Christmas Eve

So, I'm still here in Aberdeen. For the holidays. Thousands of miles from my family and native home and snow and people I love and warmth and pine trees and my mother's kitchen. Needless to say, I'm having a bit of a tough time of it.
I've never been one for homesickness-- I went away to college, missed a handful of holidays and birthdays for assorted and various reasons, some of them good and some of them not. This isn't the first time I've been a long way from home, but I've never had such a hollow feeling in my heart as I do now.

Christmas music makes me irrationally hostile. My lips compress, my eyes narrow, and I dig my fingernails into the underside of the table before I even recognized the tune. If I hear Mariah Carey one more time I may smash something. Why? I was never a huge fan of modern christmas music, but I used to really enjoy hymns and traditional carols and some solid 1950s holiday ablums... now I subconsciously avoid street corners with loudspeakers, shopping plazas and the walks behind the chapel on campus where groups seem to be perpetually singing. Now that I think about, it seems simple enough-- it all reminds me of home, but I'm not at home and can't get myself there, so I'm ignoring the problem. Fair enough.

But why is this so hard now? Is it because, for the first time in my adult life, I've put myself in a situation where I can't physically get myself home via my own means? Before I always had my car, I could have just hopped into the driver's seat, put the fuel on the credit card and driven through the night, clawing my way from rest stop to rest stop if necessary. Now I don't have that luxury, and I'm just now beginning to realize what a luxury it was. I've always been conscious of my attachment and fondness for my cars (all two of them that I've ever had) and my dependance on them, but this just opens up a whole new level. They were my mobility, my freedom, my escape pod. I could always get myself back home.
Now there's a big ocean between Munith and myself, and there's not a whole lot I can do about it. I called home a lot in the past couple of weeks, and I even called today without crying. I've cried more in the past moth than I have in the previous 12 months combined. I'm not a weepy person by nature, I don't think, but everytime I would get an e-mail from home or I'd hear the girls laughing in the background as I talked to mom, I couldn't get around the catch in my throat. I'd muscle through the rest of the call, not wanting to make the pain more acute for my mother, who has been rather querrelous this season as well, if my sisters' accounts are to be trusted, and I know that me not being home at this time of year is as hard on her as it is on me. However, once off the phone, I'd curl up on my chair or bed and cry like a little girl-- I'm not okay with this. Seriously. Not okay. I'm a grown-up, and grown-ups are sometimes alone on national holidays. These things happen and nobody dies. So why do I feel like my heart is breaking?

I'm currently house-sitting for a lecturer of mine from this past semester, watering plants and keeping company with their dog, Muki, who is a lovely, loyal creature if there ever was one. As I write this she keeps pacing back and forth in and out of the room, sitting now at my feet and gazing up at me. She follows me from computer to couch to window to kitchen and then back to the couch again. We've been going on walks and she gets me out of bed in the morning-- all in all, a very good thing. I'm infinitely grateful not to be the only beating heart in this abode.

I called home again this afternoon, and the crackle in the connection only emphasized the distance. I didn't cry, and somehow that was worse. I spoke to M3, and his sister is visiting him for the season. He's surprising her with a two-day trip to Paris for New Years, and they sound so happy. He finally got the package I sent him with a copy of Anna Karenina and a collected works of Shakespeare that I mailed 6 weeks ago, so I suppose that works as an inadvertent christmas present. He said he was sorry that I didn't have any family with me. I shrugged it off. How could I possibly explain?

My sister put up pictures of the tree and the decorating process at home, the making of pierogies, general festivities on the homefront, and though I begged her to do it, I didn't tell her how they pain me. They all look so happy and I just feel cold, even in my sweater. But I keep going back to them, sort of like the way you rub at a bruise and make it bigger in spite of yourself. To spite your self.

I walked down the block and found a little corner store run by a family of loud Pakistanis, and on a tip from a friend, found some polish pierogie. I bought two packages and fried up the one for dinner this evening. You see, dear reader, this is one of the traditions that I just can't replicate in my single solitude. It takes a whole day and every member of my family to pull of the hundreds of cheese and potato pierogie that we make, then fry up with onions and eat on christmas eve and christmas morning. The smell and spattering grease get into everything, like laughter and snowflakes. These are the trappings that I miss. The pierogie that I fried this evening were cottage cheese and raisin, and despite not being anything like what I'm used to, were just fine. Very filling, and as close to home as I could really expect on this island. I'll save the other for tomorrow evening, which I'm sure will be equally delightful.

