the honey home

VICTORY! *Maniacal laughter*

Praise God for small hands, the good moods that exercising brings about, and lovely hallmates that will pray for you if you’re sitting in the stairwell crying. Praise His Holy Name. (And I mean that.)

In a fit of insanity, I have stolen the rug from the room of the girls across the hall from my room. Their door was locked, but the rug sits close enough to the door that all I had to do was slide by fingers underneath the door (about 1″ opening. Oh yes.) After working a bit to get a good grip on the rug with my finger tips, I just pulled it right through. Just like that! Genius. It’s a big rug; orange and fluffy. And now, it’s on my floor! Aha!

I wrote them a note on their door.

“Dear Masters,

Alas, I can take no more of your stepping upon me; I’ve been wishing to see the world for quite some time. Now, I finally can. Goodbye!

Sincerely,

The Rug.”

And now, it’s going to go see the world. If you’ll excuse me, I have some pictures to take.

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My roommate/best friend is my hero. She has a hematoma in her right arm, and she’s right handed, but that didn’t stop her from going bowling with us tonight for Ben’s birthday, and she bowled with her left hand, and did really well! She amazes me. You can read all about her hematoma and what caused it here: http://www.xanga.com/home.aspx?user=LookitsJeska

That’s a little what her arm looks like, except now the swelling has spread and she has bruises.

I’m so glad the weekend is here! I don’t know why I’m so tired, but I’m looking forward to a couple of days to just finish my homework and watch movies. (Not at the same time, of course).

I have the weirdest talent in poetry. What I mean is this: the talent is like a living entity unto itself; it has a mind, and a will, and it comes and goes as it pleases. It comes every couple of months and stays with me for perhaps a day or two, then it disappears. I don’t know when it will return.

My painting is the same way. Maybe the two run off together? I think that’s what happens. At least my music in more sensible.

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And now, I can’t really think of anything to say.

Have you ever had one of those days that you just can’t remember a thing that happened? That was today. Today is just a blur. I remember my classes, and that’s it.

I tried to make myself some weird concoction for dinner tonight with the new sauce I bought, but it didn’t turn out at all and I ended up just throwing it away.

I’m listening to three songs over and over again…The theme from My Big Fat Greek Wedding, La Valse D’Amelie, and L’Valse des Mostres from Amelie. The last one is played by an accordian, and it reminds me of my maternal grandfather, who used to play the accordian. He died twelve years ago, and his accordian is buried in a closet somewhere at my grandmother’s house. I wish I could learn to play it, but it’s so old now, and heavy, besides;  so much so that I probably could not pick it up.

He used to play the piano by ear, as well. I remember my mom telling me stories that she would bring home a piece for him and play it a few times, and he’d be able to play it back just from hearing her play it over. They always tell me, “He’d be so proud if he could hear you play”. I don’t know why, but that’s almost upsetting to me, somehow.

I have this vivid memory of him coming to my house when I was about six or so, I guess, and bringing me a birthday card. He didn’t come up to the house; I ran down to the gate to meet him, and he gave me the card then drove off. I was so excited.

I found out a few months ago that he did that because he had seen my mom in the grocery store a few days before–I think he was with one of the women he had had an affair with, and her children–and she had angrily berated him for not even knowing the birthdays of my sister and I, who were his only grandchildren. So he brought me the card out of guilt. Talk about tainting a memory!

I’d still like to learn to play his accordian, though. I can just see myself trying to navigate the huge thing. But, my oboe teacher is worried that I’m taking to much upon myself, trying to learn the oboe and the violin at once. I’m personally a little put off that she would say that. I think it’s because I cried once in lessons, but I had had a very stressful day and was frustrated with Oskar on top of it, and it pushed me over the edge. I tried to explain my position and mentioned that I struggle with depression, and her eyes got all big and she asked if I was on medication. I tried to explain, not that kind of depression, more like when I’m high, I’m very high and when I’m low I’m veeeeery low indeed, but I think she think’s I’m psycho, now. Last tuesday, I was in a really good mood, and gosh-darnit it was like she wouldn’t let me be happy! I mean, really! Leave me alone.  I’m a perfectionist by nature, so naturally I get frustrated with myself often, but really! Let me be happy, and don’t you dare tell me I can’t accomplish something.

Well, look. I found something to say, after all.

I have an exam tomorrow I must study for.

Here’s a nugget of joy for the night:

“In poets as true Genius is but rare,

True taste as seldom is the critick’s share.”

-Alexander Pope.  

Goodnight!

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Oh well. They won’t let me donate blood, either, because I’ve been out of the country in the past three years; The Dominican Republic, Mexico, and Honduras. (Side note: The nurse–bless her heart–didn’t know where the Dominican Republic is and asked me if Honduras is in Europe.) Anyway, I tried, right? And they gave me a t-shirt anyways. (They’re so nice!)

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Today has been a most interesting and yet completely boring wednesday. I’ve changed clothes four times, already!

My violin lessons were cancelled today; I’m not sure if I’m relieved or not. I always get nervous before I go, but I think I was going to do really well today, so I’m a little disappointed. Oh well. All this talent, just wasted! Ha.

This morning, I got up about twenty minutes before class, so I barely had enough time to make myself presentable and get coffee before class. I made it on time though, except I could have sworn that I brought my notebook with me to class…Except, upon sitting down, I discovered I did not  have it with me.

Did I leave it at the coffee stand?

The guy that sits beside me in the class works with my sister, so I guess we have sort of a special bond even though we don’t know each others’ names. I told him I was going back to see where I put it, and for him to tell the prof. if I wasn’t back by the time he called roll. Role? Roll. Quien sabe.

So I run back to the coffee stand, running its contents over in my head, to remember if I had anything really private in there. I couldn’t remember anything. It didn’t really matter, anyways, because it wasn’t there, which means I left it in the room this morning. But I swear! I could remember going out the door with it!

After class, I returned to the dorm and there was my notebook, sitting on my desk. I think I actually did  leave it at the stand, and it ran back by itself. Ornery thing!

My door is open. I don’t remember opening it! Hmm.

I’m going to give blood in a few minutes. I’m so nervous, but I’m excited. I like to help; I’m an organ donor, but I’m not dead yet so this is (to me) a sort of live organ-doning.

I’m having smell-paranoia again.

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