What an ugly rollercoaster, but the view from the top is breathtaking...

I don't even know where to begin this post. Since last, I've turned 22, gotten a haircut, driven to Timmins, Ontario for the best wedding ever, been the happiest I've ever been, cried, seen a moose and THREE bears, been denied at my Grad School of choice, and recovered three dining room chairs. I guess you could say that I've been busy. But let's start at the beginning...

On the 23rd I turned 22. I feel slightly older, but mostly just disappointed at where I am at this point in my life. Frankly, I never thought I would live this long-- I didn't think I'd make it out of High School. Regardless, it was a nice enough day. I bought myself a new green canvas jacket, my mother paid for a much-needed haircut and pedicure (how nice!) and we had key lime pie after a dinner at home with my family. The pie was absolutely delicious, and it was far, far too hot for cake, so that worked out quite nicely. Regarding the haircut, I've never had it this short before-- just skimming my shoulders. Everyone who has commented on it so far has said nice things, and it's nice to have it dry in a shorter time. All in all, I like it. My toes are painted "Double Decker Red" and I've been wearing flipflops a LOT as a result!

On Thursday after work I drove up to Lansing and met up with Baby, and she and I carpooled up to Timmins for the wedding. It took us the full twelve hours, and we drove through some of the most wild country I've ever seen. I never knew that there were so many beautiful rivers in northern Ontario. We hit Sault Sainte Marie around dusk, so it was well and dark by the time we got to the turn off for North 129 in Thessalon. We could tell by the map that 129 followed several different rivers between Thessalon and Chapleau, but we had no idea just how far out it would be. It was basically a two-lane road with the occasional guardrail to keep you from careening over the edge and into the abyss. There were times when, upon cresting the hill, you couldn't immediately see where the road went next for the hood of the car! Once we finally got to Timmins, it was 5:30 in the morning and we were worn out. However, our dear, dear friend and compatriot, let's call him Curious George (CG), was up and waiting for us in the room. CG was the one getting married on Saturday, and both Baby and I were surprised and delighted to see him. We were all chatty chatty until we finally fell asleep, and CG had to be up at 8:30 to do things with the bride for the upcoming wedding. It was really good to spend that little bit talking to him, however.

The city of Timmins is actually quite a pleasant little place, and I certainly wouldn't mind spending considerable time up there, though I doubt I ever will. The city itself isn't all that different from Jackson, and the nightlife is considerably less disease-ridden. Friday morning we had poutin at a little hole in the wall place, and it was delicious. For those of you not familiar with the finer points of Canadian cousine, poutine is basically thick french fries with gravy and cheese curds. And there's nothing better. Beyond the food, there are a couple rivers that cut right through town, and Baby and I took Friday afternoon to pick up a 12-pack of Rikkards's Red and sit down by the water and talk about her life de love. Despite being a bit windy and a tad on the cool side for her, we had a really wonderful time. Later that evening, back in the room, there was a knock at the door and then my life took an unexpected spin: in walked the Minnesotan Mountain Man (M3). I had known that he would be at the wedding, we'd talked briefly about it before school ended this spring. M3 and I have known each other for a while, been friendly acquaintences since our common Speech class Freshman year, and we've a couple mutual friends. CG told me once that M3 had said that he'd wished he'd gotten to know me better during our time together at University as I seemed like such a nice, fun person. How sweet. Anyway, M3 is one of those fellows that girls like me spend our time watching from afar-- the outrageously tall, dark-haired, soft-spoken hockey captain who plays classical guitar, doesn't drink and occasionally attends bible study. Yeah, I don't get it either. Regardless, he's currently rocking a respectable beard which somewhat softens his angular face, and training for the French National Team has kept him in remarkable shape. And he knocked on MY door.