I didn't even really realize that today was christmas eve until I sat down at my computer and looked at the date. I remember driving home from midnight mass by myself in a recently past year, stopping to buy gas, and think that, without all the human interaction, there was nothing in the air that would have told me it was christmas. Nothing that seemed special or unique or out of the ordinary. I was utterly devoid of the "spirit of the season." I guess I still am, but now I'm also without the driving human forces of home. I didn't put up a tree or even a bush, no boughs festooned my door, no smell of pine, no lights in the window. I thought about buying a string of lights and hanging them over my desk or maybe in my one window, but then I thought about my deminished funds and the general lack of outlets. I decided against it for these very practical reasons without delving into the impractical, embarrassing reasons of lonliness and disenchantment.

I didn't find a vigil mass to go to this evening. To be honest, it's been a really, really long time since I've gone to church. Even longer since I genuinely prayed. I think I've read too much philosophy to pray well anymore. I almost tried a few nnights ago, but just couldn't bring myself to make an honest try. So I rolled over and manhandled my pillow into a new shape and tried to sleep.

But I brought two different red sweaters, grey pants and a pair of stilletos with me for tomorrow, google-searched a church that will be open. I think mass might be at 10 down near the city center, which means I need to leave here around 9. I'm going to try. At least I've made the effort so far, the lead up to actually going, so I can't use that as an excuse. If I decide against it later, it's a decision and not a consequence.

I need to go to sleep. Muki has given up on me. In the process of writing this, it's turned from christmas eve to christmas day. No one will come wake me up in the morning, no hurrying of little-girl-bare-feet-over-carpet, no jumping on my bed to wake me up and haul me downstairs, no mom in her robe turning on the coffee pot and christmas lights, no stocking over the fireplace. There's a fireplace here, in the house I'm watching for the season, and I've lit a fire the past two nights, but it's long out now. Muddy Waters sings to me through the speakers, I've got a cheap bottle of white wine and somebody else's dog leaning heavily against me.

So this is what it feels like to be a grown-up.

Not long at all...

Just a tiny little update. It's 6:44 in the morning here, I have yet to fall asleep. At midnight I decided to start a book I picked up a while back, called Water For Elephants. I just finished. This makes the second book in a month that I've read in one sitting... I don't know what that means.

In the past few days I've acquired a UK cell phone, or 'mobile' to sound authentic, and the peasants rejoiced. Here's to being able to text like the rest of the civilized world.

I had a meeting with Dr. Fynsk today-- the chair of my department-- to talk about Ph.D. work and what he thought about the general scope of my aptitude within the Center for Modern Thought. He seems to think I'm a bright, ambitious and scholarly kid who could do very well indeed. When asked about funding, he said that there might be some money in the department, but I should check out the Fulbright, the AHRC, and whatever else I could find online. Well, the application deadline for the 08-09 Fulbright is already past. I'm not eligible for ANY funding from the AHRC (Arts and Humanities Research Council (?) is the main source of funding around these parts) as I'm not a resident. Well, damn. I wish I were a resident... does that count? Somehow, I think not. I very much need to scout. I also bemoaned my lack of steady job, and he mentioned about being in need of a research assistant-- erm, yes. yes. and yes. please. He'll e-mail me the details. "I mean, it won't be all that much, not more than 10 pounds an hour..." I've gotten quite proficient in currency conversions in my head, and the idea of making roughly $20 an hour made me want to cry with relief. My credit card is basically maxed out at the moment and my bank account here STILL hasn't gone through. Ergo, I can't cash the $1500 worth of excess aid checks that are sitting on my desk. Buying groceries is an exercise in masochism. Dr. Fynsk offered to spot me a hundred quid, but I just can't do it. However, if goes on for much longer, I don't see as I'm going to have a choice.

However, I did get an e-mail response to a CV that I sent out some time ago, asking me to come in and meet with them. Unfortunately, I don't really remember who 'they' are and it's not so explicitly stated in the e-mail. I'll figure it out though, I'm sure.

I also got a call from M3 this morning, and we had a nice little chat. I have a copy of Anna Karenina to drop in the mail for him, and I even bought it at the Oxfam bookshop here in town. We were talking a while back, and he mentioned how he was really kicking himself for not picking up a collected works of Shakepeare that he'd seen on sale at a bookshop back in the Sault. Well, I also found a collected works at Oxfam, and got both tomes for the paltry sum of 5 pounds flat. I figure it will make a nice surprise for him.

