a wolf angel is not a good angel

Today feels like a lucky day.

Why would it? I waited around for my landlord in the morning — they didn’t show up — went to the library and found my tire was flat. I went to some garage, where they would order my tire and I could get it put on in a few hours. So I drove home on the Froot Loop they call a spare tire and waited some more — “finishing”[1] an article I needed to — then went back, getting stuck in traffic, to get it put back on. No problem — except I’d forgotten my check card. Conveniently I had my parents’ emergency credit card, so I could pay. I got a student discount, which was very much appreciated. It’s all so expensive.

This isn’t lucky, really. It’s lucky in that it could have been far worse, but that’s not very lucky.

However, last week I met some guy at a Shabbat dinner. We didn’t actually speak at the dinner, but he invited me out for coffee after. And, um, it went badly. Though I do know his preferred sexual practices — though this is part of the badly.

He phoned today, though, and then said that he was so so sorry, but I love cats, and I have cats, and he just thinks it’s a problem because he really doesn’t like them. I agreed. After all, my cats are young; I’ll have them for years yet. 15 years. More, perhaps.

So I don’t feel crappy about saying ‘actually, I have absolutely no interest in you’. And then maybe I will learn how to say no better, because Friday night showed me I needed to learn that, a lot.[2] And until then, we can “be friends”, or preferably never see each other again.

[1] I read it. I’m not sure I understood it, but I did read the whole thing.

[2] Details of which I intend to be forthcoming, though not in any specific way, because I work things out better in writing.

Oh, this is funny. I’m watching Wheel of Fortune where this terrified looking guy keeps spinning the highest pie piece, again and again. He did it three times in a row, solved the puzzle, then, on the next puzzledid it three more times in a row and missed a letter (someone else won).

Just watching his face, you could see him think you know I think I would have preferred to spin 300.

But I think if I write about them — if I think about it any more — I will not cope so well. So let’s see what else there is in my world:

I am waiting for the Raid(tm) in my room to dissipate so that I can sleep without doing whatever it is that breathing it in would do to me. Hopefully if the cats enter through a window that’s in a room that isn’t mine, there will be fewer bugs in my room. Anyways, we’ll see. Right now I just want the mosquitos and other bitey things dead.

Today I started the Pilates class. (Yay for inexpensive student rec classes.) It was — stretching. Which is fine, but I am intrigued to see if this will lead to anything (horrible agony tomorrow?). I have another weight andball class Wednesdays, and I think I’m going to start getting books on tape and takingwalks with them regularly. I mean, if I’m gonnabe reading fiction instead of articles about questions, I might as well get a walkout of it. AndI like being read to.

M is sleeping marginally more elegantly than her usual belly-up sprawl. She’s awfully cute. S follows me into the bathroom every time I go in, then whines to be let out the second I close the door. I don’t know where he is, but I’m sure he’s being cute, too. He also is more into being held. I love my kitties.

My yeast was dead. Grumble. I’m not going back to health food stores. Sure, the yeast there is *cheaper*, but it’s useless. And I want to make a challah. And I will, tomorrow, on my only entirely free day. After I go to the library.
I read the article I was supposed to have read, putting me only 1/2 or 1 article behind, and in only one class.

I saw Bend it like Beckham. It finally broke the boyfriend-xor-sport mold that, despite the advertising campaign, Girlfight irritated me by not breaking. Look, it’s not any different from any 80s movie, except this time she was boxing instead of dancing. As noted by a friend, though, it’s odd to imagine the US as some sort of female soccer mecca.
This weekend I have a party. I will bake a cake! Yay! A reason to bake a cake!

When you start thinking of things like my friend was hit by a bus, but he’s not seriously hurt and his insurance will cover most of his hospital bill you know that you’re getting desperate for things that aren’t trying. To bed, then.

In Big Cityville, there is a theatre showing No Exit and Waiting for Godot. Which is fine, we all like Beckett. Except these plays are being billed as *comedies*.

The new Mallory book is so good. So incredibly good. I can’t express how much I love this author. (A quote of hers, about herself,titled this post.)

