Harry Potter and The Deathly Hallows Cover Art

Squeaking Bed Springs

The people in the room above me have beds with very squeaky springs, so that any sort of movement on the beds is clearly audible in this room. Almost every day since, oh, August, there has been some sort of rhythmic spring squeaking from above. I wonder what those sounds could indicate? And just a few minutes ago, there were squeaks and groans at very frequent intervals. All I could think to say was, "Get it!" Hey, if some people have cause to celebrate, more power to them. Sweet succotash, it's on again!

It smells like up-dog in here...

What's up-dog? Not much. A lot. A little. Who knows? Most recent new things with me...I cut my hair again. I cut about four inches off a week ago. How many people have noticed? Four. Callie, my Mom, my sister, and my partner in Self Defense class. Maybe guys just don't notice these things. But the change is quite pronounced, if I do say so myself, so it's surprising that more people haven't noticed. But that could be a want of attention speaking. I got a new watch band so the watch I got for Christmas actually fits now. I can wear the watch without worrying about cutting off the circulation to my hand. I went and saw Wild Hogs. It was hilarious. I have a crap load of work to do every week until the semester ends in early May, and I have to find a biologically-related summer job or volunteer opportunity in order to graduate next May. And I can't decide whether I'm mad, sad, depressed, or just generally down. I cried myself to sleep every night this weekend - Friday night, Saturday night, but probably not tonight. What's wrong with me? My parent's are arguing again, and I'm finding it harder and harder to remain quiet or at the very least un-biased. When I hear them argue, all I want to do is run in screaming and tell them both to either get along or play alone. But that's not the only reason I'm down, and truth be told I'm not sure what the main reason is. Am I genetically susceptible to depression? Yes. Am I suffering for lack of love or attention or laughter? Possibly, but not in all three areas. Listen to me drone on and on. I've got work to do.

Hi there!

How are you? Me? Well, I've been a little preoccupied this week. I had a Genetics test today - I'm pretty sure I did all right and I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that I did not ace it. Just after the test I looked up two questions that I was unsure of, and I realized that I didn't get those questions right. But that's over and done with. One of my tutees is in my Genetics class and wasn't getting the material - not just the stuff for this exam, but also the stuff from the entire semester. So, I volunteered to help her and her friend study last night for the exam. We went into the newly remodeled section of the library (which is just awesome, by the way) and then I lectured for three hours. Seriously, I stood in front of this little whiteboard and detailed DNA replication, Transcription, pre-mRNA processing, and Translation for both eukaryotes and prokaryotes, and then I went over some other processes like RNA editing and splicing and then basic DNA structure all the way down to numbering the carbons on the deoxyribose sugar. Three hours later, my voice was ready to give out and they were in desperate need of rest and reprieve. I hope I helped them a little. After I finished that at around nine, I went back to my room and studied until 2AM. I got up six hours later and studied for an hour or so before the exam. And now it's over.

Why is it that my tutee and her friend thought I was some sort of genius and that if I didn't understand something, they had no hope of understanding it, and if I understood and knew something, it was because I was a genius? I am not a genius, nor will I ever seriously ascribe myself to be one. I pay attention in class, I know how to optimize my studying, I know how to self evaluate before an exam, and I rigorously test myself before each exam. Is it therefore a huge surprise that I should make good grades? I think not. Take my sociology mini-exam (aka quiz) on Monday. I spent a good nine to ten hours straight studying for that thing. I went through each and every one of the eleven readings it covered, and I made outlines and summaries of each reading, highlighting the key points of each. And wouldn't you know, I aced the mini exam. Shocking, I know.

Callie has an exam on Friday, and her boyfriend Tim has an exam tomorrow, so they both went to the library tonight to study, and I tagged along hoping to do some quality personal reading. As luck would have it, we ended up in the stacks on the History floor. There we were, surrounded by thousands of books on history. I was in heaven. I spent two hours roaming the shelves looking for interesting titles. I read a little from one book - famous letters from history. It contained the personal letters of some very famous people, and since I love English history, I was drawn to the letters from Queen Elizabeth I, Mary Queen of Scots, Anne Boleyn's plea to Henry VIII, and Sir Walter Raleigh. I was particularly touched by Sir Walter Raleigh's letter - he wrote it to his wife on the eve of his scheduled beheading. In it he expressed his love for her, his wish for her not to grieve long and his hopes that she should not want for anything when he was gone. He said that death would separate them and as he would no longer be hers, so she too would no longer be his, and as was the nature of the world for single women at that time, should she need to re-marry he wished her all happiness. He provided advice for the raising of their son, and signed the letter with something along the lines of yours truly and mine no longer, Walter Raleigh. How moving!

