceiling, Native American and western art, rows of bookshelves and stone fireplaces, flanking a huge wooden table. We sat around the wooden table, with one of my classmates saying it looked like we were in a murder mystery similar to Clue, where we had all been gathered in the library to be told that Colonel Mustard had been killed there with a candlestick.

The library director came in with a cart, and he was the sweetest man EVER and clearly in love with his job and the books, and he proceeded to show us some things. It went something like this:

Director: This is one of the Nuremberg chronicles, which for those of you who don't know, tells the story of the world, up until 1493, when this book was published. So we can see the different maps here, and the images of "strange people" from countries where the vast majority of its readers would never go.
Classmate: We looked at that image of the man shaving with his feet in class yesterday!!
Director: Isn't that one great?? My favorite part though is that these images are hand colored for the first 30 pages of the chronicle, but then that stops, because the patron ran out of money. Oh, and this map of Venice, which folds out of the book, so you get the full effect of the canals. [He proceeds to fold it out. It's about 4 feet long, and gorgeously detailed.] Like many books of the time, the sheets in this are vellum [calfskin], which is why it stayed in such good shape. Go ahead and feel this sheet.
Another classmate: Wait...we can touch it?
Director: You certainly can! See, this is the hair side of the calf, so you can feel the slightly raised bumps from the follicles, while the other side is smooth.
Us, as we feel the vellum: Oh, ick! But cool!
Director: I know. I'm a vegetarian, but what can you do.

Director: And here is one of three complete copies of Dürer's Apocalypse in the United States. Dating from 1498, it basically tells the story of the Book of Revelations with pictures. Here's a great one, with a seven headed snake. Look at the thinness of those lines. I don't know how anyone could carve that small.
Us, hovering over it: Ahhh!
Director: And here is, of course, the "Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse"..
Us: Ahh! Ahhh!
Director: And if you've ever wanted to say you've touched a Dürer, now is your chance!
[we touch the Dürer with reverence]

Director: Here is a binding from a contemporary binder, for a book on Islamic designs. There is a five year waiting list to have him do a binding, and it takes him about 3 months to complete one binding. He reads the book first to get a sense of it, and then makes a binding to incorporate what the book is about. He's in his 70's now and works in a small log cabin in Canada, which sounds like a myth but is actually true. The weather conditions are such that he can only do gold embossing during 3 months of the year.
Us: That is the most gorgeous book we've ever seen!
[I'm not sure how to describe the binding on this book--hand tooled in leather with gold embossing on red, blue, and yellow flowers, with some dome motifs and geometric designs. It was perfect.]

Director: Here's a copy of Hamlet, where the binding is made up of tiny pieces of leather, so it kind of looks like an impressionist painting, right? [we nod] Back away from the book, and see if you can see anything. [we move about 6 feet back]
Us: Ahh! [Once you step away from this book, much like an impressionist painting, the little specs of colors turn into an image. In this case, to the right side of the binding was Hamlet's head, wearing a crown, and on the left was Elsinore.

Director: Here is a moralizing book for children from the 18th century, with a binding designed with cats.
Us: Ahhh! [the book is about 4 inches square]

Director: Well, we have about 5 minutes left.
Us: Nooo!
Director: Do you have any questions for me?
Classmate: What is that big book on the cart that we didn't get to?
Director: Ah, that is a copy of Ulysses, bound with illustrations as a special edition for people who were willing to pay more for it. The person they picked to do the illustrations was Matisse--
Us: AH!
Director: --but the publishers didn't really like Matisse's illustrations for it, so they had him include all his original sketches for the finished drawing, and then they included them in a series before each illustration, so you can see the genesis of his work. The publishers thought people would be less annoyed about the illustrations if there were extras added. Oh, and we can see at the back that this book was signed by both Matisse and Joyce.
Us: AHH!!!

We all left the library going, "Dürer! Wha, gah! Touched it! That cat book was adorable! I want to meet the guy who does binding! I didn't even know people still DID binding professionally anymore! Ah, gah, Matisse!"

Good way to spend a Friday morning.

Wish List

Every year about this time, I write my parents my Christmas Wish List. It's usually a pretty silly affair--I always put a Green Volvo right at the top, although mostly it's not too outrageous (in looking over the past few years, the most common elements were "funky jewelry," increasingly dorky art history books, and the West Wing on DVD.) Anyway, I sat down to write my list today and this is as far as I got before I stopped:
--large mixing bowls
--Chicago Manual of Style 16th Edition
--flannel sheets

BORING. The thing is, I don't need stuff. Transporting it would be a pain, and sappy as this will sound, the top of my list is to be with my family and friends, eating copious amounts of cookies and drinking copious amounts of glogg. But do I want stuff? Well, yeah. Here are some things that are just too fabulous to pass up, whether real or not.

A Colander



But not just any colander. One that is shaped liked an Angelfish. (Thanks to Amazon for the images.) One of my friends clued me into Boston Warehouse and their ADORABLE household goods, and this is one of my favorites. Another is the Peacock Duster.





Admittedly, I don't dust that often. But I actually might, with one of these babies.







A Piano
I don't care what brand or model or size or color, it just needs to have pedals that (mostly) work and be tuned. Admittedly, if I won the lottery and had a much bigger apartment, I would want a cherry wood baby grand Steinway. My boss last year was in a concert at Steinway Hall, and I went and then wandered some of the showrooms, and ohmygosh. They have a "crown jewel collection" and they are ridiculously gorgeous. Practically too gorgeous to play, actually. (don't believe me? check it out here.) Until then, I'd be happy with a "free piano" from craigslist, as long as most of the keys were there.

Sterling Cooper Draper & Pryce T-Shirt

I haven't watched Mad Men this season (no cable + no time) but at the end of last season, Sterling and Cooper broke away from the company bearing their names and started a new ad agency with Don Draper and Lane Pryce, the English guy sent to oversee their takeover. It was a momentous episode. There was much rejoicing in our apartment during it. I like this t-shirt because Mad Men is a stellar TV show. The soundtrack is not half bad, either.




