Halloween 2006

It was a tough day for Goldy yesterday. Creamed by Ohio State, Samuel L. Jackson, AND Princess Leia. He's keeping his spirits up, though, like a good mascot should.

Performing

Being a student has never felt more like a job than it does now. That's good and bad. I got into graduate school again because there are things I want to learn, ways I want to grow and challenge myself, but the message so far has been that everything I do is a resume building move. Today my advisor talked about how I need to think about marketing myself and that the decisions I make now will determine the kind of work I do later. Assignments never used to carry quite so much weight beyond earning a grade. Now I need to consider how each assignment fits into the larger identity of me as a scholar and researcher. Yikes. Sure, assignments are more meaningful and worthwhile this way, but they carry more pressure as well. I've managed to play the green, naive newcomer for the past for four weeks, but I'm feeling a bit like I've worn out that role. Which is fine. I wasn't all that crazy about it anyway.

Potpourri

My new deodorant is supposed to smell like lavender, but when combined with my sweat it smells more like bologna.

Clearly of Superior Insight

I went to D's cabin this weekend to help get the place ready for winter. My biggest task involved rolling up about eight hoses, which was a dream job compared to donning a wetsuit to help bring in the dock. A task that required standing in the cold water for over an hour while the pieces came apart. I was invited more than once to join this team, but when the time came, four men changed into wetsuits and trotted down to the shore. I awaited an "Are you coming?" but when none came, I strategically located myself out of sight where I slowly and meticulously rolled up my hoses in the warm sunshine. Normally, the assumption that some jobs just aren't meant for girls pisses me off enough to try to prove myself in the name of an entire gender, but the swearing and frustrated growls that carried across the water and landed upon my ears confirmed my suspicion that that battle was best saved for another day.

Boo, Humbug!

Fall marks my second least favorite holiday of the year: Halloween. (First on the list is the one we celebrate for the murderer, Columbus. October is a tough month for me.) Sure, years ago I would have traded my little sister for candy corn, but now that I can drive myself to Walgreens where they sell it year round, I simply loathe the holiday. Why? Because even after an entire month of searching the internet, gathering advice from friends, perusing the racks in second-hand stores, and making lists of ideas, I have never, ever, ever managed to come up with a creative, thought-provoking, or well-crafted costume.* Not once. Every year I think it will be different. That I'll suddenly discover the perfect idea. That it'll cost me only pennies. That I won't look like a total idiot. That I won't have to say, "It's a concept costume. Get it?" That someone will actually mean costumes are optional when they invite me to a party. Or that I'll be vomiting up candy corn all night and won't be able to leave the house. But every year, no such luck. So, while others look forward to the festivities of October 31, I wallow in the shame of not being able to call myself a true American. You know, because Chris Columbus got the ball rolling on making me so proud of that.

* Pimpon asks that I exempt all sock monkey costumes from this statement.

Minnesota, hats off to thee. . .

My non-roommate, Kate, the one who pays rent but doesn't live here, felt so bad about her late check that she gave me two free tickets to tonight's Gopher hockey game. As a U of M student, I was glad to do my part to cheer for the ole' maroon and gold. I had a great time, but felt more like an anthropologist studying the rituals of another culture than a student and fan.

First of all, everyone, really everyone, except me and a two-year old girl in a pink tutu was wearing the team colors. Secondly, I don't know the words to the Rouser and when I did try to chime in on the one easy part, I spelled Minnesota wrong. It has two Ns, you see. Next, there were the chanting patterns. After certain musical cues or announcements the crowd would answer in unison. And each time I would turn to Dave with the same question: What did they say? By the third period he was repeating himself. And still I asked. Finally, I'm just not cut out for viewing violent sports. The fights, name calling from the fans, and chanting of "You Suck" all elicited the same mumble from me: "Well. That's just not appropriate." But the thing is, for a hockey game, it was appropriate. The only thing out of place, it turns out, was me.

This Is How We Roll

I meant to write more about the marathon on Sunday, but I had a date with my aunt Diana's chicken n' dumplings and cheesy beans. That meal alone is incentive to run 26.2 miles.

Despite the fact that I spent fifteen minutes of my race in line for or using the bathroom, the run could not have gone better. I'll take a bad(ish) gut over fatigue and IT band problems in a race like that any day. Plus, finishing in 4 hours 28 minutes was still 17 minutes faster than three years ago. Next year, 4:15. Yep. I said it. Next year.

Becky and Andrew both had awesome runs too. Beck finished in 4:38 and Andrew in 3:53. Must have been his headband.

The Training: Marathon Day

I did it. All 26.2.