For someone who avoids drama ...

Lord have mercy, there has been a ton of it in my life lately.

Mostly it is family drama, none of which I feel I can elaborate on yet.  When I can, it will be a doozy of a post and I'll just recommend now that you sit down, pop open an adult beverage or several, and read.  Trust, the story will get told, just not today, as the story is "developing" as the news always says. 

I started classes this past week -- Data Analysis in Public Systems and Public Administration in a Political Environment.  Neither one are required for my Ph.D., per se, but both will be immensely helpful as I get back into the swing of studying, learning and contributing.  Both are online -- which I like -- but also the first classes I've ever taken online.  *hitches up pants* Back in MY day, you had to go to class, yep, trudge all the way in, sometimes TWICE a week and actually meet with your classmates in person ...

Making plans to return to Indiana over Thanksgiving.  See the fam, see friends, hang out. 

Family.  Kinda makes me understand this guy's business.

Overheard on Campus

Have you ever read the blogs "Overheard in ____?"  If not, check 'em out.  I'll wait.


Oh, goodie, you are back.

I was walking on campus today when I heard the following exchange between two young women about a young man they had met:

Girl 1: Yeah I want an LL Bean backpack, I heard they last forever.

Girl 2: Me too. 

Girl 2: So I met this guy the other day ... and he had a Buzz Lightyear backpack.

Girl 1: Uh huh (snorted incredulously)

Girl 2: And I was like, dude, you are a 25 year old man, what woman would date you with that backpack?

Girls 1 & 2: *snorting laughter*

***************************

And so here is a rule for all you young men returning to campus.  No woman thinks you are cute wearing your Buzz Lightyear backpack.  Likely they think you: a) stole it from your much-younger brother, b) got it from your Mom in 3rd grade and can't bear to break her heart about not using it now, or c) are a pedophile and not to be trusted.    Please note: not one of these options say "date me now."

I return to school and get pissed off.

Let me say this -- IU was by no means perfect in its policies and procedures but compared to the overall cluster-fuck of Florida Gulf Coast University, it was a slice of heaven.

Point 1: "College" employees are not considered state employees while "University" employees are considered state employees.  Please explain to me the difference as we both receive the majority of our funding from the State.

Point 2: Until 4:30 on Friday evening, I was unaware that I had to shell out nearly 2K for school by the next Friday.  Yeah.  Let me know how that fits into YOUR budget.  Needless to say, I'm pulling funds out of my 401K.

Point 3: I cannot receive financial aid.  While I understand why, this sure would have been nice to know, say MONTHS ago.

Point 4: Three trips to FGCU and I didn't know point 1-3 until Friday.


************

Repeating over and over "you are applying to good schools for fall 2011, eyes on the prize"

I have a feeling I will be found on a city streetcorner with a paper cup mumbling this phrase over and over while begging for change. 

Damn.

Ireland

Suffice to say I didn't hit all the high points in my last post about Ireland.  You, dear reader, should know I learned a new language on vacation, or, rather, a few new words on vacation.  On Monday, as I wheeled my luggage approximately 20 blocks to a bus stop (no joke), I was lumbering along and this woman (dressed a touch a la homeless) steps in front of me, backing up, towards a bus across the street.  I go around her (because she is officially In The Way Of My Progress) and my reward was to be called a fouking khunt. 

Fouking khunt.  Yep.  There's some new vocab words for ya kids.

Also on the trip -- driving.

While I didn't drive in Dublin, I did drive FROM Dublin on Wednesday as we headed out to Cashel, home of the Rock of Cashel, a rather famous castle.  The Rock is where Brian Boru was crowned king of Ireland kind-of famous.

To describe driving in Ireland as anything less than a video game would be to give it a disservice.  It seemed like "Frogger" the early Atari-edition, as it seemed that I was the Frog and every few hundred yards another object would require me to go around.  Dogs, old men walking, children on bikes, old women on bikes, old men carrying packages, mopeds, motorcycles passing in and out of traffic, cars careening to a stop on cross-roads, you name it, I maneuvered around it.  Add driving on the left, shifting with my left hand (oh yes, it was a stick-shift) and my inherent fear that eminent death was coming and you get one hell of a combination. 

So we get to Cashel.  Apparently in Cashel, addresses are not what you and I know them as.  Our bed and breakfast address was simply put as "The Rock, Cashel."  I might also tell you that every-fucking-thing in that town was Rock-SomethingorAnother, at least as far as B&Bs go.  After making a wrong turn, confusing another carload of tourists (who, stupidly enough, followed my make-your-own-detour route), and turning into the Rock of Cashel's "parking" lot, I had reached the upper limits of my patience. 

"Parking" in Ireland can be roughly described as "put your car in park just any old place, no, no, don't bother with lined spaces, just STOP THE CAR AND GET OUT." So entering the Rock of Cashel's parking lot was similar to a clusterfuck on a grand scale.  Now picture every single person in one of those aforementioned parked cars wandering around like they've never been out of the mental hospital before. 

Then I discover that we have to pay 4 euro to get out of this Godforesaken hell of a Parking Lot and I blow the first of a few gaskets.  I shout at Angela to find the euro and then I tell her I am pulling over and "see that man there, that guy sweeping?  Go ask him where in the HELL we are supposed to be!!!" 