A Biopic about Caravaggio
Now, lest you scoff, not just any biopic. One where they interview actual cool art historians and don't focus on the tawdry details of Caravaggio's life (because, ya know, he also PAINTED OCCASIONALLY). The main stipulation, though: there must be plenty of reenactments of Caravaggio painting, talking to Cardinal del Monte, stalking the streets of Rome, etc. Caravaggio must be played by Johnny Depp, and he must paint with no shirt on.

Vintage Amber Earrings

I really like how amber looks--perhaps too much time spent watching Jurassic Park as small child? Maybe it just reminds me of honey/maple syrup? Anyway, amber is lovely, as is Etsy (thanks for the image, Etsy!), as is old jewelery, especially when the jewelery seems well-loved and used by the previous wearer of it.




Finger Lakes Wine of the Month Club Membership
I doubt that such a thing exists, but if it did, I would like it for 1. nostalgia's sake, 2. the fact that I genuinely like the wine produced there, and 3. I try to drink local wine, but everything produced here is really, really sweet, and I miss the awesome selection in NY.

A Mary Worth Tote Bag

I will go on the record saying that Mary Worth is the greatest, most unintentionally hilarious comic strip printed in American newspapers. For those of you who are uninitiated, she's this biddy who offers advice to people, mostly by butting into their lives. Everyone is either very good or very bad (or very dumb). There is no gray area in Mary Worth's world. She solves their problems, and at every story's end they have a pool party where no one swims, and they eat what appears to be salmon squares and drink what appears to be ketchup in glass goblets. Occasionally Mary's "gentleman friend" Dr Jeff Corey asks her to marry him and she always says no. Mary Worth is the most entertaining thing published in my hometown paper.

A Man
A nice one. If he had attractively muscular arms and was willing to vacuum, I wouldn't complain. Ideally, someone not unlike Atticus Finch, just slightly younger and maybe with a Scottish accent. He doesn't have to like opera, but he should be willing to sit it out for me. If he could fix computers that would be great, or at least know more about computers than me. Witty. Functional knowledge of cooking and current events. Appreciation for Monty Python, Star Wars, and poetry, but doesn't feel the need to quote them all the time. Perhaps has a dog, or at least is kind to dogs. Kind to people. Doesn't creep on people at bars. Non-misogynistic, non-homophobic, doesn't privilege certain religious traditions over others, etc. Clean hair. Now that I've put this out there, universe, I shall be delighted to see you what you come up with. Cheers.

A Trip to Jarrolds (at Christmas)

This is Jarrolds, a department store in Norwich, England. Every Wednesday morning, my friends and I would meet there and go to the 5th floor, where there was a cafe, and we would get scones with all the elderly British people. A cheese scone with raspberry jam and some time spent gazing at the Christmas displays in all the windows would be really wonderful.

A Piece of Cheesecake from Lord's Bakery
Lord's Bakery is located in Flatbush/East Flatbush, Brooklyn (or as my cousin's students lovingly call it, "Gaza Flatbush.") It is a magical place. The people are super nice, the cakes are stunners, the bagels are less than a dollar, and the cheesecake is the best cheesecake I've ever had. It's got this lemon-y, fresh taste to it. I miss Lord's Bakery. A LOT.

The Ability to Apparate or be able to Immediately Visit my Friends without having to Pay for Plane Tickets, Wait in Airports/Train Stations, etc.
Self explanatory, really. Maybe we should all pick a town and all move there? Of course, with that much goodness in one place, my head and heart might explode.

Time Warp

"Responsible adulthood" is an odd concept. Sometimes I feel like one (a responsible adult, I mean), but plenty of times I don't--and when I go back to hometown, the feelings just compound themselves. Being home for five days made returning to my Big Girl Apartment very hard. Which seems problematic--I can navigate airports by myself, but living by myself (and cooking for myself) is sometimes too hard? Why? Why?

Cases in point:
--I seem to have acquired a cold or a flu somewhere between the Erie airport and my apartment and all I want is for my mom to apparate here and give me some robitussin and a ginger ale. I HAVE ginger ale. But the thought of getting it out of my closet and putting it in the fridge seems like too much work. I am boiling Mrs Grass soup as we speak, and I would give some non-essential toes for someone to just do it for me. I stared at the pot for awhile, hoping it would just fill itself with water. This is ridiculous. I suspect that deep down inside I am not very good at taking care of myself. AND, the only reason I have Mrs Grass soup and ginger ale in the first place is because when my parents moved me out here my mom insisted I get some for when I inevitably got sick. And she was right.

--I went to the grocery store with two of my friends after class and we all just kept staring at things we couldn't afford. "When I was home my dad made steak," one said wistfully, "and two kinds of potatoes, and wine that didn't come out of a box." I have been longingly thinking of my dad's chili all chilly afternoon. I have had dinner parties with these two friends, and I know that all of us can cook. Granted, none of it involved meat, but we're not hopeless. So why does it seem like we are? We were discussing it and decided that you revert back to yourself, but your high school self, when you go home--the self whose parents cooked for them. It's hard to snap out of that and back to "responsible adulthood."

--My friends from my hometown all have Big Girl jobs and one is engaged and I feel like I'm in some other weird plane, where I read 10000 pages from books that no one has heard of, about things that are so esoteric that even I have trouble sometimes explaining them. We all still get along wonderfully, of course, but it does make the dynamic slightly odd. They can talk about office romance, while I can talk about...Titian?

--Oh, and lest you were curious, I am now eating the Mrs Grass soup and didn't let it simmer enough (why why why??) and the noodles are not soft. I can't even boil soup. Even with the overly al dente noodles though, it's hittin' the spot. Mostly what I ate today was cough drops. Lots of them.

So I miss my bed in my blue bedroom at home, and I miss the lap cat who decided my lap WAS worthy enough to sit on over break (usually he ignores me mostly because I'm not the one who feeds him.) I miss my fam and my friends and my old familiar, but at the same time, it's nice to be back.

And in less whiny news, my flight was delayed in Detroit yesterday and everyone was SUPER NICE. The people working, the people in line, everyone. I like it when that happens.

