The Absent-Minded Wonder Strikes Again, But Has Finally Gone Too Far.

While typing away at my introduction yesterday, I had attempted to charge my iPod. This involves plugging my wall-charger into a socket, but upon doing so I found that the socket in my cubicle didn’t work. So, I easily resolved the issue by plugging the iPod into my laptop. A while later I went for coffee and never returned.

Twenty-four hours after my coffee break, L asked me where my iPod’s wall-charger was. “In my backpack,” I responded. But it was not there. Then, in a flash, I realized that I had no memory of ever having unplugged the charger from the socket. I left it in the cubicle of the Natural Sciences Library!

We immediately jumped into our somewhat fancy rental car and sped to the university. Needless to say, though I will say it, I felt quite useless. I understand that my studies grant me a certain degree of absentmindedness, but this was simply going too far. Those things are like forty bucks!!

Well, we arrived at the university and L said I should mentally prepare myself not to find it. I parked the car in the loading zone and ran to the library. Flinging open the rather heavy doors, I ran up the stairs to the second floor. You could tell from the speed of the clicking of my boots that I was no sleepy-eyed undergrad, sluggishly making my way to a cubicle where I will half study, half sleep for several hours. No, the clicking of my boots on the library floor suggested intention. I knew precisely which cubicle to check and I wasted no time in reaching it.

In said cubicle I found an older, international student, whom I impetuously accosted with a “Pardon me, I need to check your cubicle.” He, of course, seemed bewildered by such a demand, so I quickly explained that I had forgotten a wall-charger there and would like to see if it was still in the cube. He stood up and turned over some papers, lifted his laptop, and checked under a bit of bubble-gum wrapping, but before I had finished explaining the purpose of my search I had already seen that it was not in the socket. I told him that it was “okay”; he continued to shuffle papers. I expressed that it “is not there,” but he checked under his laptop. I thanked him, and he confirmed that my lost object was not beneath his gum wrapper. I don’t think he understood what I was looking for.

Plan B involved more fast-paced, determined boot clicking all the way down to the circulation desk. I’m certain the person behind the desk saw me enter and heard my loud boot walk, so as I made my way down the stairs, he was already looking in my direction. Then I corrected my course to walk unmistakably in his direction. Having arrived at the circulation desk and pausing to take a deep and hopeful breath I asked: “You wouldn’t happen to have a square, white iPod wall-charger in the lost and found, would you?” Without a word the clerk wheeled his chair two feet away toward a cardboard box marked “Lost and Found.” I could see that there was a long, black scarf in it and I held my breath as he lifted the scarf and, to my amazement, held up my small, square, and white wall-charger.

“IT’S A MIRACLE!” said I, taking possession of my precious object.

So I would like to publicly thank the person who sat in that cubicle sometime between 2:15pm on Friday and 2:15pm on Saturday, not only for returning my wall-charger, but also for confirming my faith in humanity.

A Eulogy for Patchy the Neon

Guest blogged by L.


Born in 1998 at a small Dodge/Plymouth plant in Illinois, Patchy the Neon began a short but memorable life that spanned wide swaths of the North American continent. While her early years in Texas are less well-known and documented, Patchy appeared to have enjoyed periods of moderate travel and regular maintenance at the hands of one or more anonymous owners. However, it was not until she met Daniela that Patchy came to realize the full potential of a loving and committed owner. Whether on the open roads of the Southern United States or in the congestion of Washington, D.C. commuter traffic, Daniela remained Patchy’s true companion and stalwart driver. Regardless of her peeling white façade, for which she earned her unique moniker, Patchy could do no wrong in Daniela’s eyes.

In 2003, Patchy and Daniela made the acquaintance of moderately car accident prone Lindell, with whom they would live out the remainder of Patchy’s years in reliable conveyance and friendship. Patchy often fondly recalled her D.C. years with Daniela and Lindell as an exciting time of first car make-outs on Ontario Road, amazing feats of parallel parking on Summit Place, and frequent jaunts to the suburbs and lush vistas of Virginia and Maryland.