Angela talks to the man, who directs her to another man, one driving a streetsweeper.  As she and he approach the vehicle, I am absolutely boiling over with rage at the utter clusterfuck of humanity that has now surrounded the car.  Add a few people honking their horns behind us (although I am pulled over and not in the way) and you can imagine I was ready to kill.

Angela opens the car door and is greeted with my rage.  "FUCKING FUCKERS WON'T GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY FUCKING WAY!!!," I shout.  She looks at me rather incredulously and tells me to calm down.  Meanwhile, the street sweeper guy tells us to "follow the yellow lorry" as he has deduced that telling me directions at this point is fruitless.  Smart man.

Angela gets in the car, basically starts laughing at me and then, THEN, our little car decides it wants to die. 

I gun the engine. 

Just as a little old lady steps in front of the car.

She leaps a mile, her husband looks at me and smiles/laughs and soon we are on our way, following the yellow lorry, escaping from the hell that is the Rock of Cashel parking lot.

Needless to say, the Guinness never tasted so good.

(International Incident Avoided, BARELY)

St. FUBAR is my friend.

Alright, so it is Saint Finbar, but truly, when things have been going this right, who is to complain?

A checklist for now (to satisfy your curiosity) then more detail later:

* cute Irish men (check)
* delicious Guinness (check)
* Dublin touristy shit (check)
* Castles, castles, castles (check)
* creepy B&B owners (check)
* sleep (check)
* old shit? (check)
* ancient shit? (check)
* ferry ride (check)
* bicycle rental (check)
* sore ass? (check)
* cute Irish boy to work that sore ass out (no check -- sigh)

Nothing more to detail now, too many Guinness, too many flirty Irish men and am ready for bed (alone) ... more later.  love to all. 

The Words of Another Speak To Me.

Read a friend's blog today -- and it spoke to me.  Not in a whisper, but in a shout, from which I am just beginning to recover.

The blog isn't on the bloglist, as he prefers his privacy (and I can't blame him) but My Oh My, I wish I could share his words with the world.  I'll steal a passage for you (you'll forgive me, dear author. Right?  right?) so you know what is is that spoke to me so eloquently.

"Or, for example, if you are my rednecked Welfare-scamming relatives and you drive a gleaming wheeled phallus of a bitchin’ Camaro, with chrome shit sticking out of the hood, and the catalytic convertor cut off – because it’s too much trouble to repeat yourself to everyone you meet: “Hi, I’m a douchebag. Hi, I’m a douchebag. Hi, I’m an asshat, and my name is…” well, that sweet-ass ride needs 102 octane fuel. 102 octane fuel, as every crank yankin’ boy-racer who never really left high school could readily tell you, is “Racin’ Gas.” Racing Gas is fabulously expensive. Who can afford crap that is Fabulously Expensive? Only those in The Big Time. Those who are just a little superior to the rest of us. Those who, even at the tender age of 40 (yeah, forty!) have never needed to get real jobs, because their mommies subsidize their flashily idiotic lifestyles, their multiple wives (and the wives’ legal issues, to boot), all the toys they need to paste shiny High Roller veneers of success over a pasty, slimy, reality pocked and besmottred with alcoholism, mental illness, unresolved Oedipal complexes, and (that’s right-fuck you!) double-digit IQs."

Now if you are like me and have relatives like this, it hits home.  Like smack-between-the-eyes home.  Unrelenting truth about relatives that I try to avoid thinking about.  It is these very relatives (of mine, mind you) that keep me pushing, pushing, PUSHING for more in my own life.  I don't want to settle for a life of dedicated ignorance, criminal activity and one-channel-news-only when the whole big world out there is asking me to explore it. 

Maybe that's my bias. In fact, I know that is my bias. I wear that with a badge of honor much like I wore my Girl Scout sash so long ago -- with a mixture of pride and nerdiness, wrapped in the mantle of personal responsibility.  I am dedicated to learning more, doing more, exploring more, thinking more ... and trying to fit the whole big world into what makes me, well, me.

What makes me, me?  A few things that come to mind, perhaps you, dear reader, could add to it.

*unrelenting sarcasm
*a belief that I can positively impact the world through my existence
*there will never be enough hours for me to read all the books I want to read
*believe that homosexuals should be afforded the same rights in marriage/property/estates as hetrosexuals.
*napping as an art form
*art perplexes me, but I remain endlessly fascinated by it
*willingness to sing in the shower or in the car -- but only alone. 
*that being called a 'nerd' has positively impacted my life more than ever being called 'beautiful'
*an understanding that I am not the least bit perfect and nor do I strive to be.  In Anything.
*pedicures and massages
*trying to find the bright side, even when it all seems so hopelessly dim.
*travel -- new places, new people, alternative lives.
* ?

One Week To Ireland ... and 15 Minutes Left of Sanity

At this time next week, I'll be arriving in Chicago for the flight to Ireland.  I think it finally hit me this weekend, I am going to Ireland and I am going there pretty darn soon.  Wowzers.

Not much to report.  I'm exhausted and more exhausted.  Could seriously nap under my desk right now.  Might even consider it if I thought I could do it without talking in my sleep.  Perhaps I need to turn on the radio on the computer?

The grant is coming along.  Everyone's sections are due again at 5 p.m. today.  Want this over with.