That might not be a compliment ...

On occasion, I am accused (by three friends, one mother and one sister, at last count) of wearing jeans that do not fit properly. I disagree with this accusation. Call me crazy, but I like to do silly things like breathe, eat, and sit while wearing my pants. I know, insane. (And for the record, nearly every pair of pants I own stays on without even a belt, which proves these claims to be entirely unfounded.) Well, for Christmas, I received a new pair of jeans. I tried them on, and they seemed to fit just fine. Well, mother and sister intervened (to the delight of friends, I am sure) and acquired additional sizes for me to consider. Which I did, with some helpful input. And amidst this ask-the-audience decision-making process, my brother revealed that even if I wore too-tight pants, I would not look scandalous because I am apparently so far on the other end of the scandalous-clothing spectrum that I cannot even see whatever imaginary line exists between scandalous and non-scandalous clothing. Clearly, I have a brave brother, to be willing to make such a comment to someone who has been whining about becoming old for the past week. (My roommate C. tried to make me feel better about this by telling me that I will soon be a perfect cube, which apparently does not happen again until I turn 64. But seeing as how I do not do math, being a perfect cube does not sound that appealing. A perfect sentence, yes. But a perfect cube sounds pretty close to being really boring.) So after hearing from R. and looking at the calendar, I might need to take some drastic action. Then again, it might have to wait for another four months. I think the library will be seeing me quite a lot next semester ...

I Heard The Bells ...

We know I love listening to Christmas music. So imagine how much I love this scene: The annual playing of the bells (affectionately termed Hell's Bells) at our Christmas Day festivities. Now, I must admit that most of us lack any real musical ability (with the exception of Aunt J. and perhaps some assorted cousins), but who needs actual skill to make music by hitting varying-length pieces of pipe with long metal nails?! Not us. Besides, what we lack in talent we make up for with our own special flair ...

The boys always pretend to be too cool for the bells, ignoring whichever aunt has to conduct the music (helpfully numbered in red and green on big posters). But sorry boys, when you all start singing "Oh, Come All Ye Faithful" as we play it on the bells I stop believing that you really hate this tradition ...

Some fabulous playing by A., and D., who I am sure really loves playing the bells again instead of straining to listen to them during the missionary phone call ...

This couch looks pretty happy about the bells. The overachievers on the end played multiple bells at once ...

Quite possibly the most entertaining 15 minutes of my entire year ...

The Card ...

As requested ...

Three More ...

Semesters until I am reintroduced to the real world. Days until I go home. Finally.

I survived my finals, again. But since I can still vividly recall my mass quantities of complaints about my finals last year at this time, when I decided that the entire World Wide Web really, really wanted to know about my pathetic cold and ear infection during finals, I will avoid discussion of the loveliness that has been Finals Week this year and just say that I have never been so ready for a hug from my Mom. In just three more days ...

The Purple Couch ...

I wrote this post last night before my final final. But wisely did not post it without some daylight editing. I should really not be allowed to communicate after 11 p.m., when my brain officially stops functioning ...

It's 12:01 a.m. and I have a final today (which still feels like tomorrow) and I should really be either studying or sleeping. But I cannot stop thinking about the purple inflatable couch from my freshman dorm. The one we used to sled down the hill at the law school. The one under the ceiling of theories (near the door of happy thoughts and the quote wall). I might be the only person to ever write an entire personal essay about an inflatable couch (that I did not even own). And I miss it tonight.


I have a really great red leather sofa now, with matching curtains and adorable pillows. It makes me think of my mom, who found it on sale, and my dad, who covered it with tarps in the back of his truck for our 2,000-mile adventure. It makes me think of the Downington House and the mystery of the disappearing date. And this week, it makes me think of the purple couch. I am not sure why they suddenly connected. Maybe when I curled up there to talk to K., telling her my story and listening to her wise words and wishing we could be there together. Or when I did the same with J. and L. Or when I read all of the yellow notes in my jar on the window sill, my very own happy door and quote wall (no more theories for me, thank you very much, I am pretty sure I have already disproved all of ours), when I really needed to remember sledding on the purple couch, and laying on the floor with the lights off, listening to the same song for the 11th time, and laughing uncontrollably in the hallway, again ...

Exception To The Rule ...

I know I promised not to blog until the end of finals. So sue me. Actually please wait a year and a half so I can represent myself. I do not know much about the law yet, but I do know enough to know that every rule has an exception. So I am making an exception to my blogging ban for one extremely important announcement:

The (current) President and First Lady sent me a Christmas card.

I suppose I should end my blog forever now, because basically nothing I could ever report will be more exciting than this in the land of Capital C ...

Last Night ...

'Twas the night of my final, when all through my room,
We students were talking of test-taking doom;
Our books had been scattered without any care,
In hopes that some knowledge would float through the air.
The clock showed we should think of drifting to bed,
Though thoughts of the law still muddled our heads;
When what to my wondering eyes did appear,
But a huge, scary bug on my wall, very near!
With legs like a spider and stripes like a bee,
I screamed for my roommate to come over and see.
She, being the brave one, came back with a shoe,
(Apparently some girls know just what to do.)
She crouched and she lunged, and she aimed for the bug,
But it jumped up so high that she just hit our rug;
We screamed once again, now we knew it could jump,
And we wondered just how we could give it a bump.
We schemed and we thought of the ways it could die,
As we tried them in vain, fifteen minutes went by.
Finally injured, we wedged the bug in,
Its grasshopper tendencies starting to dim;
We killed it, indeed, and we flushed it away,
No more scaring poor students this first finals day.
But I think I could hear, as it drained out of sight,
Happy finals to all and to all a good night.

P.S. I am banning myself from the blog for the rest of finals. I will be back on December 13 ...

When I Fail My Classes ...