You see, my imaginary reader, M3 had an idea. He already had his guitar with him as he was playing at the wedding itself, but maybe he'd play at the reception. While we were still up at school, I'd asked him to refresh my memory on how to play a White Stripes song, "We're Gonna Be Friends," which CG had originally taught me after we went to see the recently animated movie "Curious George" together. We'd been the only ones in the theatre who weren't either 3 years old or had a 3 year old. Jack Johnson had covered it in the movie, M3 had taught CG how to play it and CG had taught me. Well, I was thinking about taking advantage of my former job at the radio station to record myself playing and singing the song he'd taught me for CG's birthday, but it never happened. But M3 remembered me asking him for the tabs. He remembered ME. And he thought that maybe we could rewrite the lyrics, but would that take too long?

Not for me. I grabbed the closest pad of paper and a pen from my purse and scampered to the nearest computer for the online rhyming dictionary while he grabbed his guitar. In 20 minutes, we had a brand new song to an old tune, and I was relatively sure that CG would ball his eyes out when he heard it. M3 thought that maybe we could get the rest of the hockey boys in attendance in on the act, have them sing along maybe. He circulated the lyrics among them, and they all thought they were great. They all somehow knew MY name, and they thought the lyrics I'd written were wonderful! After sitting down in the bar and sipping a glass of water with two other hockey players and their respective girlfriends, M3 and I headed over to CG's parents' house. He drove, and on the way out of the bar I commented on how I would like to think of myself as a broad-minded person, but if I never heard the new song by Fergie again I'd be okay. He laughed and said he didn't mind being hyper-critical of bad pop music. He then turned, somewhat surprised, and asked what kind of music I like to listen to, and was gald to hear of my private appreciation of classical music for its emotional and cathartic effects. He also listens to good bluegrass and national public radio. And at one point he was leaning slightly forward in his seat with his button-down shirt open at the throat and lighting a cigarette as a streetlight hit just perfectly through the windshield and I nearly died. Amazing. He also drives just a hair too fast.

Once we got to CG's parents' house to type up the lyrics and practice one more time, M3 and I had chatted quite a bit. Such a nice fellow. I met all the family who were balling melon for pre-dinner snacking and CG's mother poured me a generous glass of wine. M3 typed up the lyrics and I made nice with CG's older sister, who I adore and is delightful. Eventually, M3 and I traveled up to the sitting room to practice for CG's parents, sister, uncle and cousin. Mrs. cried throughout, but I thought that Mr. made it through until he said, "That was just beautiful" and I noticed a lone tear that had worked its way down to his jawline. M3 and I, sitting hip to hip on the sette, knew that we had a hit. Mr. suggested that we have the hockey boys sing only the repeated lines at the end of each stanza, which is exactly what wound up happening.

The wedding itself was AMAZING. Baby and I each looked quite nice if I do say so myself. And I do. We sat behind an elderly couple who were absolutely hysterical. "I came to watch [CG] in his last few moments of freedom... I mean, bachelorhood," said the man in front of us, how happened to be one of CG's granfather's buddies who had watch CG play hockey since he was a tot. The priest was outrageous-- somewhere between the monotone and the accent, the comparisons to The Princess Bride had to be made. When he said "Only Catholics in a full state of grace may take communion," Two of the gentlemen sitting on either side of the church behind us had a little conversation that ran something like this: "Full state of grace? That's bullshit!" "You've got to be kidding me!" "Good thing I'm full of grace!" "The hell you are! You just swore in church!" Needless to say, BEST WEDDING EVER.

The reception was beautifully appointed, and once they arrived, bride and groom were led into the reception hall and around the tables by the accordian-playing CG Senior, who is 90-something and the most adorable man I've ever seen. I just want to borrow him for a couple afternoons a month, that's all... After the SEVEN course meal and all the speeches, M3, the hockey boys and I sang our song. CG and his brand new wife stood in front of us, and CG sobbed through most of it. I've never felt so happy for someone else in my entire life. After that, we all danced the night away. I polka'ed with starting semi-pro hockey players, twirled around with three generations of CG's family, and laughed until I cried. M3, after finally getting of the phone with the girlfriend I guess EVERYONE hates, cut up a rug along with the rest of us. Normally I'm a decently self-concious girl, but not this night. Maybe it had to do with the open bar and countless downed drinks, or perhaps knowing I wouldn't really see these people again, or maybe I was just that happy to be alive. More than anything, I think it's the third of the options. Honestly, it's the happiest I think I've ever been in my entire life.