The Mighty Sweet Potato

Thanksgiving is arguably my favorite holiday. And this year I am really, really, really (reallyreallyreally) excited for it. Last year I didn't get to go home, and it was still wonderful since my parents and sister came out to my aunt's and grammy's and most of my extended family was there, and I learned how to make gravy (kinda). This year my extended family will be on one side of the state, and we'll be on the other, but they have promised to make us a video of them singing and other related shenanigans. If I can't sit at the "kids table" (so-called even though we're mostly in our 20s now), at least there will be some hilarious footage of it! So it may be a low-key Thanksgiving, but I get to go home. Home! For the first time since August! (I know, I know, it's not that long. But it's long enough.)

What I like about Thanksgiving is that at its core, it's not about stuff. It's about, well, giving thanks! For my family, this ranges from the silly, to wishing for peace, to lambasting the pilgrim fathers (and a lot of other people) for being so awful to the Native Americans, to listening to "Alice's Restaurant". If we were sensible like the Canadians, we'd celebrate Thanksgiving earlier in the season, so that it could also be more about harvest and bounty, as it should be. It's about cooking and eating with those you love--who don't necessarily have to be your family. I was talking to someone tonight who said she always has a "friendsgiving" instead, and those are equally fun. We had a potluck tonight, and I am full of lovely food. Although, it is the point of the semester when people are stress-cases (yo, included) and occasionally snap at one another (yo, not included). The conversation too soon degenerated into how we are excited that Vasari is now searchable online. I mean, really. I will be excited to not be here for a few days.

Anyway, the real point of this post is how much I love sweet potatoes. You can make them sweet, you can make them savory, mash them, put them in soups, make fries--all genuinely delicious. I had two varieties tonight (mashed with cranberries, and roasted with sage or tarragon or something). Earlier this week I made sweet potato quesadillas (rock on, Moosewood!) which were tasty. My grandmother makes a really good variety with orange juice--sweet, but not cloyingly like the marshmallow ones sometimes are.

Sweet potatoes are versatile and they are amazing in chip form and dipped in honey mustard. I like them with brown sugar. I like them roasted with cumin with black beans and rice on the side (this was my quick Brooklyn dinner sooo many times). I feel the same way about butternut squash, although I usually can't be fussed to cook a whole one of those, and then have to eat it for days. And if you have any favorite sweet potato recipes, pass them along!

I might not have another post before I have to catch a shuttle to the Indianapolis Airport at, ahem, 5 am on Tuesday, so if I don't talk to you before Thanksgiving--I hope you all have a nice day, wherever you may be and whomever you may be with. And in the immortal words of Adam Sandler in his immortal Thanksgiving Song: "Turkey for the girls and turkey for the boys, my favorite kind of pants are corduroys."

The Writing's on the (Toilet) Wall

I have a fondness for graffiti, I think from living in Brooklyn. It seems to suggest spontaneous artistic creation, and that is cool (although I know a lot of graffiti is very planned out). Anyway, by extension I really enjoy it when people write on bathroom stalls. Not a common occurrence in my undergrad institution, or maybe they were just fastidious about it getting washed away, but bathroom graffiti is rampant here, especially in the building where I have Italian class.

A few weeks ago, I was in the bathroom before class, and happened to choose the Holy Grail of bathroom stalls. So I got out a notebook, and wrote some things down. (Sidenote: yes, this is what this blog is turning me into--someone who copies things out of bathroom stalls!)

Some highlights:
In a block script, above the toilet roll holder: "Minds are like Parachutes: they only work when they're open"

In squiggly cursive: "The Sun is out, the sky is blue, it's beautiful, and so are you"

Taking up almost all of one of the walls: "We are, all of us, in the gutter. But some of us are looking at the stars. ~Oscar Wilde"

"Be the Change"

"My ex-boyfriend" with an unflattering picture. Someone else had written underneath, "hey, looks like my ex-boyfriend too! haha!"

"Quite frankly, I'm just excited that we've begun writing on bathroom stalls again."

This engendered a lot of comment: "Those who cannot learn from history are doomed to repeat it". Which morphed into a discussion about the merits of President Obama (socialism, high taxes, etc.) versus President Bush II (war, big business, hurricanes, etc.)

Also generating a lot of comment: "Twilight sucks. Harry Potter pwns Twilight." (response ranged from "frick yes" to "TEAM HARRY" to "Vampires suck. Zing!")

And for all you HP fans out there, this is the crown jewel: "The Chamber of Secrets has been opened. Enemies of the heir beware." Now, if you haven't read HP, I'm not going to explain the awesome placement of this sentence in a bathroom--let's just say that it is the crux of the second book, and was written on a bathroom wall at Hogwarts.

There were some "for a good time call" things and "so and so slept with my boyfriend", etc., but by and the large the comments were pretty positive. (Another sidenote: The Buffalo Amtrak station has the dirtiest graffiti I have ever seen.) One of my friends went to the same bathroom but got a different stall, with quite a different message. She came to class looking troubled, and said in her stall someone had written:

"I'm gay and I want to come out to my parents but they are going to hate me and I don't know what to do. What do I do?"

The responses to this were both lovely and so sad: "I thought my parents would be really angry too, but when I came out they still loved me. I hope yours do too." "If they don't like it, they aren't worth it. You are perfect how you are." "Sometimes we have to create our own families with people who accept us." "Parents are surprising sometimes. I think you should go for it." "I am keeping you in my thoughts." "Best of luck!"

It's weird to have such a personal response to someone who you probably don't know, and who you would probably never meet. Perhaps that is the appeal of writing on a bathroom wall--the anonymity. I've never sought advice by literally writing on a wall, but figuratively? Ah. Blogging feels a bit like writing on a wall, addressing the unknown reader. So, thanks for reading my scribblings on the stall wall of the internet.

Focus On: Mucha Lithographs

I haven't done Art of the Week in awhile, so I'll be restart it with a bang, with this lithograph from the IU Art Museum:Alphonse Mucha, advertisement for Monaco, Monte-Carlo, 1897

I have a soft spot for lithography, as my undergraduate institution has a nifty collection (for more on that, check out here.) As they do once a month, the IUAM's print curator pulls a variety of works and opens the viewing rooms for a few hours for people to come and look around. The lithographs she had out were a nice variety--one of my favorites was one from a Berliner Succession art show that had been reused for a few years, so the date had been pasted over. You could see the thumbtack marks where it had actually been hung up. But this Mucha lithograph was what really caught my eye.