... Could someone please remind me that I decided to go to a jazz concert at the Kennedy Center instead of studying on Friday afternoon?! And that I would make the same choice again?! Because getting dressed up (i.e., showering, doing my hair AND putting on clothing without an elastic waistband) to listen to entertaining music while sitting in the presidential suite sure beats staring at my computer screen in my pajamas and pink fuzzy slippers. Also, I needed another box of presidential M&M's ...

P.S. I know, I know, enough with these ?!. But question marks bother me lately, so I have adopted a new policy of adding an exclamation mark after each one. Perhaps this means I am trying to make my questions seem more exciting and less bewildering?! (Or that I am just weird. Apostrophes bother me too these days. Does this mean I like to be difficult and traditional in avoiding contractions or that I am not possessive enough?!) Or that I should stop analyzing my punctuation quirks and start studying ...

Thanksgiving Dinner ...

I am not home for Thanksgiving. For the first time. Ever. But I still know exactly what will happen. Nana will make her delicious rolls, cinnamon and orange varieties, and worry about bringing too many or too few. (Note to Nana: You will have a few more cinnamon rolls to pass around this year, thanks to my absence.) Mom will arrange fabulous centerpieces and themed name cards (I got mine in the mail, so I am not excluded here, thank you very much). The boys will watch football and occasionally run an errand to the basement or the grocery store. Everyone will eat too many potato chips loaded with clam dip, while Uncle B. shares the latest tidbit from the National Enquirer. Aunt J. or B. might be brave enough to ask R. or T. or D. or A. or S. about their dating adventures. (The other S. and H. might get off this year. But they probably have the most to tell. At least according to Facebook. M. will be glad she gets to avoid this topic for a while longer.) Mom will announce three times that Thanksgiving dinner is ready and the television must be turned off. Now. Dad will carve the turkey and mix the cranberry and Sprite drinks. The dinner conversation will vary from a heated discussion about the latest government bailout to news about B. and her boys to a plea from Nana for everyone to be quiet and grateful for a few minutes. In the end, the women will survey the scene and note the exact number of minutes it took for their hours and hours of work to be consumed, and the men will briefly help with the dishes until, they imagine, invisibly returning to the couch and the football. Then there might be some discussion about seeing a movie, or maybe playing a good game of Apples to Apples, which will be won, of course, by whoever gets the card for "mold" or "smelly socks." Then Aunt J. will bring out her pies and ask what everyone wants. A little sliver of each for me, please ...

Some Stuff ...

It suddenly became cold in my neck of the woods, as Mr. Roker would say. So today I wore a fuzzy sweater, with toasty boots and my glasses (instead of contacts ... this has less to do with The Cold than my itchy-eyed worry that I am getting A Cold). I felt plenty warm all day, to be sure. And my neck itched from the sweater, my socks annoyingly fell down in my boots and the glasses gave me a headache. But then again, I saw snowflakes for the first time here this year, talked to J. (alas, on the phone) while snuggled in my yellow comforter and finished it all with a mug of Nana's special hot cocoa. A rather fabulous end to a regular day ...

P.S. For those who asked: I am reading A Room with a View by E.M. Forster. A sample passage thus far ... and no, I do not know what happens ... I have yet to read the last page:

"This she might not attempt. It was unladylike. Why? Why were most big things unladylike? Charlotte had once explained to her why. It was not that ladies were inferior to men; it was that they were different. Their mission was to inspire others to achievement rather than to achieve themselves. Indirectly, by means of tact and a spotless name, a lady could accomplish much. But if she rushed into the fray herself she would be first censured, then despised, and finally ignored. Poems had been written to illustrate this point.

"There is much that is immortal in this medieval lady. The dragons have gone, and so have the knights, but still she lingers in our midst. She reigned in many an early Victorian castle, and was Queen of much early Victorian song. It is sweet to protect her in the intervals of business, sweet to pay her honor when she has cooked our dinner well. But alas! the creature grows degenerate. In her heart also there are springing up strange desires. She too is enamoured of heavy winds, and vast panoramas, and green expanses of the sea. She has marked the kingdom of this world, how full it is of wealth, and beauty, and war -- a radiant crust, built around the central fires, spinning towards the receding heavens. Men, declaring that she inspires them to it, move joyfully over the surface, having the most delightful meetings with other men, happy, not because they are masculine, but because they are alive. Before the show breaks up she would like to drop the august title of the Eternal Woman, and go there as her transitory self."

This Post Is Too Important For A Title ...

Dear Kyle,

So, remember Wednesday night when I came to watch you play basketball!? Yes, our team lost. But I am not referring to that tiny detail. I am referring to the fact that you only made a few shots that night. I think I should apologize for that. I am pretty sure that my presence there, high in the stands of that too-quiet arena, probably flustered you. Because I am pretty sure that you have realized what I have realized. We should probably get married. I know I am not tall and blond and supermodelesque but I bet you get tired of those girls anyway. This way, you would always be the pretty one in the relationship. And think of how good my first name plus your first name would be with your last name. It rolls off the tongue, doesn't it?! Kyle and Callie Korver. I really like that. Also, I come with a red leather couch, a letter from the president and assorted chick flicks. And in three more semesters, a law degree. I bet you have none of those things. So think about it.

Love,
C.

Freedom ...

I like that Veteran's Day comes after Election Day, that it reminds us to reflect and remember those who fought to ensure that we, and others, can debate about our leaders, our values and our direction in peace and freedom. So I especially liked this paragraph from a case today ...

"Those who won our independence believed that the final end of the state was to make men free to develop their faculties, and that in its government the deliberative forces should prevail over the arbitrary. They valued liberty both as an end and as a means. They believed liberty to be the secret of happiness and courage to be the secret of liberty. They believed that freedom to think as you will and to speak as you think are means indispensable to the discovery and spread of political truth; ... that the greatest menace to freedom is an inert people; that public discussion is a political duty; and that this should be a fundamental principle of the American government. They recognized the risks to which all human institutions are subject. But they knew that order cannot be secured merely through fear of punishment for its infraction; that it is hazardous to discourage thought, hope and imagination; that fear breeds repression; that repression breeds hate; that hate menaces stable government; that the path of safety lies in the opportunity to discuss freely supposed grievances and proposed remedies; and that the fitting remedy for evil counsels is good ones."