And speaking of moving, my Self-Defense class is involving a lot of activity of late. We finally are using full body gear - chest padding, boxing gloves, and padded helmets. The result of all that gear is that we finally get to attack each other at full strength, holding nothing back. It's actually at lot of fun, especially when my professor makes an example of me because I did something right without even realizing it. I was on my hands and knees and my partner pushed at me from the side, hoping to pin me to the ground. Instead of meeting her force with my force, I took advantage of her applied force by rolling in the direction she was pushing me in and letting momentum build up to help me get away. It worked, and it was even more fun when she stayed attached to me, so when I rolled away, she ended up being pulled along with me and had the wind knocked out of her when she hit the ground. Well, at least I can do something right. And then at the end of the class, I realized that my elbow was hurting so much because I had misplaced some of its skin somewhere in the room. Let that serve as a lesson: hard carpet + heavy and fast rolling = skinned elbows. Now I'm fascinated by the particular scab pattern that's forming - it's gross but cool at the same time. And that is a good indicator that I'm tired, so, bon nuit.

Happy St. Patrick's Day!

Weird Dream

Isn't is strange how some dreams can seem so real, so vivid, that they stay with you long after you've awaken? Last night, I had a very weird dream (well, obviously, else I wouldn't be writing this post). I dreamed that Scrappy was still alive, and I dreamed that Lou was alive (Lou was Darren's Dalmatian). Looking back, I realize that I've had many dreams over the past years that involved Lou, oddly enough. Anyway, Lou was there, and Scrappy, and our current cat Leo. For some reason, Lou could communicate, and said she had been buried alive years ago, but had survived. I remember being torn as to whether or not to tell Darren because I wanted him to be happy that his dog was still alive, but I didn't want him to be sad if she died suddenly (because she was old when she passed the first time). Anyway, there was some bizarre lizard creature living in the pond that wanted to eat Scrappy and Leo, so I refused to let them out of the house. And then Leo went in for his check-up with the Vet (which is actually supposed to happen today), and Dad came home. I remember looking for Leo and not being able to find him, and then going to ask Dad where Leo was, and Dad breaking into tears because the Vet said Leo had cancer and we had to put him down. The vet had given us some drug called Codeine and instructed us to put it into Leo's food. When Leo ate the drugged food, the next time he went to sleep he would never wake up. And then I was curled up on the porch with Scrappy and Leo and Lou, trying to keep all three close, knowing that I would lose all of them soon, and then I woke up. But I've not been able to shake the feeling of impending doom. Why did I dream about Lou? Why did I dream about Scrappy? Why did I dream about that giant underwater lizard in the pond? Why did I dream that Leo was going to die?

Not that you need me to tell you this...

But, it's cold and it's wet. Miserably so. I had to leave early this morning to tutor for an hour before my first class, and of course it was pouring down rain. I had the foresight to bring my umbrella, but I didn't wear a jacket or my waterproof winter boots. Within minutes, my tennis shoes were completely soaked through, and then my jeans became soaked through halfway up my leg. Ten minutes later, I made it to the library and bought some hot coffee and tried to both thaw and dry out, unsuccessfully. Four hours later, I made my way back through substantially less rainfall but much larger puddles, and finally found a haven in my room. Callie had turned up the heat, so it was nice and toasty, warm enough for my to shuck my soaked jeans and socks and shoes. All three are currently lined up along our heating unit in an attempt to dry out. It's cold! Good thing I'm always up on my Vitamin C...good preventative medicine...I have no wish to get sick from this ghastly weather!

How Deep Does A Phobia Go?

And that's no pun intended because I'm talking about my fear of deep water. I can't watch movies that take place underwater, I can't watch people swim in deep water, and apparently I can't look at the oceans on Google maps using the satellite feature. I get the creeps every time. I tried zooming in on Lake Baikal in Russia...scared the bejeezes out of me - I had to close the window. I wonder where this phobia came from...

Photos from Home

Haha

Tim, Callie's boyfriend has enlightened me. I told him and Callie this quote,

"Sex is the act people do the most, and admit the least."

Tim's addenda: "No, that's masturbation."