I love the stylized nature and clean lines of Art Nouveau prints and posters, and this was no exception. There is a lot going on, but (to me, at least) it doesn't feel fussy. I'm not sure what the spinning floral roundels have to do with Monaco, exactly, but the pretty lady is key to the majority of Mucha's works. Come to Monte-Carlo, he suggests, and this is what you'll see. Who would turn that down? Mucha was Czechoslovakian but did much of his training and work in Paris, which is what we usually think of when we think of Art Nouveau. What is really striking about this work when viewed in person is the richness of the colors (that blue sea in particular) and the gilded aspects--many of the flowers are traced in glittering metallic silver. Lithography, as near as I understand it, is printing using a stone, or more recently, a metal sheet. You don't etch the image onto the surface, but draw it with a waxy or oily substance, and then water is somehow involved, which repels the ink, and then you print it. (Yeah, that was technical, I know.) Anyway, you have to print each color separately onto the work, so you have to be really really really precise. I would imagine that a work of this intricacy would be hard to pull off.

And to show my bias towards Monte-Carlo, here is a bonus art of the week: my kitchen.
Admittedly, I chose that poster because the gent in it looks Lord Peter Wimsey, whom I have a literary crush on.

Veteran's Day

Today is Veteran's Day. Ever since I can remember, my sister and I would go outside with my dad and we would take a shot at 11:11. We started with shots of orange juice and then moved up to Fuzzy Navel and harder spirits. Today I had a shot for my dad, and also for my grandfathers and my dad's good friend Dave, who is a sweet teddy-bear of a man (he makes a mean fruit salad, and also does a killer Beverly Sills impression.) It's a strange "holiday" as such, one that doesn't get much play in this country, other than as a day off from school. Three years ago I was in England for Remembrance Day/Armistice Day, and it is a MUCH different affair there.

My parents and godmothers were visiting me, and we just happened to pick the Saturday before Remembrance Day as the day we'd go to Westminster Cathedral. We thought it was slightly odd that there were metal detectors up, and that everyone else was pretty elderly, but they let us through to the courtyard, where we saw this:

"Plots" for every branch of military service, nurses, drivers, etc. Everyone kept saying, "get to your plot" and of course we had no idea what was going on, having been let through in the first place only because we were wearing red poppies in our lapels, as was everyone else. (note: this starts in late October and runs 'til Remembrance Day. As my American Foreign Policy tutor, the legendary Andy Patmore, told me, "I wear the poppy for everyone who has died in war, not just the bloody British.) So we ended up hanging out with Ken the Veteran from Birmingham, and a passel of old women, who explained to us that this was the big Remembrance Day service, and that usually the Queen comes, but "her back was playing up" so it would be Prince Phillip this year. There was a procession from the church with trumpets and be-robed people, and at 11 they recited part of the For the Fallen poem by Laurence Binyon. Everyone (except the Wayward Americans) said the last part in unison,

"They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning,
We will remember them."

It totally sent chills down my spine. Just to see all the people who were there, and eavesdrop on their stories, was amazing, and the fact that everything stops at 11--even traffic--while people observe a moment of silence. It's much more potent there for many reasons. When we returned to Norwich, there was a Remembrance Day parade and there was another service at the Norwich Cathedral, as you can see from these pictures:


Most of my meaningful military experiences seem to start in England, oddly enough, and here is what happened on the Thanksgiving that I was there. A friend and I had gone out for waffles and chocolate mousse to console ourselves for being so far away from our families, and afterwards she headed to the shops and I headed to the market (Norwich has a HUGE open air market). There were lots of people milling about, so I stayed to see what was happening. It was the returning home parade for the East Anglian Regiment from Afghanistan, so we were standing there, and they processed down the road with bagpipes and bands, and the guy behind me yelled, "there's my son!" and everyone around me cheered. You could tell the soldiers were supposed to be serious, but they kept sneakily smiling and were so happy to be home, safe. Even though I was 20 at the time, they looked even younger than me.

The old woman next to me (we had been chatting about how short we were before the parade started) turned to me at one point, and lightly touched my arm, saying, "ach, my dear, they are barely more than boys." I burst into tears. I was trying to be quiet about it, because the Brits are, by and large, not big on the emotional displays. It was a combination of things that set me off--the youth of the soldiers, the happiness of their relatives, the fact that it was Thanksgiving and I missed home, the fact that so many people, in so many countries were fighting each other and not returning home, and on and on. The old man in front of me turned around and said, "you should be able to see better, young lady. Come in front of me." I tried to protest, but he was having none of it. So I moved up, and he smiled at me. "It's all better now," he said. "They're alright now."

This post, it turns out, has nothing to do with Indiana. I spent today doing 3 loads of laundry, cleaning my apartment, and translating part of a simplified version of The Decameron. And as this post has instead turned into "Anna's Greatest Hits England Stories" and needs to be wrapped up, I will end with two recommendations:
1. if you are interested in the current wars in Afghanistan and Iraq, do check out Generation Kill: Devil Dogs, Iceman, Captain America and the New Face of American War (2004) by Evan Wright. My cousin and I both read it after watching the miniseries (of the same name) on HBO. The miniseries is great too. Both are powerful, crazy, funny, moving, and horrifying.
2. As a creature of ritual, I have of late been listening to Masters of War by Bob Dylan and Alice's Restaurant by Arlo Guthrie on Veteran's Day. Both sum up a lot of what I feel about fighting in general.