~ Justice Brandeis, Whitney v. California, (1927)

Reading The Last Page First ...

Much has changed since my last post. (Enough to warrant the supply of peppermint ice cream I purchased today, I think.) We elected ourselves a new president, my little sister turned 21, and the Christmas lights and ice skating rink have reappeared on Pentagon Row. For the record, I like change. Sometimes. In moderation. When I choose it. And usually, when I can see it coming. Which explains why I read the last page first. OK, not exactly first. But almost. I read the last page in any book that I like, as soon as I have decided that I like it. As soon as I forget about my real life and instead curl up on the couch in my pajamas and blanket and read and read and read. And I actually usually read the entire last chapter. I tell myself this would be a compliment to the writer, that I cannot wait until the end to see what will happen to these people who suddenly became real to me. But when I really think about it, no writer would be happy about this. Because as soon as I read the last chapter, and know the ending, happily ever after or not, I hurry through the rest of the book to make sense of it all. And I invariably miss something in the process, some of the magic in the middle perhaps, in my hurry to figure out how The End happened. So I am turning over a new leaf. And reading my current book the proper way, the patient way, the way the writer intended. Just to see what happens ...

And One More Thing ...

My Dad called today. To tell me he was listening to Christmas music. I pushed pause before I answered the phone. I was listening to Christmas music too ...

Election Eve ...

OK, since after tomorrow I will likely never want to discuss this election again, I must make a few Election Eve comments. Mainly about how disgusted I am with the press right now, and its complete lack of even the pretense of fair reporting. Two examples from this Sunday alone:

From the main story on the front page of The Washington Post:
"John McCain faces an enormous task in trying to prevent Barack Obama from winning the White House and becoming the first African American president in the nation's history, according to a final weekend preelection analysis by The Washington Post."

Yes, I am so sure that when John McCain decided to run for president he did not do so because he wanted to become president himself, but because he wanted to prevent Barack Obama from becoming the first African American president. Seriously. Nicely spun, writers.

From Parade Magazine:
"Obama: Chose Delaware Sen. Joe Biden after a long and careful vetting process, rejecting the idea of Sen. Hillary Clinton as a running mate.
McCain: Picked Alaska Gov. Sarah Palin at the last minute, reportedly after deciding that Connecticut Sen. Joe Lieberman, his first choice, would anger pro-life delegates at the Republican Convention.
Bottom Line: Obama put experience and readiness to be President first. McCain made excitement and freshness his top priority."

Sorry, but both candidates picked vice presidents who had the strengths they lacked. Obama already had excitement and freshness, so he needed Biden. McCain already had experience and readiness, so he needed Palin. (Not to say that I am enamored with Palin, and that someone else could not have provided some other strengths McCain lacked. But really. No one knows what the vice president does anyway, right ...)

Autumn Day ...

To celebrate the season we spent some quality time hiking in the Shenandoah Mountains yesterday. And now I am spending some quality time feeling sore. It turns out that going to the gym twice per semester does not exactly qualify a person for an eight-mile hike. But it did not stop me from having a fabulous time ...

Happy Halloween ...

So we carved pumpkins this weekend. If you look carefully, you will see that the scared pumpkin on the left is crying. Probably because the pumpkin on the right needs some plastic surgery and dental work ...

It Never Fails ...

Packages from my Mom always seem to arrive at the lowest point of my various life crises. And I feel better. At least a bit better. Even if my life still seems to be spinning out of control ...

Metro Opens Doors ...

So I'm on my way home on the Metro today, sitting across from a middle-aged couple. They start teasing each other, and immediately I see my parents 15 years from now. (Did you get that, parents?! I just called you 15 years younger than middle-aged. You are welcome for that.) In the midst of their conversation, the wife asks the husband something, and he says, "I wasn't watching, I was looking at her." Her meaning me. So then I start laughing and we become Metro friends. Which, you should know, is saying something. I am not usually a Metro friend. I mind my own business (unless you are under five years old, in which case I will smile and make faces at you) of secretly imagining the life stories of the people I am pretending not to look at. Well it took little imagination to see that this couple had a happy life together. They soon got off the train, though, and in came a guy with two toothbrushes in his pocket, clearly coming from the dentist. He sat down in the wife's former seat and then proceeded to look at himself (and his newly cleaned teeth) in the window. We did not become Metro friends ..

Close Every Door ...

So what happens after you (very happily) listen to the entire CD of Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat at least twice a day for three days in a row? Well, it takes at least three more days for the words to leave ... I am on day two now and the songs keep playing in my head. Over and over and over again. I woke up thinking them. Which makes me think of myself 10 years ago. That would be the year of the David Osmond obsession. Yep. Good times ...

Because I Need To Post Something ... Anything ...

Clearly I am desperate. I neglect my blog for two weeks and can only find this photo to post?! Well, I actually wanted to save this for Election Day. But because I am becoming a bit less enthused about the possible results of that day it makes an appearance now. And because I have nothing good to post. So we get this. (For the record, I still think McCain will win. Mostly because I am stubborn and have already predicted this and do not want to doubt my predictive powers.)

Now a quote from a really good book I read recently: "An average of seventy-four species become extinct every day, which was one good reason but not the only one to hold someone's hand." ~ Nicole Krauss, The History of Love

And this alarming tidbit from my professor: "It is absolutely, completely impossible to sell cereal without any rat feces." Apparently our food scientists need to be working a bit more diligently ...

Tales Out Of School ...

