More exciting news, for me, anyway

I get to see widdle Greg on Wednesday. AHH! SO EXCITED! I dressed, inadvertently, like a mom today, and therefore I believe that it is only fitting that I will get to be the one getting up that night every two hours to feed the little tyke and change his diaper.

Normal people, I know, don't get excited about losing sleep for an adorable, helpless infant, but I make no claims and try to tell no lies. I first started sleeping lightly, anyway, when I was 13, which is when my littlest sister was born. I would wake up in the middle of the night and bring her to mom. It was very traumatizing, one night, after she'd developed a bad cough that would only go away if she were picked up, when my mother and I both rushed to the crib during a particularly awful coughing spell, and mom, getting there first, broke her toe on a little stool accidentally left there by one of my many other siblings.

I hope to break no toes this Thanksgiving, get very little sleep, and eat plates of ham, turkey, mashed potatoes, stuffed mushrooms, stuffing and pumpkin pie. I might eat some vegetables, too, but I'm not sure about that yet.

AHHHH!! SO EXCITED!!

I make up words when I'm lonely

Hup-lah (hoop-la) (noun): An epic trip that usually takes place after college graduation to stave off the real world. For example: Abigail plans to go to California after May to go on a huplah with her friends.

Huplah must not be confused with hoopla (bustling excitement or activity; commotion; hullabaloo; to-do), even though spelling and meaning are oddly similar.

--

I had been thinking of going on a huplah to Peru. After all, when would I really ever get the chance again to blow some hypothetical dollars using a credit card and have the adventure of a lifetime, all without worrying about classes (because they've ended), and student loans (because they're not due for six months)? My sense of adventure is not as strong as Jamaican rum, however, and, as a result, I want to share my huplah with someone. That someone is a good friend who lives in a cozy little town somewhere north of Sacramento, California.

Which means, of course, that I've got some plannin' to do. Huplahs have very specific guidelines, especially because they signify the end of freedom as relatively carefree college students know it.

I get hit on at the most random times

"I apologize for my curtness."

"I like your curtness. It's cute."

"Are you hitting on me?"

"No, I'm way out of your league."

"Oh?"

"You're like an eight, and I'm like a negative three."

In other, more exciting news

For our "extra credit" quiz/mid-term/whatever in Spanish, I earned a 9/10. I'm not sure what that means for my grade overall, but a 9/10 is much better than a 61/100.

Next Tuesday, for more "extra credit," these three slackers from my class and I will give a presentation on Peru. I will be talking about the weather, and giving the introduction. During the rest of my research, I will be trying to stay from any sites involving airplanes and booking possibilities, because I've already discovered that a flight there and back, not flexible, costs about $500. It's so very tempting to purchase such a ticket when the wind in Brooklyn sneaks up your sleeves and into your bones, while it bites your nose and clips off the tips of your ears.

I don't care if the weather in Peru is unpredictable. The natives are going to the beach this time of year and what am I doing? I'm sitting in a drafty apartment and trying to figure out how to fix the computer-related mistakes I foolishly made.

Trying to be an adult, yet always failing miserably

Insert an inappropriate curse word here. Several times.

Yesterday, I decided, in order to increase my laptop's start-up time and to clear disk space, that I would delete the programs I don't really use. I deleted about 10 such programs, including several expired "free trial" MSN games, AOL, and an instant messenger program.

It took a little time, but I soon noticed that my saved Word documents no longer were identified by the little 'W' icon. They were now rich text documents, as revealed by the little notebook and 'A' icon.

Additionally, a little warning '!' thingie announced in the right hand corner of the screen that my computer was no longer protected by an anti-virus program, and that I should get one ASAP--AS IN, RIGHT NOW--if I wanted to avoid losing my computer all together as a result of a malicious email or website designed by someone with waaay too much time and IQ.

I haven't discovered yet what else I may have inadvertently deleted, but, whatever it is, I hope it wasn't important.

A little bit of crooked sunshine

She was a little taller than waist level, bundled up in a pink coat, with a blue hat and white flower. She was standing in front of me, not exactly looking at me. I glanced down, smiled, and said, “Hi!”