And I'll close with a line from M*A*S*H: You've gotta understand. I'm not working on sick people here. I'm working on hurt young people, with essentially healthy bodies that have been insulted by ammunition. -- BJ

Anatomy of a Saturday

8:00 am: Wake up. Am annoyed because set alarm for 7:00 to write paper, a paper which I present in class on Monday. Curse alarm for technological deficiencies. Check alarm and see that I have set it for 7:00 pm. Curse self for brain deficiencies.
8:05-8:45 am: Shower, eat cold piece of pizza, check email.
8:45-9:15 am: Waste time on internet creating paper-playlist and reading Stephen Fry's blog.
9:15-10:15 am: Outline Velazquez section and start writing. Do not accomplish much.
10:15 am: put on multiple layers of clothing, plus a hat and gloves, and get picked up by two friends.
10:20-11:00 am: go to Starbucks, get hot chocolate, return to friends apartment where we put Baileys in the hot chocolate. Resuit up with multiple layers.
11:00-11:45 am: Walk to football field, partially through a field and partially on the road. Am feeling quite warm again. Take off some layers.
11:45-12:05 am: Buy tickets, wave enthusiastically at some people we know in the band, meet up with two other friends, get seats by the band. Prepare for Iowa-Indiana game.
12:05-2:00 pm: First half. Indiana was ahead, of all things (Iowa is ranked either number 1, or very close. IU is..not.) Also, in other hilarity, the two guys in front of us looked like noisy frat boys, but both of them had brought reading to do. We were slightly more raucous:


(some classy art historians do a touchdown dance)


(marching hundred rocks out "Livin' on a Prayer")

2:00-3:30 pm: Second half. We lost. It involved an intercepted pass with 25 seconds left. It was kind of a bummer.
3:30-3:50 pm: Band post-show. More interesting than the game. As one of my friend's said, "the band always wins!"
3:50-4:30 pm: Walk home. Sing a variety of walking songs as we are on the road--Hit the Road Jack, Highway to Hell, On the Road Again, etc.
4:30-5:00 pm: stare at computer. Curse Velazquez. Curse self for spending most of the day outdoors, and for having face hurting with both sunburn and windburn.
5:00-5:30 pm: On the phone.
7:30 pm: Velazquez section complete!
7:30-8:30 pm: Dinner break. Eat more cold pizza. Watch an episode of Jeeves and Wooster. Wonder for the 3,000th time why I do not live a life more like Bertie Wooster. Must make more friends named "Gussie Finknottle."
8:45 pm: Start Gentileschi section. Try to make sense of 6 pages of typed Gentileschi notes.

(desk/kitchen counter/sunglasses repository)
9:30 pm: Catch self singing along to Dolly Parton's Jolene and staring aimlessly at wall. Change music to Bach.
9:34 pm: My sister texts me from Bob Dylan concert. Have a Jealousy Moment.
10:30 pm: Go to mailbox in my pajamas. No mail.
11:45 pm: Trip over Mary Garrard's 900 pound divine Gentileschi textbook. Curse Mary Garrard for her divinity and gigantic book.
12:00 am: Walk around apartment, punching air and saying, "go to the mattresses!"
1:45 am: Final paragraph. Put on Eye of the Tiger for motivation.
1:57 am: Paper finished! Paper is eighteen pages long and for this presentation should be ten-ish. Which means tomorrow will be spent hacking chunks out, but eighteen pages is almost as long as it needs to be for the final, so that is pretty cool.
2:00/1:00 am: Ring in Daylight Savings Time. Hello, extra hour of sleep!!
2:25 am: finishing blog post. Emailing paper to self. Going to bed.

Grrl Power

I've had three random cultural experiences lately that involve female empowerment in varied ways; some positive, and some not. Here are my thoughts on them:

1. Legally Blonde: The Musical
Now, before you scoff, I should say that I really like Legally Blonde the movie. (Not as much as Spiceworld, but not everything can be Spiceworld, I suppose.) It's funny and cute and Elle Woods is a smiley role model who makes it through Harvard Law and takes on her sexually harassing professor and wins her court case and gets her man! So when one of my friends suggested we go to the musical version to blow off some academic related steam, I said sure.

The first thing we noticed was that the audience was about 98% female and about 95% blonde. After we sat down in our balcony nosebleeds, my friend said she'd never smelled so much perfume in her life, and I would agree. Elle is a sorority girl, and these, I can hazard a guess without overgeneralizing, were her people. And they were excited to be there! Sorority culture is pretty foreign to me, as my undergrad didn't have them, nor, admittedly, would I have probably joined one if they did. But, apart from the (alleged?) cattiness and (alleged?) superficiality, I think anything that promotes female solidarity and sisterhood is probably a good thing.

Okay, so Legally Blonde is not amazing, musically, but so help me, some of those songs are CATCHY. It has numbers titled, for example, "Omigod You Guys", with lines like "they're just like that couple in Titanic/except no one dies." Aaand, that was stuck in my head for way longer than I care to admit. "Bend and Snap" lived up to it's expectations, and "Ireland" was actually pretty lovely. Plus, Paulette is the best.(Yeah, that's a lotta pink. Thanks to alkpop for the image!)

2. A graphic novel about Isadora Duncan
This was the weirdest thing I've ever checked out of a library, I think. I was there to get another graphic novel, which wasn't there, so I just grabbed this graphic novel instead. I'd like to say that I liked it, but I didn't. So much of it was Duncan saying, "no one understands my art! I believe in truth and beauty! I'm so misunderstood!" Which was, I'm sure, true, but a little bit preachy. I did learn a lot, as the only thing I knew about Duncan before this was her untimely death, and she was actually a pretty cool lady. She was uncorseted at a time when women didn't do that, and she had multiple relationships and children with different fathers, and she didn't really care what people had to say about her. And she formed a school, which is still in existence. Duncan had success and lived in some amazing places (Paris, the French countryside, Moscow, Munich, Athens, New York, Chicago) but her story ultimately just made me feel vaguely depressed. The underlying message of this retelling of her story was that history was not kind to unconventional women. But oh my, could she dance.

(Thanks to Duncan Dancers for the images!)

3. Little Women: The Opera
I have, oddly enough, seen this opera twice. The first time was at Chautauqua, and mainly what I remember is that it was 9000 degrees in the balcony, and at one point my sister leaned over to me and whispered, "if Beth doesn't hurry up and DIE soon, I am going to get onstage and KILL HER MYSELF." Which kind of sums it up. The musicality of the Little Women I saw this past weekend was very good--especially Professor Bhaer, who had a nice aria about Goethe. So the singing was delightful, but I am not fond of the music itself, which meant that I couldn't really enjoy the opera as much. This is going to make me sound very stuck in my ways, but modern operas don't do it for me. This was composed in 1998, and it's too choppy for my tastes, although for that reason, the one aria that was a telegram actually worked pretty well.