On other fronts, I'm thinking about offering the olive branch one last time to the fellows in the flat adjacent-- it's Guy Fawkes Day on Monday, and the city of Aberdeen is hosting a bonfire down on the beach with a fireworks display and general good-timeiness for all. After all, we must remember remember the fifth on November... the anarchist within my skin wouldn't have it any other way. Also, Peter and the Greek showed up at our door on Tuesday with half a cake and an apology for being so lame last Friday-- I guess there were some ungodly long and important presentations that needed the full sum of their attention. Well, fair enough.

Well, it's no 7:00 and I should probably take a shower or something. Maybe I'll finally get registered at a doctor's surgery today... but most likely not. Leave that adventure for at least one more week.

Long and Rambling...

...which is exactly how I like my flowerbeds, pathways, rivers, stories and updates.

I'm beginning to feel a little more at home here in Aberdeen. This past Sunday I struck out on my own for the grocery store with which I am acquainted, the local Morrison's. This required two separate bus fares, but now I have milk, cottage cheese and hummus. I spent less than I had thought I would, and won't really need to go back for another 10 days. A good deal all around, and while it might not seem like a milestone, it is for me-- I'm not a city-dweller by nature, and the bus system intimidates me. Really, all public transportation. I'm not really sure why, perhaps that's why I loved my car so much and why I miss it so dearly. I doubt I'd be able to actually drive here, what with the roads all being backwards and counter-intuitive and tiny, but I think I'd feel better about my situation. For me, my car is a really expensive security blanket: so long as I have it, I can always drive away, regardless of how badly I screw things up. Unlike Captain Sparrow, freedom, for Miss Melville, is not a boat but a car-- maybe it would be if I had a boat and lived on the ocean, but I don't. I'm landlocked, and as long as I have a car I don't have to rely on anybody else. Regardless, I'm without it and me braving the bus system is a big step towards becoming one with the city.

Moving backwards to Saturday, I made another significant move and took the train for the first time in my adult life. It was just a short little trip, down to the pleasant seaside town of Stonehaven, with its quaint charm and fish and chips shops. Despite how gray the picture looks, there was actually quite a bit of sunshine, and the constant breeze off the water smelled like oceans always do. I went with my three favorite Norwegians, and it was interesting to see how each had an additional bounce in the step as we came within sniffing distance of the sea. There were dogs running and playing in the surf, parents with babies in strollers walking the boardwalk, elderly tottering along hand in hand... all of this just reinforced my opinion that vast bodies of water are good for the soul. The surf and the moisture and the sand have a cathartic effect that I need more in my life. Something about the brine cleansing the soul. Additionally, I think I've read the opening of Moby Dick too many times. You know, the part where Ishmael says, "Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people's hats off - then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can. This is my substitute for pistol and ball. With a philosophical flourish Cato throws himself upon his sword; I quietly take to the ship. There is nothing surprising in this. If they but knew it, almost all men in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards the ocean with me." Yeah, one too many times.

Anyway, Stonehaven held more for us than just the pleasures of brine: Dunnottar Castle lay just outside it, not more than a good stretch of the legs, you might think. Well, it might look that way, but in fact it's a healthy 5 miles from boardwalk to portis, and it seemed like most of it was via the most rinky-dink goat path I've ever seen. Apparently the Scottish fail to see the merit in handrails, and while this is perhaps a way to thin down the wobbly end of the gene pool, I never did dream of falling off the side of a sea cliff as the way I would eventually go. Anyway, the climb out accomplished, the ruins themselves were breathtaking. The previous weekend had included the castle and whiskey tour, and while Ballindalloch is very nice in its own right, THIS is what I think of when I conjure up a castle. It was all rocky and forlorn and remote. For a nominal fee, one is allowed to scamper like a billy goat anywhere you can get to, with the occasional handrail installed on the walk up into the grounds proper and on the still fully-functional stone spiral staircase which provides access to the remaining upper stories of what used to be the tower keep. The views from the windows were spectacular with all the rocky, crashing surf and steep, green hillsides. I tried to imagine what it mist have been like, to live there, the might and the force that built it, maintained it... needless to say, my poor 12-volt imagination was hardly up to the task. I capered all over the grounds and snapped dozens of photos, though I fear my three compatriots tired of the grounds before I did. I found them standing next to the old well long before I was done exploring. If they were bored, they hid it well, and the hike back out was a pleasant one. I'm certainly not in the best shape, and the exercise in all the fresh air absolutely kicked my ass. Then again, my ass needed some kicking. I'm hoping with my student diet of apples, crackers and the occasional pint of beer, in combination with all the walking I'm doing to and from campus and the weekend outings I'm determined to take to Stonehaven, even if it's just to sit beside the sea, maybe I'll be happier with my physical self when I leave this lovely land than I was when I arrived. Anyways, the castle ruins were beautiful and I'm sure I'll be out there again. If and when you visit, my imaginary and ubiquitous reader, I'll take you there and we'll have a picnic lunch.