Dear Guy Who Sits in Front of Me in Evidence Class:

Thank you for wearing that really classy t-shirt today. Yep, the one with the beach scene and a bikini-clad blonde on the back. I really liked that I could not look from the professor back to my computer screen without seeing said bikini girl. I am so glad you sit directly in front of me. And I am glad you acted so selflessly when you purchased that shirt, realizing that everyone except you would have the pleasure of looking at the back of that shirt all day long. So, in honor of you exhibiting such fine principles, I think you should go ahead and keep that shirt in your drawer, or on your floor, or even hang it on your wall from now on. Then you can enjoy the view that the rest of us enjoyed today.

Sincerely,

C.

In other school news, my professor who I do not really understand but who I have for two classes called on me yesterday. In both classes. Yes people, twice in one day. Bad luck. My other professor turned 80-something this week. And he brought Costco cookies to class. So obviously, he wins for professor of the semester. Also, he makes great comments like this: "We all build b*mbs sometimes." And since I like him, and do not want to be questioned by the FBI about his very innocent statement that I just posted on the worldwide web, let me emphasize his patriotism ...

Yellow Pajama Pants ...

This story began innocently enough, with me buying a baby gift of all things. That required that I go to Old Navy and Barnes & Noble for my traditional book-wrapped-in-a-blanket standby. (I go with what I know people. I do not know the proper size and corresponding seasonal attire for your adorable bundle of joy. I do know books and blankets, however. I know them really, really well.) Anyway, after spending some quality time in the children's book and clothing sections (I may not know what size to buy, but that does not stop me from looking at the cuteness of it all) I apparently mistook myself for a Person With An Income, because $100 later, I have not only a fabulous book and the blanket to wrap it in, but a jacket, five shirts (ON SALE) and two other books. And a pair of pajama pants. (Mom, stop sighing.) Because along with books and blankets, I know pajama pants. And although I already have red ones with white stars and yellow ones with blue stars and blue ones with yellow stars and pink ones with pink diamonds and one red pair with stripes and a white pair with pineapples, I did not have any yellow and white striped ones. And I am always on the lookout for just such a pair. So I bought them. On sale, in my defense. (And also in my defense, today I found a hole in my favorite ones, the red ones with pink stripes.) And Mom and Dad, this does not mean I do not need another pair on Christmas Eve. I will always need another pair on Christmas Eve. (Clearly I value them. I have the pajama pants from the last five Christmases.) And (sort of) on this topic, I am happy to report that with Halloween candy now in stores, I can officially start listening to Christmas music in one month and 11 days ...

Dear Frontier Airlines ...

Thank you for infuriating me. Lately I have been pretty happy about the state of the world. (Well, not the state of the entire world. Just the state of my own world, excluding the reading assignments and interview issues that I choose to ignore.) Anyway, my happiness had sapped me of the sarcasm required to write interesting blog posts. But you, Frontier Airlines, have solved this problem, for which my two remaining readers will I am sure be very grateful.

Today I visited your counter at the airport to redeem a travel voucher. I had the necessary flight information, and I just needed one of your helpful employees to take the voucher and book the flight. Simple, really. So I sauntered up to your counter at about 1:30 p.m. and found your employee roping off the line. I asked him where I could redeem my voucher. He told me to wait until 2 p.m. I said, "Seriously?!" He said yes. I said, "You cannot just help me?" Or something along those lines. Let me note my tone of voice: incredulous. Not mean. I did not insult him, or even yell. I just asked my questions. He would not budge however, and walked away. So then I got annoyed. So I called Frontier Airlines to complain about the man and to try to make the reservation on the phone. The very helpful girl with the same name as my sister nearly restored my faith in Frontier. She made all the arrangements, so the man only had to take my voucher and give me a ticket. Simple. I wish.

I went back to the line at 1:50. A few other people had arrived. The Frontier man had come back to his post, too, but refused to help anyone until 2 p.m. Now, I should note that Frontier has TWO lines here. One for regular passengers. One for special passengers. (In Frontier lingo, "Summit" members.) I did not fit either category. I wanted to become a passenger, yes, but had not yet fulfilled that goal. So I chose the shortest line. After helping the man in front of me, the Frontier man asked me if I was a Summit member. I said no, I just needed my ticket. He said to go to the other line. So I explained to the first man in the other line that I had been there for 30 minutes, and could I just go in front. He said yes. Well, conveniently, there were NO ACTUAL SUMMIT MEMBERS in line. So I was once again next in line. (Yes, just like "Meet the Parents.") I went back to the Frontier man. He proceeded to tell me that he would not help me because I had argued with him before. EXCUSE ME?! Just what did he expect me to do when he told me to wait for 30 minutes?! Curtsy and thank him for giving me an opportunity to quietly collect my thoughts about the state of the world?! So I just said "Sorry, sir, could you please just get my ticket?" He finally agreed, and I proceeded to answer his questions with one-word answers, occasionally adding a haughty "sir" for good measure. I did not tell him that yes, I planned to send a letter to Frontier to note his role in the failure of our airline system, and that yes, I really did stare at his name badge while he booked my ticket and I wrote down all 15 letters of his unpronounceable last name, and that yes, I noticed that his lanyard had only two pins while his coworker had nearly 20, so clearly I am not the first to find his service despicable.

And Frontier, while I am complaining, I would be remiss to leave out my annoyance at your really cheesy theme. No one cares about the name of the wild animal on the tail of the plane ...

Sincerely,

C.

Yellow Shoes and White Buildings ...

What I learned from my trip to Target yesterday:
1. I should have purchased the yellow shoes. So I might buy some online instead.
2. Vanilla is a good flavor for toothpaste, soap and lotion. Not for deodorant.
3. Too many trail mix combinations involve raisins. Who likes raisins anyway?! Not me.