Children usually make my day better. There is no guile, no sarcasm, no cruelty. Their smiles are genuine, their energy infectious.

She smiled, still not quite looking at me, not quite looking away. Then she started walking toward me, as her parents, waiting to pay for their Starbucks drinks, watched.

She hugged me. Confused, I patted her back as her father said, “She never gives me hugs!” and her mother, handing a card to the cashier said, “That’s just the way she is. She says hi to the people she wants to say hi to.”

The hug over, the little girl retreated, and then started to wander away, behind a pillar. Her mother grabbed the receipt and then quickly grabbed her daughter. The Starbucks drinks disappeared into a bag, and then the small family was gone.

Mornings and brand-new babies

The last few tendrils of sleep had begun to barely drift away when my cell phone buzzed.

I was so warm--so warm, and cozy, subconsciously delighted that the winter drafts had not yet begun to invade my sleepy mornings--that I groaned, thinking, no, please, it can't be time to get up yet. Not yet.

I reached for my cell phone, saw a text message--two text messages, three.

He's here; he's finally arrived.

I'll text them back at a reasonable hour, I decided, the ache in my head winning out over the joy I might have possibly felt if I'd possessed full, coherent thoughts.

Five minutes later, my phone buzzed again, this time repeatedly. A call. I groggily reached for my phone again, and managed to get one eyelid open enough to see the name. My 8-year-old sister, calling from her brand-new cell.

I'll call her back later, I decided.

Two seconds later, another buzz. Voicemail.

I reached for my phone and turned it to "alarm only." I still had another hour before I got up, and it was best for everyone if I slept until then.

When I finally made it out of bed, I had three or four pictures texts, two regular texts, one missed call and a voicemail.

The baby is finally here, the delivery went well, he's an absolutely doll, mom is doing fine.

I, and the rest of siblings, are now aunts and uncles for the third time. Hello, beautiful Baby Greg*. I can't wait to meet you, hopefully at a decent hour. As in, some time after 10 or so, perhaps.



*Not his real name. His real name is so interesting and unique that you probably wouldn't believe me if I told it to you. I decided to nickname him something "normal." Greg is very normal.

We who are about to die

I am an editor at the better newspaper (there's two rival newspapers. Interesting and long history behind that) at my school. I give them advice on layout (which they don't want to take) and fix things they mess up (sometimes without telling them, and they don't realize why it's so much better). I also update their website, usually on a weekly basis.

I try to give them their space; they're all editors who are more important than I, with specific expectations on how their newspaper is run. I am something of an outsider and loner, having leaped into an editor position since I'd already climbed the ranks at my other school.

I usually don't comment on what they do.

Except, this time, they wrote something in their editorial that struck me. They wrote, "We at the ______ salute you." They were writing it to the young voters who turned out in record numbers for this election. This particular statement struck me because I've learned about Roman history. I've even watched the well-made movie Gladiator. I hope you have as well, because it is really a good movie, despite the incest and gore. There is a scene where the gladiators stand in the ring, prepared to die. They face the emperor, salute him, and shout, "We who are about to die salute you."

Historical fact: gladiators saluted the emperor when they were about to die--dying for the entertainment of the masses, who wanted gore and bread.

I'm not sure what the use of this particular phrase says about my newspaper, or my school, or my country. I merely found it to be an unfortunate use of words that were usually the last words of a man condemned to death, before he fought for his life in front of a crowd who could determine his fate merely by the position of an outstretched thumb.

There's no point here. Go read somewhere else.

I like animals. I really do. I'm just not sure how capable I am when it comes to taking care of one for an extended period of time--say, years. After all, I once had a lovebird and after some time I gave it to my younger brother, in whose possession the poor thing met an untimely death when my dad exposed it to the chill of a Pennsylvanian winter night. Or so the story goes.

I like cute, baby animals. That's about as far as I go. Then, some months ago, I found the perfect pet. I'm not sure why I was digging around for a pet. I don't even intend to get a pet. I suppose I merely accidentally stumbled across it. But if I ever did seriously think about getting a pet (besides a kitten from my favorite California pals), it would be this.