At its core, Little Women is about sisterhood, about the four March sisters, and especially Jo, who doesn't want things to change. The point being, of course, that things must change, which eventually Jo realizes too (although it takes a LONG time, and a lot of whinging on her part..) I would imagine that it's physically a hard opera to sing. "Write Soon" was, to me, the best ensemble bit, and I did enjoy that.

Jo is a proto-feminist, a smart, savvy, independent writer. I don't remember if this is in the book (having last read it/had it read to me when I was about eight years old), but in the opera at least, Aunt March gives Jo her house in her will. And Jo turns it down, because there is more to life than "being surrounded by books and living in a house of stone" I would heartily agree, but as my life, currently, is being surrounded by books, it was a definite buzzkill on my mood.(I thought Jo was my favorite, but it might be Meg. Thanks to Book Group Buzz for the image!)

And to close with the immortal movie, Spiceworld: "They're hot, Chief! They've got fire in their eyes, hunger in their bellies... and great big shoes on their feet!" Something, indeed, that Elle Woods could get behind.

Mi piace. Non mi piace.

When you want to say you like something in Italian, you say, "mi piace xyz" which literally means, "xyz is pleasing to me". So then, of course, "non mi piace xyz" would describe something you don't like. I am tired and tired of thinking in a thematic, logical way, so here are some things that I piace and some things I non piace.

Mi piace hot apple cider
I've had some amazing varieties of this wonderful seasonal beverage lately. The Scholars Inn Bakehouse on 3rd has a lovely one, with caramel syrup. I had some at a party over the weekend that incorporated some sort of--bourbon? something from Kentucky anyway--which reminded me of glögg. I'm drinking some hot apple cider from a packet now, which is not quite as great but reminds me of my first year roomate, who introduced me to it. When we were very stressed she would boil up some water in our illegal water heater and make the cider, and I'd turn on the Christmas lights and we'd stop doing work and have a Harry Potter reading night. I miss that a lot.

Non mi piace being so far from home
An ongoing thing I dislike, nay, hate, but it's usually ok. I will fly home for Thanksgiving, which I am SUPER excited about, and otherwise I haven't been so homesick. But then this weekend, the father of one of my best friends from college was in a very bad car accident and things are a bit better than they originally thought, but still not good, and I hate that I can't be there for her. I think we're all sort of dealing with this, now that our college group of friends is spread out, and this is the first major crisis that we can't all be there for, and we're not quite sure how to emotionally handle it. And it's horrible. And I haven't met my baby cousin yet. I keep missing my families birthdays. I want to walk around Chautauqua when all the summer people are gone. I miss Prospect Park. There are many other examples.

Mi piace rain hitting the window when you are cozy in bed
Yesterday morning my alarm, which is NPR, went off and I didn't have to get up right away, so I lay there for a bit, listening to soothing British voices and listened to the rain and leaves smack on the window.

Non mi piace when the rain hitting your window turns out to be a tornado
So either I'm deaf or was in the shower, but I missed the tornado sirens, but I did hear my phone beeping a text alert, which told me to go to the lowest level of my building and "take safe shelter". Which I ignored, seeing as how I'm on the first floor and although the sky was a creepy pewter color, it didn't look too awful. And it wasn't, as the warning lifted about 20 minutes later.

Mi piace the fact that midterms are done
Self explanatory, really. I've got my seminar presentation in 10 days, which might actually be worse, but I will enjoy my mini-break while it lasts.

Non mi piace the fact that I made annoying mistakes on my midterms
So, I had an Italian test last night and an Islamic test today, about 15 hours apart. I'm quite certain I passed both of them, but mixed up some verbs on the Italian, which is annoying, and mixed up some dates on Islamic, which is even more annoying. I was 400 years off on a mosque, which then meant I wrote the wrong dynasty, and confused my brass basins (because, let's be honest, they sort of look the same). This is not a genuine problem, nor are midterms in general. Art history professors always tell you that they want the content right, and the dates don't matter as much, but something deep in my knit-picky nature is bothered by this.

Mi piace my friends here
After the exam today we met up outside the classroom to compare notes and console one another, and one of my fellow grad students had made Funfetti Halloween cupcakes, which is really what everyone needed! Over the weekend the Art History Association had a Halloween party (I was Nancy Drew) and got to hang out with some of the older students, which was really nice. And one of them (the only other NYer, which doesn't really count, because he's from Long Island) had brought his fiance, who got her MA in NYC and was from Rochester, so we had a good chat about Pinkberry and WEGMANS. An hour ago I somehow sliced my hand on my wall (sidenote: I just told this story to my father, who said, "that is the lamest thing I have ever heard") and didn't have bandaids. I prevailed on my upstairs neighbor for one, and we talked for awhile about England and how much we love it. All really sweet people.

Non mi piace missing Das Rheingold because I had to run errands
Actually, I don't mind missing Das Rheingold, as such, because I'm not in love with Wagner enough to want to listen/watch his operas for 3 1/2 hours. But anyway, I was supposed to go to Met at the Movies tonight with someone and was trying to think how to beg off, because my apartment was a disaster (one thing about midterms that I had forgotten is that you just eat whatever you can, whenever you can) and I needed to do dishes and pick all the papers off the floor, where I had shoved them off the bed before I went to sleep last night. Fortunately, the person I was supposed to go with is also stressed and bailed first, so I didn't have to feel guilty.

Mi piace the smells of Fall
Wood smoke. Musty leaves. Mud. Clear air. You know what I mean.

Non mi piace the current smell of this apartment
What is smells like is burnt, because I was attempting to toast an English Muffin in the oven for dinner and burned it (how?? why?? who can say).

Mi piace ALL OF YOU
Good night!