What I learned from trying to think of a topic for this blog post:
1. I am a boring blogger lately. Maybe always. So ...
2. I should end with a photo of me and my lovely friends and family at a famous place ...

Yep, my parents came to town. And we all visited the president. Sort of.

Our New Pet ...

DISGUSTING. And on our wall. But not for long ...

Sarah Palin Tall

Every time I hear the name "Sarah Palin" I think of the book "Sarah, Plain and Tall" from the elementary school days. I cannot remember anything about the book except the title, but I think I might need to revisit it just to satisfy my curiosity. Especially if McCain-Palin win. I really do not want to spend the next four years thinking about the title of a book I cannot remember. But, my memory issues aside, I think I like Palin. So far, I like her because:

1. I like surprises.
2. I really, really like the thought of Hillary not being the ultimate ceiling-shatterer. (For the record, I do NOT vote for people because of their gender. I just like this woman better than the last one to campaign for high office.)
3. I am intrigued by the names of her children. Obviously she has creativity. I like that. (I could be biased here. I am pretty sure my Mom almost named one of us Willow.)
4. If I am choosing vacation spots, I choose Hawaii. But Alaska wins on survival skills. And being tough. And aware of reality. (But we must be pretty serious about this change thing ... candidates from Alaska AND Hawaii in one election. We definitely cannot get farther from DC than those options ...)
5. She is not Mike Huckabee. (Yep, never got over that one ...)

P.S. I know, I know. Not a policy on my list. But I can write whatever I want on my blog. And I am not in the mood to write about policy. So there.

New Look ...

OK, admit it ... the lovely blocks of primary colors formerly decorating this page looked soooo 1L. So, I decided to make a few changes to recognize my advanced 2L status. But the old blog had nice lines and brighter colors and borders to keep the pictures from flying away. This one feels a little floaty and uninhibited and uncontrolled ...

Worth A Thousand Words ...

For the first time in the history of being me, I am not at all ready for the new school year. I know, I know, I am a nerd through and through, but even I cannot be excited for four months of reading cases after a really lengthy last week of work (in which we did not leave until the computer literally locked us out) and two cross-country plane rides with a mere three days at the beach in between followed by a strange job interview and a law review orientation that completely abused the word "unique." So, instead of more ranting from me, I give you the last few weeks in pictures ...

The hallway outside my former office. Please note the the green walls, pink columns and purple mouldings. And the checkered floor. Really, the building used to house the war department, not a fun house. Difficult to tell by the decor, I know ...

A few weeks ago I got the urge to go camping. That has also never happened to me before, so I had clearly been in cement land for too long and I definitely needed a trip to the beach. And to Great Falls when I got back to Virginia. (And, C. FINALLY came back. Hooray!) And, as the last picture shows, the leaves have already started changing. I suppose that means I really do have to go to back to school ...

Flowers In Iraq ...

A quote I read today, by an Iraqi man named Yousif Mohammed, who sells flowers in Baghdad:

"Everyone should love real flowers. If you have just enough money to buy bread, you should spend half of it on bread and the other half on flowers."

Makes me think of the flower stand outside the Metro. Last semester, I loved seeing boys from class buy a bouquet. Every time I witnessed this scenario (and it happened more than once) I would spend my train ride home wondering about the girl on the receiving end, and pondering the possible reasons for the purchase, and secretly hoping the boy had no reason at all ...

America The Beautiful ...

I think the tone of my last few posts shows that my sarcasm level rises along with the humidity. It also rises when I have no roommate to regale (cough cough) with my views on well, everything. (I am living the solitary life for a few weeks. And I will admit, it makes me want a cat.) But today I took a nice long, long walk with my pal M. and I used up all my lame comments. (Yes, M. deserves a prize for such heroic listening. And for buying me an ice cream cone. Thanks, M.) So instead of a rant or a twisted attempt at humor (sorry about those, folks) I am just posting a lovely picture of the Capitol, and telling all y'all that I went there today, and I sat on the House floor (well, in a chair on the House floor) and I listened to the speeches about energy and I agree and yes Utah, I can attest that Congressman Bishop did return to the floor of the House, and yes, we all stood and sang "America the Beautiful" at the end of the day ... really, we did, and you know what, really, it is ...

Happy Birthday ...

So, not only does my stylish little sister share a birthday with the epitome of all classiness (Laura Bush, obviously), but today I learned that my brother almost shares a birthday with the epitome of all verbosity (Barack Obama, even more obviously). Somehow I doubt, however, that Obama shares my now-25-year-old brother's aptitude for being completely accurate when making seemingly ridiculous statements. (For those so unfortunate as to not be related to us, now might be the first time you learn that the best type of mozzarella cheese is evidently made with water buffalo milk. How my brother knew this more than a decade ago remains a mystery.) What this convoluted post is really trying to do is simply to wish my brother a happy birthday ... a day late (relax all, I did call him yesterday). But as a bonus, take that, Barack: I am purposely abstaining from wishing you a happy birthday even though it is your actual birthday and not a day late AND I am insulting your credibility at the same time. And as an extra bonus, while on the topic of birthdays, I will remind my faithful readers that it is never too early to start planning for January 11 ...

The Irony Of It All ...

Today I vacuumed a Relief Society room. In stiletto heels. And a pantsuit. And I cannot decide if this violates the Callie Code of Conduct or exemplifies the virtues of said code ...

Explanation: We had a mock interview event at the church, and after my two delightful interviews I decided to escape the inevitable life-plan conversation for a few minutes and clean up the breakfast instead. And that required some vacuuming. And for the record, interviews, even fake ones, make me feel like I am on a really awkward first date. Same questions about me, same answers from me, and very few of them actually telling anyone anything that really matters ...

The Great Hotdog Roll Crisis Of 1975 ...