Patchy and her companions left Washington behind for the frozen North in 2004, passing briefly by Patchy’s Illinois birthplace along the road to Saskatoon. With the addition of a block heater and new tires, Patchy braved three long and cold Canadian winters. Although winter would ultimately lead to her death at the hands of an uncaring SUV, Patchy never once complained of the cold, harsh prairie life. As the years rolled on and her paint rolled off, she remained a vital part of the lives she touched: a receptacle for the soft touch of Stephen’s spray-paint; a workhorse on numerous trips to Costco and Ikea Calgary, and an expert mover of wedding cake on a warm summer’s day.

Sadly, slick roads and a twisted metal frame mean she was taken from us all too soon. Yet her untimely death acts as a reminder to us all to cherish the precious moments we have with one another before the paint peels and fender wrinkles.

We will miss you, Patchy. May you rest in pieces.

Rub Down

As many of you know, L and I were in a car accident somewhat recently. The result of said accident, aside from the vehicular damage, was a case of whiplash. To care for this whiplash, my doctor sent me to a massage therapist (MT). Now, I've had massages before...from women. I had never been massaged by a man. Until now.

I've got no problems being massaged by a man, none at all. Hey, if any of you men want to massage me--be my guest. But apparently, professional massage therapists require a degree of nakedness that I found myself somewhat uncomfortable with.

Wait. What? I'm a prude? What the hell's going on?

When the MT asked me to disrobe, my first question was: "Can I keep my bra on?" I think I freaked the guy out. He told me I could keep it on as long as it was unclasped at the back. Is it weird that hearing the guy say the word "unclasp" with regard to my bra, made me want to laugh?

So that's what I did. I unclasped my bra and stretched out on the table, and then I realized how pointless it is to be face down on a table with my bra unclasped... it provides me with no support or protection. But, just then the MT came in.

So there I was: feeling stupid for not having just taken it off, when I realized that my arms were awkwardly akimbo. I spent quite a while worrying about my arm position, but then I became aware of the soft music in the background. It was new-agey, i.e. the sound of waves set to tinkling music. It sounded like new age porno music...pow-chica-pow-pow.

AND THEN... my friends, a strange little thought squeezed into my mind from the oiled-up, new-age ether: when was the last time a man, other than L, gave me a massage? I cannot remember. I CANNOT REMEMBER. I've been in this relationship sooo loooong that I literally can't remember who was the last man to lay hands on me before L!!!!

That might sound bad to some people, but I actually found it rather comforting. Anyone who knew me pre-L, knows that I had difficulty maintaining interest in any one guy long enough to find out his middle name. So this somewhat awkward, almost prudish anxiety stems from what can only be described as a miracle--a tall, news-loving, brilliance-having, hairspray-wielding man-miracle.

Cheesy Mountain Climber Metaphor

I've dedicated the last three or so years of my life to one sad little woman with no life, who struggles to survive in an odd foreign town. No it's not me, though it does kinda sound like me,--it's Lucy Snowe.

Sigh. I wish I knew how to quit you, Lucy Fuckin' Twist. (Funniest, drammatic line ever, by the way.)

But back to the subject at hand. I've been climbing Mount Bronte for a long time. I have suffered hypothermia (i.e. writer's block), frost bite(i.e. getting comments back from advisors), and lack of oxygen (i.e. grad student dementia) and now I can finally see the peak.

Although, I must say, it's been a notable experience. I can't remember another time in my life when it seemed somehow okay that I sat the tub of Becel on a hot burner, effectively melting the plastic and unleashing a mighty river of omega-3 rich margarine. But if you need another example, how about the fact that I have found the need to establish a code word ("muskrat" or "marmaduke....or any "m" word, really) to stop me from discussing "lady problems" when I've had a few too many pints. When else will muttering the words "writer's block" excuse a lack of personal hygiene and antisocial behavior? Perhaps I will never again justify the excessive baking of cookies, quiches, pies, cakes, breads and other fattening carbohydrates with the words "I got comments back and I don't want to read them yet."

I wonder....when I finish my thesis will I cease to read PHD comics and resume my following of Dilbert (which didn't seem as funny after I lost my cubicle)? I wonder if I'll manage to stay up for the Daily Show AND the Colbert Report?

Back when I was a working girl (though not THAT kind of working girl), sleeping in on the weekend meant 9am. I wonder if I'll miss my grad-student-weekday-wakeup-time: 10:30 am?

Anyhow, to wrap up my cheesy mountain climber metaphor: the clouds are rolling in and I have to set up camp for the night. Tomorrow we have another hard day of climbing ahead before we reach our next word count.