Please Put on Some Pants

Events have transpired this week to make me feel old, and not in a cool way. In a curmudgeon way. Such events include:

1. A worrying pain in both my knees. I do have one torn ACL, so that makes sense, but I think climbing into and hopping out of buses is doing them no favors. They also have been aching in the mornings when it is cold. This makes me feel approx. 105 years old.

2. This morning I was buying wine (amongst other things) at the grocery store, and the cashier kept staring at my ID and staring at me. I smiled in a sort of disarming way, and she handed it back, saying suspiciously, "well, I guess that's you. It looks enough like you. I also had trouble finding your birthdate on there." Now, the confusing nature of NY licenses is not really my fault, and if I were to use a fake ID, it would NOT be with the picture that is on my license. I look better now than I did at age 16, I feel pretty confident in saying. So maybe not looking like my license is actually complimentary? Either way, my 16 year old self seems to be mocking me, with her blondeness and youth and slightly surly mug-shot expression.

3. The way that underclassmen seem to look younger and younger every year. My senior year in undergrad, I thought the incoming first-year class looked like they were 15. It's even worse now.

This final point is the main crux of my curmudgeon tendencies of late, in that I've been seeing a lot of female students wearing leggings in place of pants, and my immediate mental reaction is something along the lines of, "please put on some pants. Do you want people to respect your mind or your body? What would Gloria Steinem say about this nonsense?!" I'm about two horrifying mental steps away from, "listen honey, he won't buy the cow when he can get the milk for free. Cover it up."

I think I make a distinction between women who wear revealing clothing because it makes them feel nice and confident (rock on!) and women who wear revealing clothing to attract the opposite (or same) sex. Which concerns me. But a part of feminism is that women should be able to wear whatever they want, without having to justify their actions to a predominantly male gaze. One of my favorite sections of The Vagina Monologues is called "My Short Skirt," and it ends defiantly and wonderfully with: "But mainly, my short skirt--and everything under it--are mine. Mine. Mine." We deserve to be respected, demand to be respected, no matter what we wear. But that's not the reality, is it?

I am worried for these girls (and I do mean girls). We were coming home late last Saturday night and drove by a student, walking alone, tottery in high heels, shivering, and wearing a very tiny dress. My friend who was driving slowed down a bit and we did a quick check of her as we went by. "Do you think she'll get home ok?" "I don't think she's drunk, she seems to be walking pretty straight." "Her friends must have left her at a party." "I wonder where her dorm is." "There are enough lights here that she should be ok, right?" We weren't fussing about her outfit, but about her safety. And that is a much, much bigger problem for more than just one girl, alone on a Saturday night.

At least I've got company in my mothering/judging tendencies. My close friends all joke about how we're like prematurely old ladies (the knitting, the wine, the love of Murder She Wrote, the early bedtimes, etc), but my new friends here are on much the same wavelength. A few weeks ago I was asking one about the home football game she had gone to, and she said, "it was really fun! Oh, except, oh..this is mortifying. There was this idiot drunken frat boy behind me, and he kept swearing, and finally I turned around and said, 'Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?!' And then realized I sounded exactly like MY mother, AND he was 5 years younger than me, and he looked at me like I was from another planet."

The summer after my first year of college I was working in the Children's Room of the public library in my home town, and a boy came up to me--he was probably about 9 years old--and said, "you look like my friend's mom! Are you his mom?" Since I was 19 at the time I was suitably horrified by this, and proceeded to wail about it on my break. One of the reference librarians told me that she was doing a tour once for a first grade class, and they kept telling her that their teacher, "Old Lady Rizzo," would be coming in soon. When she arrived, "Old Lady Rizzo" turned out to be in her early 20s, the point of this story being that to a 9 year old, anyone older than 18 looks like someones parent. And that I should just embrace it.

And the point of this post is that I might not agree or approve of what you are wearing and the message it gives off, but I will always defend your right to wear it, and to be proud of yourself. Even if you make me feel old. And maybe that doesn't make me quite so curmudgeonly, after all.

David Sedaris

I've never been big on book signings, but David Sedaris seems to be the exception to the rule. I wasn't planning on waiting around until the small hours of the morning to meet him, but that is what happened a few weeks ago, when he came to do a reading at the IU Auditorium.

Here is why I wanted to meet David Sedaris:
1. His books have actually made me laugh out loud, in public, and have been familiar things to read when I'm scared or stressed in a new place.
2. His reading of the Santaland Diaries for This American Life got me through working retail in NYC last year. I listened to it a freakish amount, and it always helped to remind me that it could be worse. I could be wearing an elf costume and getting yelled at, instead of just getting yelled at. Also, his rendition of Away in a Manger, sung like Billie Holiday, is gold.
3. He sums up how I feel about so many things, except in a way that is funnier than me. Sallie Mae, language classes, Dutch Christmas legends, the way Americans act in Paris, the importance of soap operas, his love songs to NYC, the manicness of his family--all of it.
4. One of my best friends from home wanted to come out for it and couldn't, and I wanted to have a good report back for her.

David Sedaris is one of those people who is funny in print, but even better when read aloud. I have never been in an auditorium where there was so much laughing, howling even. I was next to these two older women from South Bend, and they were both doubled over for most of the night. His writing can be raunchy and downright disturbing, but there is always a kernel of truth to it, that makes you think in the midst of all the absurdities. It sounds like a cliche, but parts of his stories make you laugh one line and then tear up the next. After hearing him read, I decided to buy his newest book, Squirrel Seeks Chipmunk, a sort of book of animal fables, which he calls a bestiary, because, as he put "fables tend to imply that there are morals involved, and I don't have any of those." (sidenote: this is a DARKLY funny book. I'm not sure what to make of it, although I did very much like it by the end. If you like DS, you would like it. If you normally don't, you would decidedly not.)

What is cool is that Sedaris tries out some of his newer material on the audience, and judging by their reaction, tweaks it or adds it to the book he is currently working on. The best part was his reading of excerpts from his diary. He edits at the podium, too--you can see him circling things or crossing them out or putting stars next to them, or he'll say things like, "oops, wrong placed apostrophe! Apologies."

