on the train.

I ride the train now. I have learned to run in high heels. Sitting at my desk, at 4:55 pm, I suddenly realize nothing matters more in the world than getting on the 4:59 train. On those days, the elevator invariably stops repeatedly, with most people taking it to move only one floor. I think that is a silly thing. I have come to know the low feeling one gets when one arrives at the platform just in time to see the train leave. I have been filmed by video crews while driving into the BART parking lot (really, how interesting could it be to film cars parking?), and have been filmed as I put my train card into the reader. My fame has reached another dimension, it seems...

My life is governed by the train. Going to and fro. Pulling my BART card out of my wallet over and over. 7:21 am, 4:59 pm, etc etc.

Once, a man offered me his seat. I did not take it. He looked so tired. Should I have taken it? I know not.

People snore on the train too. Probably the same people.

Upon returning at night, there is one rider (youngish man) who waits by the door and sprints out before the doors completely open in an effort to be the first one to the escalator. He doesn't always make it. He could plan ahead and place himself in the train car that would be the shortest distance from the escalator--but he doesn't. He's always slightly off.

I read on the train. It is the one truly fabulous thing about riding train, the one consolation for time lost in transit.

Another thing--every time I get off the train in the morning, coworkers pop out of nowhere. We are all on the same train but don't know it. To own the truth, I prefer it that way. I'd rather sit alone and read, which is semi-embarassing to admit. If I knew the person sitting next to me, I'd feel obliged to talk to them. Sigh.

The only joke I know

It’s true. I only know one joke. To assume I am not funny because of it (hmm, is that right? maybe it is cause and not effect), however, would be a mistake. I am funny. I say funny things. I say non-funny things in funny ways. But even were that not the case, my one joke is stupendous enough to withstand any harsh criticism of its loner status.

The Joke:

Teller of joke: Do you know what a twip is?

Tellee: No, what is it? [In my experience, this line is most often not performed to satisfaction and one is obliged to prompt the tellee to the correct response.]

Teller: A wide on a twain.

I think the source of this joke was dear mummy. Maybe.

Other jokes from my childhood I only remember vaguely. There was one joke that had to do with silverware… “a knife an a fork! a knife and a fork!” But I don’t think that was the main point of it. Then there was a joke about 10 cent oranges, about which I remember nothing else, except that they were “very very fresh.” Another had to do with a pink house and pink books with pink paper and pink words. I don’t think the pink joke was very funny.

Feel free to post these jokes if you recall them…

As a final point, which is hardly worth mentioning, I do remember a knock knock joke, but I don’t count it because knock knock jokes are excessively lame and stupid.

the master

Now, I am the master. (Luke, I am your father)

After 2 years of agonizing consideration, I have decided not to go for a PhD. I am well aware of all the things I am giving up:

1) the insolvent life of a poor starving student
2) my extra long twin mattress sheets (pink dot and pink stripe sets--mix and match!), which, alas! cannot fit on any adult size mattress. However, I am far too enamoured with my sheets to give them up entirely, so I have determined to make a quilt out of them. Yes, I am ridiculous and in love with my sheets. So what.
3) an excessively large closet
4) the mental acuity of a jelly bean, brought on by evil classes with evil teachers
5) student membership rates in professional societies. Drat.
6) the title, Dr. Laura. There already exists a Dr. Russon, after all.
7) four years of staring at finite element code
8) student rates on football tickets
9) Vaden health care (alas!!)
10) homework.

Thus, henceforth I shall be known as Master Laura.

The end.

the color of poetry

Janie the magnificent and I have composed two sets of symbiotic poetry about complimentary colors.

Our method: one of us wrote a poem with a color in mind, one line at a time, telling the other the word at the end of that line. The other person wrote a poem that rhymes with each line of the first poem, based on the complimentary color. We wrote these without sharing the content until they were complete, with no regard to meter or line length. The poems were to be 3-6 lines. A lovely activity for a Sunday afternoon, I think, perhaps, one of the loveliest to be had.

The first:

written by Janie:

blue (topic, not title)

Shiny travel bag
unleashed, nimbly zipping in an arc through clouds
landing by high heels in baby hues

No flowers are dark
a plush carpet rolls out
ready for toes.

written in reply by me:

orange

under the heat my body flags
the popsicle my tongue enshrouds
A sunflower, freshly cut and bruised
in my hair as I embark
I look for more, and finding none, pout.
It was not worth this blister, I suppose.

The second:

written by me:

yellow

I will paint the house anew
And the chair squeaks when I sit
But, my hair is curly
And I love new bowls
It is enough.

written in reply by Janie:

purple

Shards of broken heart poison the brew
bubbling amethysts and dragon spit
simmer in dull pulse; slowly, surely
reducing palpitating pain and filling holes

Every skin I don, I slough.

me and my B-

For all those who were secretly (or not secretly) hoping for a disgraceful finish to my economics career, you will be delighted to hear the following: I got a B- in game theory. Yes. A B-. Not even a B. I've never gotten a B. It would have been nice to get a B just once. I might be more reconciled to my B- had I hitherto received a B. But. It was not to B. (Hideously bad pun in honor of DH.)

I have had a B+ though...on two occasions. On both occasions, I was exceedingly grateful for the B+. I suppose I should be grateful for my B- as well, but I find myself lacking in such desire.

I find consolation in the fact that no one will ever see my B- since it's in the last quarter on my transcript. But then, it won't matter that no one will see it since I will have already told everyone it exists. Alas. I worked very hard in the class too. Alas. I will accept consolation from this point until April 30 in the form of flowers, gifts, or stinging commentary on this post. Thank you.

avatar.

You may wonder, why do I have an avatar on the sidebar whose clothes/background keep changing? Because I'm silly and it amuses me. Maybe I secretly wish I were 8 years old and could play dress up. But I guess it's not a secret anymore.

iblank

I've become an iblank. It was inevitable.

iblank: one who has an association with ithings.

ithings: things including but not limited to: itunes, ipod, iphone, imac, etc.

But it was not always thus. I used to use windows media player. But then came a series of events which led me to itunes. Apparently, I have been living in a graduate apartment complex for a whole year without realizing I had access to the music collections of my neighbors. I owe many thanks to "Weminuche National Forest" for his extensive collection of jazz and my subsequent discovery of Miles Davis. I have found Miles Davis to be very good homework music.

I did wonder how I managed to avoid discovering itunes until last autumn, and I realized the answer last week. I never owned an ipod. Since I never owned an ipod, I was never forced to download itunes in order to upload music to the ipod. Yet...I have succumbed. I finally quit resisting and bought an ipod shuffle, for the sole purpose of being able to listen to books on tape while I run. Sigh. I have become an iblank, and there is no going back.