Sidenote: CG, during his speech to his wedding party, congratulated M3 on being picked up to play by the French National Team and said explicitly how he hopes M3 will find a nice French girl over there and bring her home. Later he refered to the current girlfriend as Satan. Considering that CG is perhaps the nicest guy I've ever met, hands down, I don't know how M3 could possibly stay with this girl all that long. I just hope he isn't taking her to France with him.

Anyway, the drive back home again was mingled laughs and tears. I got some incredible photographs of the one moose and three bears we saw, along with the breathtaking scenery along West 101 and South 129. It took the full 12 hours again, but this time I actually wished for time to go a little slower.

When I got back to work on Tuesday, I checked my e-mail and found a letter from the PG department at St. Andrews, informing me quite politely that my application had been unsuccessful and wishing me luck in life. Well, shit. It's not that I'd placed all of my eggs in one basket or anything, I've got applications out elsewhere, but it was where I really, really wanted to go. I very rarely admit how badly I want something, it's a weird bit of self-preservation I suppose, allowing me to gracefully deny that I ever wanted it in the first place when I don't get it. Pride and all that, but this time I admitted it, set my heart, and lo and behold-- denied. I guess I should have seen it coming; St. Andrews has a really prestegious program, and my BA is from a no-name school in the middle of nowhere, and it's not like I have a name that rings of money, but I thought I might have had a chance. And then CB called later that day to tell me that Bristol had never received my application. Damn. I've resubmitted it since, but I'm still not a happy camper. In fact, it's been painfully difficult to roll out of bed in the morning. I don't know how CB and my friend KTZ did it, being denied and then spending a year at home-- hanging myself from the fan seems like a distinct possibility, and I don't want to even think about it. At this point, I'm pulling for the program at U of Aberdeen, the one on comparative thought and literature. Other than that we've got apps out to U of Edinburgh, Bristol and Oxford-Brookes. Here's to hoping, my dears, here's to hoping...

In a fit of feeling useless, I decided to make my mother's day and recover three of our dining room chairs. They're a terribly stained beige and she's been sighing about them for a while now, so I ripped them apart and cut up some good, heavy denim is a dark, dark blue and staple-gunned them until my hand would clench no more. Here's to my one productive spot.

Just before leaving for home, M3 made sure I had his correct e-mail address. Maybe I'll drop him a line and ask if he saw any interesting wildlife on the drive home. Couldn't hurt anything, could it?

In other news...

In the process of moving back home with my parents, several things had to happen. Firstly, I needed to pare down my booze cupboard. That didn't REALLY happen, other than orphaning the better part of a handle of Smirnoff and a traveler of cheap tequila at good ole 901 with some girls who would appreciate it. I also needed to thin out my wardrobe, which is not much to speak of fashion-wise, but the sweaters take up an inordinate amount of room. This absolutely did not happen, as I wasn't able to take the time to sort through things and stuff some bags for St. Vinny's.