Spring Break is Over

And I don't want to go back to Raleigh tomorrow. Given a choice between going back to school and keeping house, I honestly don't know which one I'd choose. I said that I was becoming Susie Homemaker, and the manner in which I said it was tinged with distaste. But what is perhaps quite sad is that I have no problem being Susie Homemaker. I'm not going to walk around the house in a skirt and apron all day, but I do like cooking, and cleaning has certain tangible rewards. What then am I doing at school? As far as I can see, I'm proving that I can still learn, and that my mind is as sharp as it ever was. But I have no real purpose. I have no great ambition. I have no ambition. Perhaps that is fear talking - fear of change, fear of the unknown. Perhaps I'm afraid of what I could be, what I could do for this world. I am, but I'm also lazy. Callie summed me up wonderfully when she said I was the "laziest smart person" she ever knew. I get good grades, and I work for them, but not nearly as hard as others work for lower grades. The only way I can explain it is luck. God, I hope that doesn't reek of hubris. People tell me that I have a lot to offer the world, but what if I don't want to share? Is that wrong of me? And why is it that my posts have lately tended towards the more thoughtful and deeper topics? I'll tell you why - it's because I've been by myself for most of my spring break, with nothing but a cat, a TV, and my own wacky mind for company. With no one to talk to, I start to analyze myself. And ever since I've started this Sociology class I'm in, I've started questioning everything, and my thoughts run towards increasingly complex absurdities. Just the other day, as I was walking to pick up my pay stub, I was thinking about how Americans are stereotyped as vulgar and crass and inconsiderate. Did I agree with that description? Certainly not for myself, and not for anyone I knew, but I did believe it. But then who were the vulgar, crass Americans that lent credence to that stereotype? Do they really exist? Or is it just the product of Hollywood producers, who love to have snooty actors with French accents mutter darkly, "Americans"? It was then that I made it to my destination, and that particular train of thought desisted. Weird, eh?

Leo's OK

The lump on his side was one nasty abscess. It was filled with [description omitted for your protection]. When Dr. Westbrook burst the abscess, and the [omitted] spurted out, my Dad jumped back behind me pretty darn quick. He just didn't want to get that foul stuff on him, but Leo'd already peed on me as we were taking him to the Vet's office, so I didn't care all that much. Leo weighed 9.5 pounds. That's down from 17 pounds at his last appointment. He also had a fever, which suggested infection, which led Dr. Westbrook to use a syringe to probe the lump, and tell us that this abscess had been there for a while. Dr. Westbrook gave him an antibiotic to take for ten days and then we made a follow-up appointment for next Friday, and that was all. That's a load off.

Gag

I've become Susie homemaker. Saturday, I planned out a menu for the entire week I'd be home, and then listed all the ingredients that I needed that we didn't have. My parents took the list and went grocery shopping. Sunday night, I made Spaghetti. Monday, I made oven-baked Parmesan pork chops covered in fresh zucchini and yellow squash and then covered that with leftover spaghetti sauce and Parmesan cheese. I then made some garlic fettuccine Alfredo and a fresh salad to go on the side, and then I made french bread (using my bread maker, Timothy). For dessert, I made my blueberry crisp. They liked it. Tuesday, I went light and made white chicken chili. Today, I'm making venison curry with curry-flavored corn bread and a blueberry-raspberry crisp for dessert. Besides cooking, all I've done is clean. Clean and cook. Clean and cook. What did I tell you? Susie Homemaker. I've also done a fair bit of worrying about Leo. His lump has gotten bigger, but he's otherwise normal. He has a Vet's appointment on Friday. We've already had the discussion on how much we're going to do for him. Should we pay for an X-ray? What if he needs surgery? We can't pay for that. We won't pay for that. I don't think. Things were so much easier when I didn't have any part in the hard decision-making process. Now my parents look to me to decide what to do. I don't have any animal-medical experience, unless you count a strong stomach when it came to helping Dad debride one of Bonnie's festering and sometimes maggot-ridden sores. And they expect me to go with Leo and my Dad to the Vet, to discuss some of the possible diagnoses I've come across. I'm supposed to discuss Feline Leukemia (which I don't think it is), Hyperthyroidism, and Cushing's Syndrome. I don't want to go. If Dr. Westbrook tells us that Leo has some form of cancer and there's nothing we can do, I'll make a spectacle of myself with crying. Well, we'll cross that bridge when we come to it. Now for something completely different. What kind of idiot calls a number looking for someone, and then gets the voice mail of the wrong person, and leaves a message anyway? This morning, someone called my phone, looking for a Tom something-or-other, got my voice mail that says my name - Jessica - and leaves this long-ass message anyway. Last week, someone did the same for a different person, and left this long message full of personal details. Hello! You're looking for Tom, you try this number, you get the voice mail of a person named Jessica, not Tom, and you leave a friggin' message anyway. Anyway, time to make some curry, if I can stop gagging from the venison. My Dad tells me to cut up the meat and boil it - to get rid of gristle and gaminess. So I get all bloody cutting up the raw, half-frozen venison that smells funny, put it in a pot with some salt, some garlic powder, and some Hot Madras Curry Powder, and I boil it. It smells like curry, but I can still smell that original gamey-funny smell, and it's making me gag. This is why I prefer to let other people cook the venison. My hands still smell bloody and gamey, after washing them several times. It's probably all in my head. Anyway, time to get cooking. Susie Homemaker to the rescue...