It’s called Dead Famous, by Carol O’Connell — but, though for this book it doesn’t matter so much, don’t spoil it by reading it until you’ve read the first ones. The series starts with Mallory’s Oracle. Read the first four in order.
I think this one will enter my library when it comes out in paperback — eventually, I want to collect them all. Until then I will just reread it (and them)periodically. I am in general a rereader, but not usually of series.

Suddenly sad tonight. I’m not sure why.

I’m trying to tell myself that next weekend *isn’t* an ideal time to go home. I have Thursday afternoon off, so I could — in theory — leave Thursday by 1, and come back Sunday night. I don’t know what would make this a bad plan, particularly, but I feel quite sure that it must be. I will be going home 2 weeks after that, from Thursday night until Tuesday, and my parents will be here the week after that. But still, I want to go home. Or go *somewhere*; I’m just trying to figure out who I could visit in the near(ish) vicinity. But I can’t think of anyone, really — one person, and I am tempted to invite myself up, though I’m not sure exactly I should. Oooh! Or I could see about flying out to visit a friend somewhere else in Canada. I wonder if there are cheap tickets. (So far there aren’t. Damn.)

Of course I have work to do. Lots of it — don’t be silly. I’m just not, right now. I finished the work for one class, and the rest is all reading. I hope it’s nice this weekend and I can sit on my porch and read. It is, of course, supposed to rain.

I do have plans; I’m going to Shabbat services (probably) and dinner (almost certainly) tomorrow. It reminds me of home. And I have a pseudoparty Saturday, and plans to see Bend it Like Beckham Sunday, and I do have all that reading to do.
But I’m still sad.

Long day 1 of 2. 10 - 6, two days in a row.

Yes, yes, everyone in a real job is crying me a river right now. But 8 full hours of class is a lot more tiring than 8 full hours of work.

I’m still supposed to reread something about counterfactuals, but I can’t quite face it. If I weren’t tired, I would read it.[1]

Apparently I’m further ahead in my qualifying paper than I had thought. Not very far ahead, but ahead of where I’m expected to be (and about the same as one or two other people in my year). We were told not to stress about it too much. Ha. Of course I’ll stress so that no one can tell but me, but maybe I can stress a little less.

My mother points out that as unhappy as I may be, I’m much *less* unhappy than I was last year. I at least am excited about classes, which did not at all happen 12 months ago.

Law & Order is almost over. I’m going to sleep.

[1] I can pretend that writing one such sentence counts, no?

I know it’s always been fairly common for female students to work as strippers[1] to fund their educations, but this amuses.

I don’t object to them recruiting in campus papers, and I know I’d prefer to see “Strip for tuition!” in the paper than in the bathroom. If you can do it without ending up regretting it, hey, it’s a good way to pick up living expenses. And, now, tuition.

[1] At least back at Canada U it was. Not me, though.

A neat page with pictures and some videos of how things would look as you approached the speed of light. Via The Globe & Mail.

I’m trying to figure out how to write something. I’m not sure what I want to say, or how I want to say it.

I want to talk about the excitement I feel — finally! again! — about my classes, about my research. I want to talk about the terror. And I can’t quite find the words. I have a topic for my paper. I think it may even work. It will work for one of my classes, anyhow, and then I can see how it expands or what it sets off. I’m intrigued; my advisor is intrigued. I want to talk about my advisor.

I told him, yesterday, that I felt like I was jumping into the deepest part of the ocean without a life jacket, and that I didn’t know how to swim. (It sounded less stupid in person. And I left off the bit about the sharks, because I’m not sure they’re circling. It’s not as if poaching my ideas is going to get you the Nobel. Or even any acclaim.)

His response: some people sink.

Ah, he’s a comforting sort of fellow. But I knew this; I was just trying to explain why I had thought my perfectly reasonable idea was doomed to failure.

I don’t think he believes my idea is failed, or that I’m doomed to sink. But he is realistic, and insists on other people being realistic. (Yes, even about the job market.)

It’s odd, strange, frightening. I hope — very much — I am up to the challenge.