In other, more girly news, I've been in communication with M3. Yes, the one and only Minnesotan Mountain Man... oh my. He's playing hockey in France, and we're both on the wonderful and amazing skype, so... yeah. I don't know if he's still with that wretched girlfriend of his or not, I personally hope not, for his sake if no other reason. We talked for an hour and a half when he called the first time. He's dong well, though it sounds like he's bored out of his mind. The team isn't doing particularly well, and he's got a lot of free time on his hands, which he is filling with voracious reading. He finished War & Peace not long ago and wanted to chat about it... and I'm fine with that. I'm sending him my copy of Anna Karenina when I get the chance. I called him on Monday to see how his game this weekend went, and though he was on another call, he called me right back. I guess they got "schelacked" as he put it, 9-0, with a brutally long bus ride to and from. Poor devil. And he had another forever-long away game that required an overnight bus trip last night into today with the game this evening. Regardless, I don't really know where all this chatting is going, but it's nice to have a friend. A friend who reads, at that.

I got my box of books from home today, which is wonderfully good news. I just didn't feel right without my anthologies, my reference texts and, OF COURSE, my better homes and gardens. I know it's silly and 1950s housewife, but it's not my home without my cookbook. no two ways about it. Additionally, my mother sent me a post-it pad, some really nifty page-marker-flag-thingies, my battery-powered toothbrush, and a copy of Peter Benchley's The Beast that I'd found at the Book Exchange back home. I'd meant to bring it with my on the flight for some good, distracting, all-out-mind-rot reading, but accidentally left it in the back seat of my aforementioned much-missed car. Well, I got the box this morning at around 9:30 and spent quite literally until 4:00 this afternoon solidly reading. Now, I don't have lecture on Tuesdays, and I've only got 10 more pages of required reading left to do for my second lecture tomorrow (at least I think it's tomorrow, my prof said he would double-check and e-mail us, but I have yet to receive anything) and I didn't have any big plans. However, I wasn't planning on staying in bed all day with such a light book! I absolutely devoured it, no two ways about it. I didn't turn any music on, I didn't check my e-mail, I didn't even get up to use the facilities-- I didn't need to; I was completely engrossed in my fast-paced little thriller about renegade giant squid and economically depressed coastal towns and the possible dire perils of overfishing and knocking Nature out of its natural balance. To be honest, it wasn't particularly well-written, and the author's perchant for using the word 'for' instead of 'and' got to me a little (for example, " He could have found them five hundred fathoms closer on the south shore, for there the reefs ended and deep water began only a mile or two from land"). See what I mean? They also changed a LOT from the original book for that wonderful, wonderful movie that I know and love so well. Some names were altered, personal plot details, the whole love-interest angle-- everything but the Beast herself. Well, there's no baby Beast in the book, just lots of egg sacs. And they never really say if the Beast is a male or a female. Whatever, it doesn't matter. What does matter is the book was a brilliant way for me to while away the day, and the movie has William Petersen as an angry and noble fisherman who clings to a disappearing way of life and kicks the shit out of a evil, man-killing giant squid. Also, lots of well-knit fisherman's sweaters. What's not to love? (PS-- I'm still stalking the SciFi Channel schedule for the next time they are planning on airing the aforementioned movie/mini-series/4 hours of squid-filled goodness so that I can bootleg tape the hell out of it. Hopefully someone with such taping capabilities in the US loves me enough to tape said programming, transfer it to dvd and then mail it to me. I'm hoping. And I'll keep looking for a copy on Amazon and E-bay, though I hold out very little hope-- nobody else loves the Architeuthis dux like I do.)

Well, that's about all I've got for now. Stay tuned for some future discussion on how my lectures are turning out at all how I had expected but I still hold out hope for the program as a whole, and the adventures of prudent Miss Melville in the Special Collections Library!

Just a short note

... to tell you, my darling imaginary readers, that M3 returned my e-mail (!) and though it was simply a short ditty to say that he received it and does not currently have a computer (which makes e-mail correspondence somewhat of a less-sure thing), but he replied nonetheless. Distinctly a positive move in an otherwise completely and utterly abysmal couple of days.

I'll post more on just how bad my run of luck has been when I've got more than two seconds between disasters.

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?