I feel it my duty to warn all Olympians everywhere that China has a few problems. High on the list: A historic lack of respect for that singular culinary delight of Costco trips and baseball games and awkward church gatherings. I thank All the Best, George Bush by George H.W. Bush for illuminating this problem ...

Department of State Telegram
The Great Hotdog Roll Crisis

June 27, 1975

1. There is not a hotdog roll to be found in China. Is there any way you could ship us 700 hotdog rolls for delivery prior to July 4?
2. We also need 100 large bags of potato chips in same shipment.
3. Please advise soonest.

Bush

I did not make that up. Really. But I have new appreciation for 41 ...

To Whom It May Concern ...

Dear All Boys I Once Dated,

Hello. I hope your life is good. Yes, my life is good, too, thank you very much. (Although I would say that even if I had just learned that I was allergic to ice cream, that my goldfish had died, and that my DVD of Anne of Avonlea had disappeared. So that was a waste of words. But necessary, per social protocol.) And now, a friendly reminder: Do not ever, under any circumstances, send me a Facebook invitation to your wedding reception. Either spend the 42 cents to send me an announcement in the mail like you do for your actual friends or just continue pretending that I have fallen off the planet and do nothing at all. Obviously our current state of contact will determine whether you take the first or second option. I trust your judgment here. Actually, no I do not. So I will spell it out for you. If we have had a conversation that consisted of more than, "My life is good, how's yours?" in the last six months, send me an announcement. (I will not actually attend your reception, so stop worrying about an awkward encounter.) If we have e-mailed within a year, you can decide for yourself. Longer than that, keep your 42 cents. And yes, even without you notifying me, I will promptly hear about your upcoming nuptials through our mutual friends, and I will be genuinely excited for you. I will consider it a victory for single people everywhere, just like I do every Sunday during our Relief Society moments when we share our good news and announce the latest diamond acquisitions. Well, I guess that covers it.
Thank you for reading. And thank you for dating me back in the day. That was nice of you.

Sincerely,

C.

So, I obviously ate three cupcakes for breakfast today at about the same time as I checked my Facebook account. And we see the results. But let me note that while I generally avoid posts that target a particular category of people, I feel perfectly justified in this exception. I actually know the exact number of people who could be personally offended by this post, and out of those people, the ones who are engaged and thus possible culprits for my biting wit should really have something better to do than read my blog. Actually, everyone I know should really have something better to do than read my blog ...

Look At That Outfit ...

In the past two days I have visited three different libraries in search of various books. My trips across the city, the first in heels and the next two in flip-flops, did not come without painful consequences. But my five blisters were worth it for what I saw on the street on the last of my adventures: A little old lady (think the oldest of the Golden Girls) stopping, parking her walker and staring at the display window at Victoria's Secret (words we never thought would appear on this blog) then pointing at the scantily clad mannequin and saying, "Wow! Look at that outfit!" (The inflection on the "wow," for the record, seemed much more surprised and admiring than shocked and disdainful.) I considered the amount of purple lace barely enough to constitute underwear, much less an outfit, but I laughed about the encounter all afternoon ...

Today ...

Uncle Sam at the parade on the Mall ...

The scene of the action ...

The view from where I stood ... and distributed thousands of drinks ...

Look really closely and you will see POTUS and FLOTUS on their balcony ...

The crowd, enjoying the show ...

Today I sang happy birthday to the president. In person. At his house. Today I watched the former attorney general watch a jump-roping dog. (Yes, dogs can evidently jump rope.) Today I saw the same fireworks and listened to the same songs as the president, the vice president, and the first lady. Today I did not care (well, not much at least) that I stood outside in the rain, sans umbrella, with dripping hair, wearing a much-too-big red t-shirt that turned my white shorts pink. Today I walked so fast to the Metro and made it home so (relatively) quickly that it almost seemed like I just clicked my red Dorothy shoes. Almost. Today was a good day ...

Independence Day ...

IN CONGRESS, July 4, 1776.

The unanimous Declaration of the thirteen united States of America,

When in the Course of human events, it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with another, and to assume among the powers of the earth, the separate and equal station to which the Laws of Nature and of Nature's God entitle them, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to the separation.

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.--That to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed, --That whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new Government, laying its foundation on such principles and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their Safety and Happiness. Prudence, indeed, will dictate that Governments long established should not be changed for light and transient causes; and accordingly all experience hath shewn, that mankind are more disposed to suffer, while evils are sufferable, than to right themselves by abolishing the forms to which they are accustomed. But when a long train of abuses and usurpations, pursuing invariably the same Object evinces a design to reduce them under absolute Despotism, it is their right, it is their duty, to throw off such Government, and to provide new Guards for their future security.--Such has been the patient sufferance of these Colonies; and such is now the necessity which constrains them to alter their former Systems of Government. The history of the present King of Great Britain is a history of repeated injuries and usurpations, all having in direct object the establishment of an absolute Tyranny over these States. To prove this, let Facts be submitted to a candid world. ...

~ The Declaration of Independence

Yesterday and Tomorrow ...

Yesterday:

Tomorrow:

“The only birth-day I ever celebrate is the fourth of July, the birthday of our country’s liberty.”
~ President Thomas Jefferson once told someone who asked him about his birthday.

I must say, while I really love the Fourth of July ... I really love my birthday, too. And I find it in no way a conflict of interest to happily celebrate both ... although maybe that changes when a person becomes president. Luckily, our current president celebrates his birthday just two days after Independence Day, so he can combine events and really celebrate in style ...

Stuff From Smart People ...

These days I spend many, many hours researching stuff. And it reminds me that sometimes (well, usually actually) other much more talented people than I think up much more interesting stuff than I do. But I have my own special talent in appreciating such wit. And with the advent of The Blog, I can share it ... so, a few little nuggets I discovered in the past few days ...

From someone at work, talking to another someone about that someone's love life:
"I am not going to facilitate a transcontinental voyage of the heart."