So afterwards I joined many other people in line, which seemed to not go forward at all as the hours went by. The reason the line was taking so long is because Sedaris spends seriously 5 minutes with each person. And the line kind of turned into a big party--people were reading his books out loud, ordering pizza and sandwiches to the line, giggling about his police protection--who looked like identical twins, or lying down coats and taking a nap. People had taken the train in from Chicago, some had 8 am classes, the woman next to me was in town from Sarasota, and we all stayed. "He'll stay until he's met everyone," said the booksellers. I wasn't the end of the line, by a long shot, and I didn't get to meet him until 2 am.

My first impression was how TIRED he looked, with redrimmed eyes and the stubble start of a beard. At the reading, he'd mentioned that his flight had gotten canceled that morning, and I checked later and he was reading in Atlanta later that day. Book tours must be exhausting, all that hand shaking and forced cheerfulness. Except, with him, it WASN'T forced. I managed to tamp down my first inclination, which was to say, "god, you poor man, you look so tired." Instead, I said (very suavely! HA), "thank you for staying here so late. I'm glad you did."

"My pleasure," he said, with a smile. Then he asked some questions about me, and who the books were for, and we discussed lawnmowers (the inscription in mine says something about lawnmowers--don't ask), and then out of nowhere, he said, "are you here alone tonight?" (when I told this to the friend who so graciously picked me up, she gasped and said, "was he trying to SEDUCE YOU?!" I had to explain that's he's gay and been monogamously partnered for years.)

"I am," I replied. (I actually ended up having a seat near an acquaintance--neither of us knew beforehand that the other was going to be there--but like any normal person she had managed to snag him for a signing before the show, and was now presumably asleep.)

"Well!" Sedaris said, pulling a box out from under his chair. "Then I have something for you. Here are some business cards that say, 'Stop Talking' on them. You can hand them out to annoying people at movies, or people on their phones, whatever. And it's much more polite than saying 'Shut Up', or something."

"People on their cell phones are the worst, especially on the bus!!" I said. And then we had a nice little vent about why we dislike cell phones. And then we shook hands. I said goodbye to the people in line, and went home to read.

I said nothing witty or interesting, but I did make him laugh at one point, and was totally starstruck. And he was so nice. If you like his work and have a chance to see him, I would so recommend it.

For more on David Sedaris, if you are uninitiated, here is a bio. Check out here for some of his audio, including the Santaland Diaries. And here for a fairly comprehensive older interview. And finally, an abstract for his newest New Yorker article, and a past one on voting, since I just watched the NY gubernatorial debates (which were, by the way, as funny and heartbreaking as David Sedaris so often is.)

Frustrations

It's before 10 pm on a Friday night and I am in my pajamas, in bed. I am actually really thrilled about this, as it's been a frustrating few days--in minor ways that bother me slightly and slightly until I finally realize what has been frustrating about it. (More on that in a minute.) Today wasn't frustrating at all, though! I had some meetings (ok, a little frustrating) but also good, heartfelt chats with two other grad students. We're all trying to work through some of the feelings of inadequacy you have when you start grad school--my main one, I think, is gaps in theory, while someone else is worried about reading critically, or articulating our thoughts in class without being intimidated, or time management, things like that. It's nice to talk that over with someone. And then I went over to my sister's roommate's parents--could that be any more confusing?--house for dinner, which was great: crab enchiladas, avocado salad, pumpkin beer, and persimmon puddings, plus a game of Quiddler after dinner for good measure. They are super sweet people. And getting off campus makes for a very nice change.

But anyway, frustrations, which upon reflection fall under the broad umbrella of xenophobia. The first (and worst) instance happened on Tuesday night, at a talk given by my Islamic Art professor at the rare books library. She was talking about Islamic book arts from the 7th-10th centuries, with some snacks afterward, and a chance to look up close at some of the books. So I'd just settled in with my glass of wine for the in-depth viewing when the woman seated behind me spoke up. She is an older woman who I've seen at a few other art events, and the first genuinely grumpy person I have met here. She has a cane and I truly believe she would hit me with it. Here's what happened:
Older woman, to my professor: Are you a Muslim?
Professor, smiling: Ah, I'm equidistant from all religions. Because I'm an academic.
Older woman: Your first name is Christiane, isn't it? Isn't it interesting that you're not studying Christian art. Your first name should be Moslema or something. [the friend I'm sitting next to jabs me in the ribs at this point]
Professor: Well, as you can tell by my name, I'm likely not from a Muslim tradition! I study Islamic art because I find it beautiful and interesting. The religion, and my religion, have no bearing on it.

My professor handled it really well, but it was mortifying for all concerned. First of all, the assumption that you would study something solely based on your religion is pretty offensive, and it is something that is NEVER asked of Christian art historians. I can almost guarantee that. And the way she quizzed my professor was so accusatory, which probably has to do with the fact that my professor is young. Then there is the underlying idea that non-Western art is not worth studying unless you're a Muslim or a Buddhist, say, because those are the only people who would be interested in it--because it's not "real" art. Infuriating.

Related, and a more broad-ranging frustration, is the general xenophobia of every Western art history text I've read this semester, written before, say, 1980. I'm sure there are many unbiased, lovely texts from this period, but I haven't met them yet. The Italian bias is especially starting to really bother me, which is problematic since I study Italian art. For example, I had to read a book this week on Rembrandt, where the author's thesis was that Rembrandt was an offensive and repulsive artist until he finally accepted Vasari and Italian art theory into his life and then he was slightly a less offensive and repulsive artist. And this is from a book ON Rembrandt. Everything I read about him was comparing him to Titian, or wanting to imitate Italian artists and not being quite good enough. And there is so much underlying misogyny. I've learned to accept it from primary sources, indeed, expect it, but when it's scholars' misogyny and I don't have a proper classroom outlet for talking about it...blahh!

These are not major events, but they do point to an underlying trend of religious and cultural intolerance that I don't know what to do with. And the privileging of one culture over another. I love Italian art history. But sometimes I really, really wish I studied something else.

PS Today is my MAMA'S BIRTHDAY!! HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!!!! xoxoxoxoxxo ...Which also means I am 23 and a half. It's been a whizz-bang year so far!