Really, the only thing that did happen was me finding a home for my illustrious cat, Finnius Maximus: see photograph to the right. She was a wonderful cat. I rescued her from the Animal Control Shelter, where she'd been for several months. They'd found her down by the old tannery with a fishing net wrapped so tightly around her neck that it cracked her voice box and cut into her skin quite deeply. It was also embedded in both of her front paws, and this obviously took quite a long time to heal. By the time I gave her a home, all that remained of her ordeal was her ridiculous, gravelly meow, which sounded something like she'd been smoking through her trach for 30 years. And I loved her. She'd sleep with me, right up next to my pillow, and position herself just so so that, when I'd fling my arm across to hit the snooze button in the morning, my elbow would land on her for an inadvertent bit of petting. She'd begin to meow when she heard me come up my front stair, and she never actually tried to get out of the apartment, even when I left the doors open while I brought in groceries. She'd wait to jump up onto the couch where I was settling down until I'd thrown the blanket over my lap, as that seemed to be an internationally signal for "ready for Finnius." She'd sleep in the oddest positions in the afternoon, frequenly curling up in a little faux-papesan chair I'd enherited from somewhere. Sometimes she'd keep her back legs perfectly straight and wrap her front paws around them, tucking her head in, almost as though she were performing some amazing high dive. Her fur was unbelievably dense, and a bit like the fur on a squirrel if you, my dear faceless reader, have ever seen squirrel fur. Dark and variegated on the outer but tan and very, very soft on the inner. She had a bit of a problem with hairballs as her pelt was so incredibly thick, even when I brushed her every day. With the trauma to her neck and a history of malnourishment, she occasionally had trouble keeping her food down when she'd cough up a furball, but with such an incredible face, how could anyone hold it against her? She had the saddest eyes I'd ever seen on a cat, and like I said before, I loved her.

She's with a good person now, a friend of mine who's still a student at LakeState, and I know she's being loved on and taken care of, but I still miss her. Obviously.

... and that's the emotional news for today.

I'm not proud of this.

Here I am, sitting alone in my office, and I'm listening to the radio. It's an ordinary day, made worse by being ordinary. I have so far failed to receive any news from a graduate program, a letter from a friend, really a kind word from anywhere. However, this would not normally bother me: strong, independent, self-sufficient individual, remember?

And then I remember: it's his birthday.

I've often wondered how much space I'd free up in my brain if I were able to forget all the useless shit I keep in there-- song lyrics, defunct telephone numbers, the major imports and exports of Oman, whose capital is Muscat. If I could dump all of that, maybe I could divine a cure for cancer, solve the questions of Beowulf's authorship and live a happy and productive life. But before I'd choose to forget about countries in the Middle East, I'd forget him.

Let's give him a name... how about Luther? Sure, Luther works. Luther and I were... well, I'm not sure what to call it anymore. At one point, he leaned drunkenly on my shoulder at a nameless little bar and told me I was his best friend. We went grocery shopping together at 3 in the morning because we were both still awake, and why fight a crowd if you don't have to? We spent spring break together in Montreal, visiting museum after museum, touring the pubs and having a surprisingly good time at the modern art gallery. Luther and I would go for hot chocolate from the all-night gas station and then sit in my living room on the couch, talking until the sun kissed the horizon good morning. At one point, I was almost sure that I loved him.

The long and sort of all this is that he broke my heart. A year after the aforementioned best-friend-bar incident, he locked himself in the bathroom of his townhouse with his come-lately boyfriend and screamed over and over, "I wish I'd never met her." Did he mean me? Did he mean my friend and housemate Baby? Who can say. He might as well have meant me. We tried to talk again, tried to have lunch, but defaulted to politics and the weather-- a far cry from the conversations we'd had while he was studying abroad in Europe and when I'd confided in him the most serious problem I've ever had. We'd fallen so far away, I didn't know how to bridge the gap, which is something I could basically do for a living. I can make exquisite conversations with the brain dead, but when it really mattered-- I sat there, staring into my egg salad, without a quip.

After trying valiantly to ruin my life at the conclusion of last year, Luther left without saying goodbye. At that point, I wasn't surprised. What did surprise me was the letter of apology that I received around this past Christmas. I'd gotten it late, as he'd sent it to a defunct address and then it had been buried on the derelict dining room/mail table at the Screwman Center. It was oddly worded, and I couldn't tell if he was simply trying to clear his karma before applying to law school perhaps, or maybe it was part of his end-of-year ritual, to look back and feel badly for screwing over a good friend. Regardless of the motive, the intent for result was also unclear; there was nothing about a hope for reconciliation, wanting to talk to me, a desire to be Christmas and birthday card acquaintances, nothing. So, I didn't respond. I didn't know how to-- what was I supposed to say?