All hypothetical, of course. I can't afford nor do I have the time for a pet right now. Yet, a mini hedgehog is nocturnal, cute, cuddly, clean, and could fit in the palm of my hand, or so they claim. Sounds perfect to me.

Today, I found a blogger who claims to want a miniature hippo. In my opinion, the only thing weirder than wanting a miniature hedgehog is wanting a miniature hippo. Yet, she linked to this:


Now, in my opinion, the only thing cuter than a miniature hedgehog is a miniature hippo.

And that's the weirdest post I've ever posted at 2:30 a.m. Good night.

Outcome of the Spanish exam

61. A 'C', the prof says.

But he's going to give a present -- an extra credit opportunity next Thursday. A 30-question quiz, with a list of 60 verbs to choose from.

I haven't earned an exam grade in the 60s since my high school pre-calculus class, where I was the only girl. Granted, there were only three students in that class altogether, but still.

Middle of the week update

Today, all of a sudden, as I realized that it was already Wednesday, and thought, my goodness, where did Tuesday go, my ridiculous schedule hit me. There aren't enough hours in the day to work three jobs, take 18 credits and try sustain some sort of social life. There just aren't, and I'm tired.

I'm drained from trying to coax thick-skulled undergrads towards coherent thoughts, amused that a certain coworker hit on me today, and worried--worried that I'm not going to get my projects done, that I'm not going to graduate on time because I can't find Spanish 2 to take over the winter break, and that I may just shrivel up and die.

Despite all that, I'm having a good time, and I'm horribly excited about getting my room finished before Monday. It's going to be such a cozy little nook that you'll be getting jealous and marking down the name of the paint I used on my walls (which I didn't choose, but I love). Boo yah.

I don't know who you are, but I'm sorry I wasn't there

I missed a call this morning at 11:08 a.m. I was putting the finishing touches on my old bedroom, which included giving it the once over and vacuuming like a loony toons character because was I was about to be late for work if I didn't leave soon.

Today, I moved from the apartment I lived in since the beginning of the summer. I moved in with a friend, someone I'd spent the last eight or so months getting to know. On a whim, I'd asked if she wanted to be my roommate, and to my surprise and delight, she said absolutely.

Walking to the train, I listened to the message I had missed. Someone, let's call her Mariam, was turning 20 today, and her sister, let's call her Faris, was throwing a surprise birthday party. Faris wanted to know if I could come-she got my number off her sister's phone-could I call to let her know?-she understood if I couldn't come-she even understood if I had to come late.

I couldn't make out the names and it sounded like no one I was familiar with anyway, and I decided not to call her back.

On the way home from work, I received a text:

Hey girl, this is Mariam's sis Faris. Just wanted 2 know if u can come! Trust me u dont hav 2 get her anything. Just u coming is a big surprise! Plz reply ty.

Ah, I realized that Mariam must have been one of the girls in my group presentation last week. We'd exchanged numbers and email addresses, but I hadn't really learned anyone's name--I only knew them by face. I certainly hadn't expected anyone to put my number in their phone, or for any sisters calling me to ask me to come to a surprise party for someone I only knew in passing.

It wasn't worth a lengthy text explanation, I decided. Faris must have called dozens of strangers asking them to come to a surprise party. That's unnerving, difficult work, even for a sister you loved. Keeping with the spirit of the day, I texted her back:

Unfortunately, i can't come. :-( But thanks for the invite! Please wish her happy birthday for me.

She responded:

:-( its Ok ... Sure on [sic] prob I will tell her .. Take care bye

Hehe, I thought. I hope Mariam had a good birthday. I hope she was surprised.

And me? My move? It was amazing and painless, except for the poor guys trying to get my sofa bed into my bedroom. They removed some paint from the door frame and it was difficult, but we all gave a rousing "HURRAH!" when they succeeded.

And someone commented: "That's why they have cheerleaders."

Condensed

I bombed the midterm.

I'm moving tomorrow. I mean, I'm moving today, in another 15 hours.

The end.