From Peggy Noonan, in the Wall Street Journal:
"The young are told, 'Be true to yourself.' But so many of them have no idea, really, what that means. If they don't know who they are, what are they being true to? They're told, 'The key is to hold firm to your ideals.' But what if no one bothered, really, to teach them ideals?"

From Justice Scalia (of course I had to include some bit of law this week):
"Giving 'bear Arms' its idiomatic meaning would cause the protected right to consist of the right to be a soldier or to wage war -- an absurdity ... Worse still, the phrase 'keep and bear Arms' would be incoherent. The word 'Arms' would have two different meanings at once: 'weapons' (as the object of 'keep') and (as the object of 'bear') one-half of an idiom. It would be rather like saying 'He filled and kicked the bucket' to mean 'He filled the bucket and died.' Grotesque."

And I saved the best for last (and believe me, this will show up again here ... likely on the first Tuesday after the first Monday in November). This comes from President Truman in 1948:
"It is not the hand that signs the laws that holds the destiny of America. It is the hand that casts the ballot." (As Congressman Cannon learned this week...)

New York, New York ...

Last week, J., L. and I came to a startling (well, to me) conclusion: I am the most pro-establishment person alive. I generally trust our elected officials, I like to eat at McDonald's and if given the chance I would readily move to Disneyland. Oh, and vanilla ice cream is my favorite, although I usually lie and say peppermint just to seem more interesting. So, predictably, when I do New York, I do it like everyone else ...

I take pictures of the skyline ...

I pose with my friends ...

I go to Times Square ...

I eat hot dogs from the street vendor ...

I go to Serendipity ... and order frozen hot chocolate ...

... and have a fabulous time ...

Pop Quiz ...

Last night I went to a violin/piano concert at the National Gallery of Art. I liked the concert. But I really loved this sentence in the program: "Offerto starts like a trembling hand writing an obituary in dry sand." That made me think of some other things that remind me of a trembling hand writing an obituary in dry sand. And it made me think of those incredibly insightful, telling quizzes that reveal the true Disney princess, famous city, color or Friends character hidden deep inside ... so now, just such a quiz, Capital C style ...

"A trembling hand writing an obituary in dry sand," makes me (this means you) think of:
a. A lonely terrorist scrawling his memoirs on the walls of his cave as he patiently waits for The End.
b. My (this means your) love life, starting out tentatively only to be blown away with a tiny gust of hot air.
c. The plot to my (this means your) new book, with the hero stranded in the desert with nothing but an old carpet and a rusty lamp.
d. Nothing. What a stupid thing to do.

This means that you are really:
a. Barack Obama. Those misunderstood characters in the Middle East just want to be left in peace, so we should do that.
b. George Clooney. And pretty much everyone I know. Well, all the single people I know.
c. J.K. Rowling. At it again, making more money than the Queen and Oprah combined.
d. Boring ...

Huddled Masses ...

New York Times photo of Puerto Rican Day Parade

Today, my pals J. and L. saw the Statue of Liberty for the first time, perhaps at the exact same moment I sat at my little desk doing a bit of fact checking about Lady Liberty. (Not a lie. I really did such research today. By assignment. Interesting.) Yesterday though, I really learned about it. Yesterday, I became one with the huddled masses yearning to breathe free. Literally.

Imagine the scene above with about a million more people, all of them wearing some sort of Puerto Rican flag apparel and not much else. All of them cheering and sweating and imbibing. Imagine it to be obscenely hot and humid. Then remember that I have very little street cred on the streets of SLC, and absolutely none on the streets of NYC, especially while wearing a bubble-gum pink t-shirt and denim skirt to my knees and holding a map of the Met that proves I wandered into the crowds of the Puerto Rican Day Parade absolutely accidentally. Unfortunately, one cannot wander out quite so easily. Yes, waiting behind a police barricade for 15 minutes just to cross the street, squished and smashed against a whole throng of sweltering, swearing people and trying to avoid stepping in horse manure certainly breathes new meaning into yearning for freedom ...

P.S. Yes, my own photos of NYC to come soon ...

A Fish Called FLOTUS ...

Our office now has a fish. I did not bring it, so maybe it will live. But I did vote for the clever name my coworker suggested: FLOTUS. (An acronym, for the uninitiated. I really love Laura Bush ...)

So Elementary ...

I just discovered Sherlock Holmes. How could this be?! How has no one introduced us before?! I mean, obviously, I had heard of Sherlock Holmes. But no one told me that I should actually read Sherlock Holmes. For that, I am mad at you all. Luckily, M. recommended it. A little sampling:

"I consider that a man's brain originally is like a little empty attic, and you have to stock it with such furniture as you choose. A fool takes in all the lumber of every sort that he comes across, so that the knowledge which might be useful to him gets crowded out, or at best is jumbled up with a lot of other things, so that he has a difficulty in laying his hands upon it. Now the skilled workman is very careful indeed as to what he takes into his brain-attic. He will have nothing but the tools which may help him in doing his work, but of these he has a large assortment, and all in the most perfect order. It is a mistake to think that that little room has elastic walls and can distend to any extent. Depend upon it there comes a time when for every addition of knowledge you forget something that you knew before. It is of the highest importance, therefore, not to have useless facts elbowing out the useful ones! 'But the Solar System!' I protested. 'What the deuce is it to me?' interrupted impatiently: 'you say that we go round the sun. If we went round the moon it would not make a pennyworth of difference to me or to my work.'"

So, I will be spending a few weeks with Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson. I should note however, that thus far I have only read one story in the collection, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle seems to have subscribed to the above theory ... the story I read included a plethora of outlandishly ridiculous (and thoroughly entertaining) ideas about Mormons ...

Go Fish ...