Worry

What would it take to live without worry? How far would you have to go, how long would you have to run to escape its clutches? Would you have to live as a hermit, with no relationships at all? Perhaps you would. Worry is the price of love. When you open your heart to someone or something, you become vulnerable. They say with great happiness comes great sorrow. Life is a balance. So to invite love is to invite worry. Worry that weighs like a ton on either side of your face, making it impossible to smile. Worry that holds you in its visceral grip so that even to breathe is painful. Worry that tracks you down and traps you in a corner, no escape, no hope, no anything. I worry a lot. Do I love a lot? That depends on who you ask, but it is essentially irrelevant. When our dog Bonnie died last May, I realized how precious life is. When my mother called me one day after that and told me she had bad news, my first questions were a panicked, "Is Scappy ok? Is Leo ok? Is Buddy ok?" Ever since Bonnie died, I have been so afraid of losing what remains. Every cough, every sniffle, and I immediately fear the worst. When Scrappy stopped eating Christmas day, worry consumed me so much that I couldn't think. I couldn't fathom a life without her. Two months later, and my tears flow as freely as rain. That's the price I pay and shall pay for loving her so deeply. And now Leo, our cat, is sick. He's been sick, for months, but now it's serious. Months ago, he suddenly started drinking twice the amount of water as usual, urinating twice as much, desperate for food twice as much, and yet he seemed to be losing weight, so much so that I could count the individual spines of his vertebrae, and feel the exact articulation of the scapula and the humerus. He's still heavy, but he's lost muscle mass. Last week two of his canine teeth fell out. Just fell out. And now he has a tumor or a growth of some sort under his skin, just after his ribcage on his right side. The lump is about two inches in diameter. He's less active, and his appetite has increased dramatically. All the research I have done to figure out this malady has given me no hope, only worry and grief. I love Leo. I'm worried about Leo. This worry grips my intestines in an iron hold, making me feel physically sick all the time, making me feel alone, afraid, and depressed. I don't want to lose Leo. And I don't want to worry anymore.

Awesome!

If you checkout google maps, you can actually see satellite images of your home from space. How cool is that!? I found our house, and you can see it here. And I've added some labels here:

Spring Break

I'm going home for a whole week!!!!

Bragging Rights

Boy, have I got them. I had my second quantitative chemistry exam on Tuesday. I went to class today and my professor told us that the average was terrible (I forget exactly...somewhere in the low sixties), and that nearly everybody scored lower on this second exam than on the first. And when he said lower, he meant lower, forty points out of a hundred in some cases. So, when I went to pick up my exam, I was pretty dang apprehensive. I don't know why I bothered - I scored a 107 out of 100. That's a load off. And then I got my genetics test back today. Again, my class was told that a lot of people scored significantly lower on this second test than on the first test. Well, I didn't score higher. I didn't score lower either. I made a 100/100, just like on the first test. Not only that, one of my tutees (person I tutor) who is also in that class told me that her TA told her class that the average was a 72, and that only one person in the entire class scored a 100. My tutee then narrowed her eyes at me and said, "It was you, wasn't it?!" Yep. That makes me feel really good. My professor says that he rarely gives out A+'s, and then only to exceptional students - maybe one or two a semester, if any at all. Well, we shall see, shan't we?

Look at me!

At the beginning of the semester, I started tutoring three people in organic chemistry through the university's undergraduate tutorial center. I think I'm doing OK, but I have plenty of room for improvement. One of my assignments was to videotape myself tutoring and then write a paper evaluating my performance and skills, and indicating areas where I need improvement. I made the video, and then I watched it. I really don't like watching myself. Is that what I really look like? Is that what my voice sounds like? Ick. So, for your personal enjoyment, I've included a screen cap of the tutoring session I caught on videotape. Sorry, but I had to black out my tutee's face.