And now, as I sit here by myself, I can't help but remember that it's his birthday. The last birthday we were on friendly terms for I drove up to where he was living for the summer, homemade lattice-top apple pie in hand, with a coffee table book stowed away and a smile on my somewhat battered face. Last year, I sent him a message on the ubiquitous Facebook, to which he promptly responded in fragments rather than a whole sentence.

I have other friends. I've had other interests. I've gone to museums since Luther and I parted ways. I don't understand why I'm still hung up about all this nonsense, and why every other song on the radio pushes me to the edge of tears. Why do I still care that it's the 15th of May??

I'm willing to bet that he won't bat an eyelash over me in 8 days, on my birthday. I wouldn't want him to, but that doesn't seem to help matters. Maybe in a few more years I'll pass this day without such a long sigh.

You can't go home...

I graduated from college last Saturday. I never thought I'd see the day, but the day finally saw me. I wasn't ready, I didn't feel like I'd gotten everything done, and in truth I still haven't. I still need to submit a final draft of my PHIL 490 Independent Study paper on the concept of tragedy in Miguel de Unamuno's work The Tragic Sense of Life and sit my CLEP exam. Despite all this, they conferred my degree on me.

The ceremony was nicely done, and while I didn't really think I was going to cry, I did. I didn't weep, but I distinctly cried. Particularly when my friend Lisa's parents accepted her degree for her. (Lisa was killed in a car accident coming home from the bar this past fall, and it shocked all of campus.) Her parents are wonderful, and I spoke at her candlelight vigil on campus. It was just so heart-wrenching, and Bill Crawford, the admin who was announcing the names of the graduates, read a short statement about Lisa written by Dr. Swedene, which only added to the crying. And bagpipes always choke me up, I'm not sure why. When the faculty spontaneously and unifromly rose to their feet to applaud the graduating class, it finally hit me-- this wave of pride and gratefulness I hadn't counted on feeling.

After graduation and snapping a few pictures, the family and I packed up my apartment and loaded up the minivan. If I hadn't been taking the siblings home in my car, I would have been able to fit everything. As it was, I had to leave a fair number of things in the Honors House storage shed. I'll pick it up on the way back from the wedding I'm driving to over Memorial Day weekend up in Timmins. I might also head up there for the CLEP testing date in July, and then I would definitely be able to pick it all up.

So... now I'm back working at the same job I've had for the past SIX YEARS. It's a good job, it pays well considering how much I could expect to make in a summer, but when you break down the number of hours, I'm making something like $2.50 an hour. And it's office work, nothing backbreaking or too difficult. I like my boss, she's wonderful, but the job is high-stress all the time, and if I screw up, EVERYBODY knows it. However, she's really good about letting me take time off during May for weddings and other commitments.

Regardless, I'm back at my desk and answering phones and trying to find housing for the world's largest Shakespeare company. Already the whole damn season feels off-kilter somehow. This may be the year to go out on, but I don't know because I still haven't heard from Grad Schools about them wanting me to come study with them.

I won't lie-- I've got my heart set on the University of St. Andrews. I know that it will cost me an ungodly amount, that the exchange rate will bend me over the desk, that I'm going into a narrow field, but I DO NOT CARE. They have a one-year Shakespeare Studies masters program that takes 50 weeks and I'll walk away with my MLitt. They were just accepted into the Folger Institute, they're in SCOTLAND, and I want to go! I check my e-mail compulsively, hoping to find a letter from their PG department telling me that they want me. Please, dear God, let them want me.

Until then, I get to live in my parents basement, listing books for sale on amazon.com to help ease my living expenses, watching bad cable television until I fall asleep at 11 pm. It's a life.