Last year I killed two goldfish. That would be Josh Lyman, who died after a mere seven days of life in a lovely bowl in my basement apartment. That would be the time my poor roommate woke up one morning to find me holding said fish bowl, dead fish still inside, sobbing uncontrollably for no apparent reason (because really, a week-old fish would not be an apparent reason for such behavior from a stoic like me). She hugged me, we flushed him, and I suppose I recovered. Until the next month, when John Roberts (the fish, not the Chief Justice) entered my world to fill the void left by Josh Lyman. (Not just Josh, for the record. Always Josh Lyman.) But alas, John Roberts (same story) began to be obviously ill after just days in my care. (And by obviously, I mean blood oozed out of his eye. Sad, I know.) A few days later he too suffered a tragic death. Now, I am not a murderer, or even an apathetic owner. I fed both fish the prescribed amount, looked at them more than a normal person should, and even bought the annoying little air pump that supposedly oxygenated the water and caused a buzzing sound that could be heard throughout the house. (OK, not difficult in that tiny place, BUT STILL.) I know no one else who loved their fish quite that much. Now, why, you ask (if still reading, which I doubt) would I relate such fishy tales today? Well, because this week my superiors at work (by which I mean people who actually receive a paycheck for their labor) decided that the interns should bring a fish for the office. As a hint, they put a fishbowl on my chair. Then they sent emails with fish photos. Then they filled the bowl with water and left it on the cabinet. I tried to explain that I am death to fish. I pointed out that the metal detector scanner security conveyor belt thing would probably fry the poor things. But no one would listen. So today I brought them fish.

And they ate them. All of them ...

... and I did not even cry ...

Time ...

Sometimes I stop and think about life. Like today, when I got goosebumps at seven-year-old speeches that I remember hearing, never imagining where I would be rereading them. Or like tonight, in the car listening to "Time to Say Goodbye," remembering it nearly one year ago, tears streaming down my face as I slowly, in the rain, drove away from the Downington days in a car so full I could not see out the back window. Or like now, reading a little yellow card from my jar. This particular card wonders what the heck is going to happen to us. Whatever it is, I think we'll be fine ...

This Afternoon ...

So I did not get close enough to take this picture, but today, I did get to see Marine One ...

In other cryptic news, I really like work thus far. I think I have mastered the essentials of summer office life, like finding the bathroom (more difficult than I would have imagined ... thank goodness they number the staircases) and taking my cell phone out of my pocket before going through the metal detector. And I like the work itself, too. My 10- or 11-hour days really fly by ...

Today ...

The More Things Change ...

The more they stay the same ...

From The Bostonians, written by Henry James and published in 1886:
"His state of mind is one thing and mine is another. How can I marry every man that hangs about me -- that dogs my footsteps? I might as well become a Mormon at once!"

From a blog quoted in the "Blog Log" of the Washington Post Express, published May 19, 2008: "How do they do it? How does the Mormon Church get a couple of prime years of a boy's life to go out and be a missionary either here or abroad?"

Just Like Sushi ...

I dislike sushi. I tried and tried to like it, and nearly succeeded once on a really good date, but in the end, I decided to give it up and embrace that I will never be trendy enough to eat the raw fish. And I will never be tough enough to actually enjoy running. Today I decided that if I cannot like running in absolutely perfect weather, with a view of the Capitol in one direction and a view of the Washington Monument in the other, I am really never going to like it, and I should give up the attempt. Luckily I realized this early on in my quest today, and only ran a grand total of three museum building lengths feeling completely ridiculous in my shorts, exhibiting my pasty legs amidst the hordes of tourists. Then I walked. And enjoyed myself, might I add. Really, a person cannot really enjoy tourist-gazing while running. But walking, I got a good look at the obnoxious school groups, the girls posing in front of the Washington Monument, the women petting the police officer's horse, and the teenager annoyed at her mother for looking at said horses. And the old man who evidently likes running, since he passed me twice ...

Back Again ...

I made it back to D.C. with a renewed appreciation for my shampoo and fresh clothing, after a longer-than-planned layover in Denver, where I spent the night in a hotel, got a voucher for a free flight, and saw my friend A. and her cute baby. I am glad to be back, although I will (of course) miss all the usual suspects: the cutest neighbors on the planet, Sunday dinners with my family, talking with the girls, having my purchases approved by my sister, Cafe Rio with the banker girls, relaxing in the hot tub, arguing with my brother, and the like ...

100th Post ...

For my 100th Post, I have compiled a lovely assortment of scintillating thoughts and photos about my life over the past week. Ooh. Ahh. I know, what a treat. So enjoy.

First, I learned today that if I only held my tennis racket differently, my dating life would improve. (Really, younger brothers provide such fascinating wisdom. Evidently the way I actually play tennis matters not at all, only that I approach it with gusto. Which evidently shows by the way I hold a racket. And all boys apparently notice this. Interesting.) I have no photo to document this life lesson. (Obviously. I certainly cannot risk showing this fault and ruining any chance of a handsome blog stalker falling in love with me via blog.)

My sister made the most fabulous breakfast on Mother's Day. The syrup ... oh, the deliciousness of the syrup. (An analogy: This syrup is to regular syrup what Cafe Rio salad dressing is to regular salad dressing. It is that good. And speaking of Rio, I went there. With my friends from the bank. And we saw the very attractive Kyle Korver. What could be better?!)

I got bangs. Anne Hathaway bangs, hopefully. We will see how much they like the humidity.

I saw the London girls! But I forgot my camera, so I found this one in my London album. (One of few normal photos. The rest mainly consisted of T. and me posing strangely, with me always wearing The Yellow Hat.)

K. came to town, too, so the old roommate gang (minus H., unfortunately) reunited and had a fabulous weekend of playing and eating and laughing. At dinner, K. even acquired an admirer who won her a stuffed Donald Duck, complete with his phone number on it. We subsequently debated the merits of this approach.

Having fun with the camera ... and talking and doing nothing, just the way we like it ...