The Battle of Wits Begins

At 5 AM, I heard Frankie outside my door. I'd locked him outside my room for the night because of bad behavior (his not mine).

In my half-asleep state, I considered getting up to let him in. Then shock of all shocks, Frankie the Super Genius jumped up on my bed. He had learned to open doors (leading to the hypothesis that cats are descended from Velociraptors).

Frankie Loves Hollywood then circled (descended from sharks as well?) and came to rest by my face, his butt an inch from my nose and mouth, delivering a clear passive aggressive message.

Intimidated by his superior intellect, I had to pet him. Then I remembered that, if I focus hard enough, I too can open doors. My revelation must have caused me to pause in petting him, because Frankenstein's Monster chose that moment to scratch me, which directly lead to me kicking him out of bed.

Frankie retaliated by trying to gulp down a plant I have on my windowsill in one bite.

I put him in the hall and closed the door, wondering how long it would remain closed.

If I could ship Frankie off to Australia for the night, I would

My Favorite News Headline Since, Oh, Ever:

"ESP, ghost, UFO believers outnumber Bush supporters"

Hee hee.

Runaway Kitty

Frankie is curious about the outside. But he hates water, hates when he touches it, hates when it drips on him, hates, hates, hate!
I (very stupidly) assumed the latter would outweigh his love for the former when I opened my front door this morning into the pre-dawn rain.

Normally, when Frankie runs outside he only get about a foot before some interesting smell, insect, leaf, piece of dirt, brick, etc. attracts his attention and I can sweep him up into my arms and pretend to be mad at him.
This morning, however, the shock of rain pounding against his fur catapulted him forward instead of back inside as I thought it would. Frankie ran into a group of low thick bushes in front of my neighbor's house to escape the rain.

So as not to access the emotions of the dark time that followed Frank's escape, allow me to present a very unemotional math equation:

Dark cat + no light + rain + thick bushes = one wet, angry, leaf and dirt covered, late-for-class shel.

During those ten minutes I feared that my neighbors would call the police because a crazy girl--that were she not covered in bits of leaves and her legs not braided with bush branches would have resembled their neighbor--was swearing at an invisible man named Frank and shoving her way through their line of plants.
I managed to find a wet, dirty, and surprisingly calm Frankie resting under several particularly thick bush branches. I threw him back in the house, watching as dirt and leaves flew across my floor and closed the door before the little beast could escape again.

Once I held my key up to the lock, I relented, feeling mean. I opened the door about a foot, patted Frankie's wet head, apologized and said I'd be back tonight. Frankie responded with a happy little meow and lunged toward my feet and the wet freedom beyond them.

Once again feeling justified in my annoyance, I closed the door before the little bugger could escape.

One of Those Mornings

I woke up exhausted. (Get the reference to a Tegan and Sara song? Anyone? Anyone?)

As I got ready, I kept reminding myself to make sure I'd packed my work keys. Since I've started the job, I've been the only person to come in on Friday mornings.

While packing my bag, I shoved in four heavy library books that I wanted to return before work.

I left home early because I wanted to stop at a cafe for a danish and coffee. (I thought that would be a very pleasant start for the morning)

I arrived at the cafe at 7:23 AM. I quickly learned that the cafe didn't open until 7:30. I considered lurking outside in similar fashion to a crazed junkie, but decided against it, since I still wanted to go to the library.

My choice not to wait for coffee ended up being a good one, as the bus arrived while I was still a few yards away from the stop.

I arrived at the library at 7:40 only to find out it doesn't open until 8 AM...the same time I'm supposed to start at work.

I carried the stupid, heavy library books to work. Outside the door, searching through my bag, smashing fingers against the library books, I realized I'd forgotten my work keys at home.

I considered taking a bus home to get the keys...but decided instead to wait for a secretary to another office in my building who had the key.

At 8:15, the secretary hadn't made an appearance so I made a sign saying I'd gone to the library (my need to prove that I'd been there like a good employee was strong...I'd just gloss over the fact that I was also a forgetful employee). I went back to the library, got rid of the four, stupid, heavy, books; did some research; and picked up five, new, heavier books. At 9 AM, I went back to work.

During the walk back, I eyed a cafe, remembering my poor, ignored, stomach. I decided not to go to the cafe because that would involve crossing the street and I'd already done enough walking for one morning.

After fifteen minutes of reading one of my new library books, the secretary still hadn't arrived. I began to worry she wouldn't show. I imagined that one of my bosses had put assignments on my desk last night and would be in later today and would realize I hadn't been present in the office during my scheduled morning hours.

After eight minutes of worrying, the secretary arrived. She let me in. I checked my desk to make sure there were no assignments (None!). And I resumed my homework. Making sure people walking by the office, noted my presence (Witnesses!).

Until I decided to blog. Which brings us to now...in two minutes I can go home...

...one minute...

Publish.

The Miller Method

Here I was, all hopeful to update more often. Then school started. Ha, ha, hee.

I'm adjusting to being a student again. Nothing against Chatham, but my current program involves quite a bit more work...maybe it's not the quantity...more so the work itself...I'm not exactly writing fantasy adventures now. So the work isn't a labor of love, just a labor.

So far my classes are fun.
One of them is a research class. I go back and forth between thinking the class is a joke (the scientific method has been drilled into me since the 7th grade) and being terrified by the midterm and final exams (I haven't taken an actual "test" in at least three years).
To complicate matters, the professor refers to himself in the third person. Instead of focusing on the topic, I find myself conducting my own ethnographic/psychological study--In what context does he use his name? How often does he refer to himself by just his last name? How often does he use both first and last name? (So far he hasn't gone for just using his first name)

My smallest class started out with five people. The only masters student in it decided to drop, reportedly, because she was so intimidated. Honestly, her level of experience in the area of the history of literacy (the class subject) is probably even higher than mine. It's strange, I remember being in grad classes while I was still in undergrad and being completely intimidated by the grad students. That's not the case now. I have this strange comfort in my ignorance, because I know it will lessen with each article I read and class I take. So, I guess that's a bit of advice for you new grad students out there--don't panic! You'll learn it. Whether you realize it or not, you're ready.

Work, so far, is uneventful. Mainly, I make charts for professors, run to the libraries, organize their notes, make copies, send a fax or two and scan documents into the computer. I never realized that professors--in similar fashion to certain classes of celebrities--order people around to fulfill their desires.
I can't complain too much though. The professors don't always remember to give me work. So I spent most of last week being paid to do my homework.

Frankie is doing well. I'm sorry to say, I think he's grown a little, Holly. He has taken to attacking my feet in the middle of the night. Since the little guy is fond of using his claws to solve his problems, my skin looks filleted.

As you all know, I love where I live, but it seems like everytime I look away, something else has broken.

Not much else is going on. I live by class, work and assignments. I do have a new drink love: Cherry Cordial. Love. Joy. Love. It's cherries, whipped cream and chocolate. Heaaaaaven!

No Time

I can't do an ACTUAL update right now. I'm at work and I should probably be doing...work...or something.

I just wanted to demand that everyone watch the new show "Pushing Daisies." It's awesome. It's love. And it is awesome love.

Oh, and it's narrated by Jim Dale of Harry Potter book on tape/cd fame.

Wednesday nights. 8 PM. ABC.

Watch!