we ARE them.

Current marathon studying with S has also meant an extraordinary number of hours spent hanging out in coffee shops with study materials. You spend enough time at these places, you begin to see the same faces on a loop--the guy with the duct-taped laptop and cigarette, the guy with the paper and bulldog with red collar, screenplay writer-guy, girl studying for real estate exam. Guy with hat who spends all day on YouTube.



"You notice how some of these people are here, like, ALL the time?"
"Mmmm-hum." She nods, absent-mindedly.
"I mean, who are these losers? They spend ALL day here!"
She looks up, and makes a face.
"My dear, WE are these losers."
"Oh my god. WE ARE."

the third lap.

Ten-year-old niece picked this out for me from the grocery store: "Sorry you have to study this weekend!" Yar. A nice gesture from someone who is on summer break and spends most of the day slip-n-sliding. She thought, bitterly.

We are hitting the homestretch on the whole studying thing. More correctly, we are on the painful third lap of the mile--the one where you are beginning to really feel the first two laps you ran, and still have another 400 meters to go.

"Surf on Saturday?"
"Can't, I'm meeting S. We both have a ton of studying to do."
"That sucks."
"Thanks. Because THAT makes me feel better about it."

Granted, I have not been in school for a few years, but this whole eschewing-fun-for-learning feels about 10 times more painful than I had remembered. Apparently, learning? Is always the hard way.

it becomes self-evident.

If you are taking this quiz, you already have your answer.

cats + cattle

Another weekend of crash studying, this time with buddy. She is studying for her medical boards, which (I discover) is mostly cheesy memory techniques for endless lists and lists and lists of medical terms.


We select Cattle + Cats + Cilled or Conception = Coxiella as mnemonic numero uno. (It's the small sad face that really does it, don't you think?)

"How's it going?" I ask, looking up from my geography notes.
"This section isn't so great, but the renal stuff was awesome."
"Renal?"
"I'll stop talking now."
"Mmm. Maybe it's for the best."

We then order more coffee and cookies--the only really proper snack to accompany the study of renal function.

And yet more E.

(The following post involves E trying to catch a feral parrot and may slightly offend both Mark Bittner and fans of synchronized swimming.)

E's world is organized by long lists of specific minutiae and odd categories, culled from little bits of information she gleans, mostly from the internet. Lists like "Gross But Fascinating" (includes bot flies, peeling sunburns, Britney Spears) and "Things I'm Not Sure Have Eyes" (earthworms, amoebas).

"So a pickle is REALLY a cucumber?" she asks.
"It's a pickled cucumber," I reply.

And then witness her filing this fact under: "Similar to Previously Noted Relationship between Grapes and Raisins."

(For me, this entire process falls under: "Things I Love about E.")

I bring this up, because E has been getting very bent lately on native and non-native species--zealously observing and mentally placing common organisms into the categories: "Non-native" (must eliminate) and "Native" (must preserve).

So, E stumbles upon what she describes as "a NON-NATIVE parrot" (!!) in the bushes outside her apartment the other day. ("Non-native." Most eliminate.) E is not, it should be said, really a bird person.

She tries to get close enough to take a picture while mentally calculating the likelihood that the bird is also a vicious non-native BITING parrot, when the bird turns to her, and calmly says, "Hello."

She almost pees in her pants.

This story, as she recounts it, concludes with her attempting to report the presence of creepy NON-NATIVE talking-and-possibly-vicious-biting parrot to a police officer and calling someone at the Nature Conservancy to see if she should have the parrot eliminated.

"Should I kill it? I don't think I can kill it."

In the end, she decides that the talking feral parrot--while creepy--is probably not ecologically detrimental. And is spared.

Talking non-native parrots are consequently filed as: "Mostly Harmless and Slightly Less Creepy Than Synchronized Swimmers." (also includes Hanson, dogs with shoes.)

Life with E. Issue 2.

A few weeks ago, E volunteered (in a military draft sort of way) to fly her 3 year-old nephew from Los Angeles to Honolulu. That's six hours. In a confined space. With a small someone who is very squirmy, and whose hobbies include legos, ice cream, and high pitched squealing. Knowing said nephew, and knowing E, I promptly booked a ticket on the same flight. Lest E's head burst into flames. Or nephew arrive in Honolulu minus, er, arms.

This is not to say that E is bad with kids. E is a wonderful Aunty and nephew adores her. But anyone who thinks of children as small, innocent balls of joy... has not spent much time with kids. Children, like adults, have all their own stuff going on. And some of them are... well, actively out to get you.

"Stop it." E turns to give nephew the evil eye.
"No," he retorts.
"I said to STOP it."
"YOU stop it." He scrunches up his face.
"What?" she fires back. I begin to see smoke.
"Stop being a PEST, Aunty." He makes a face. "I'll stop being a pest if YOU stop being a pest, Aunty."

I would have burst out laughing, if I hadn't thought it might undermine E's authority.

A few hours later:

"Can't we give him rum or something?"
"I don't think so."
"What about NOW?"
"Well, we can get us some rum or something."
"But will that make HIM quiet?"
"No, but it might make us mind less."

So you can see how it was. In any case, nephew was delivered safely and no worse for wear. E and I? Well, that was another story.

"After all that, I think I may have my tubes tied." E rolls her eyes.
"That is, if our ovaries haven't already shriveled up from all the screaming."

mo-rockin.

At breakfast study session, another "huh?" moment:

"Uh, and I think he's Moroccan."
"More rocking than... what?"

constructive criticism.

Why so many copies of War and Peace go unread:

"This is kind of hard to read," she says, wrinkling her nose.
"In what way? Is the font too small?" he asks, with concern.
"Nooooooooo," she says thoughtfully. She holds the page at arm's length, tilts her head, and sighs. "There are just, like, so many... (pause)... words."

mission, er, accomplished.

As soon as I claimed victory over the disobedient dog, he retaliated by chewing up and leaving in the front yard the following items:

1 phone charger
3 pairs of shoes
1 bag of potato chips
1 pink disposable razor
1 report on steelhead restoration
1 pair of underwear

To my credit--or perhaps to his--none of these items were left out or stored anywhere near within his reach. I believe the dogs spends 75 percent of his time at home alone scheming ways to get up on counters.

The rest of his time he spends trying on my clothes. (Kidding. Kind of.)



We are now in the course of negotiating terms of a new co-habitation agreement. Presumably one where he chews things less, but is allowed to sleep on the couch.

(To Sam, now with MBA: I mean, does it say something about my management ability, that I am making iterative concessions... to a dog?)