An Open Letter to the Man Who Invented the Bell Curve

Thank you very, very much.

This is Obama Country

I watched the election results while eating pizza with my Georgetown classmates on O street. We cheered wildly when Pennsylvania turned blue. We rooted for our Virginia neighbors to push Obama over the edge. Ohio caused another round of celebration. We counted down to 11 PM when the West Coast polls closed: ...5...4...3...2...1...and the West coast lit up blue. Barack Obama is the next President of the United States of America.

It was explosive. There were tears and shouts and champagne. By the time the acceptance speech happened at midnight, the room had emptied a little ( I guess some people wanted to do homework on that night. Whatever.) Those of us who stayed through the speech felt so moved...that we had to, well, move. We went out into the drizzle and watched people pouring out of their houses at the same time, flooding into the streets. We collectively, instinctively pointed ourselves toward the White House.

When we reached M Street, Georgetown's main thoroughfare, the celebration escalated. Bus drivers were beaming. Taxi drivers were honking. A large white man in suspenders was standing triumphantly out of his car sun roof, arms above his head, screaming. A black waiter came out of a restaurant, hugged some of us, strangers, and went back to his shift. Everyone high-fived each other as we walked toward Pennsylvania Avenue. Everyone grinned. Everyone danced. People walked down the middle of the street and waved. People waved their Obama T-shirts in the air. DC votes 95% Democrat every election, which means that there were approximately 3 people here who voted for McCain--that we were all Obama supporters was a sure bet.

What striked me most was that it wasn't vengeful or bitter, despite the chants of "na na na na, na na na na, hey hey hey, good byyyye" outside the White House. It was joyful. It was hopeful. Until I saw so many people in the same spontaneous celebration, pulled out to Pennsylvania Ave just because it was the most obvious place to go, I hadn't really bought the Hope/Change premise. Hope in what? Change in what? To what? I like hope and change just fine, but I hadn't understood how much we need it, how much we have invested in this vague idea. Hope. But what was in the streets wasn't hope to replace Bush. It was hope that we can be better than we are. That we can be a more perfect union. That you really can, if you work hard, do whatever you want in America. You can be a biracial man with a distant father, far removed from aristocracy, and get to the white house with nothing but merit, maturity, and ambition. We can't change the past, but was can mold the future. It's hard, but you can do it. Yes, we can. Yes, you can.

All of a sudden, we can talk about race. We talked about it before, but that conversation was tired; this is like adrenaline. The African-Americans that I see every day on the street as I go to class, now they are beaming. I hear black students being interviewed on the radio: "I realized that I can be anything I want! I am going to study hard, like Obama." My friend Lori teaches 6th grade: her students have a new role model. Stories abound of black great-grandmothers who have seen segregation, separate-but-equal, civil rights, Martin Luther King, Jr. They can vote now. They are represented. NPR did a story about a woman who is 109, saying, "Jones is the living link between the time when black men were owned as property and the time when a black man has been elected president of the United States." Another one, a 95 year old black woman with 13 children, finally inspired, voting for the first time in her Sunday best. This is incredible, no matter what you think about Obama's policies or politics.

This is what we celebrated in front of the White House: the fact that we can change. The fact that we can hope, even if the finish line is past the horizon. Without a vision, the people perish, and we have sorely lacked any sort of vision over the past 8 years. No matter who you voted for, this is cause to celebrate. We get another chance. We were thirsty, and now we know there is a stream. I love America.

Maybe Obama will be a totally mediocre president; it's possible. But what a thrill it is to think that he might not be, that he might be great. Whether he's great or not, the people have been reinvigorated, and democracy is about the people. We forgot that under Bush, but president-elect Obama reminded us. Let's not forget again.

An open letter to Mr. Obama

Dear Barack Obama,

I have enjoyed getting to know you-albeit via the media, and not face to face- over the past--how long has it been? 21 months? Wow. It's been a while! I feel like we could be best friends now! You are on my radio every night, and your pictures is everywhere, even on my neighbor's jack-o-lantern. That is how you know you have arrived. When you are the subject of a carved pumpkin. Congratulations!

Barack and Joe, I am glad that you are doing well in the polls and that you are trying to offer people hope and change. I love hope and change! But do you know what I don't love? Spam.

I do hope that you beat McCain/Palin on November 4. Unfortunately, I am not available, nor do I intend to be available, to call people in swing states, plaster DC with OBAMA posters, e-mail my friends, begin Facebook political debates, or donate money. Especially donate money. But your e-mails to me revolve around this topic! You mention hope and change a little, but mostly, youp lead with me to part with the money I just earned by watching a 3-year old for 4 hours. This constitutes a large sacrifice on my part.

Barack, I am a student. I do not have money except for beans, books, and coffee. I'm afraid that no matter how many e-mails you send me - nay, even if you up your quota to 3 e-mails per day! - I will not donate to your campaign. I'm sorry. Joe, if you send me e-mails, I will not donate. I will not donate no matter who sends me e-mails; I do not have any money.

I heard that you are in the millions of dollars now, and could even afford a 30-minute commercial during prime time the other day! How nice! I didn't get to see it, since I don't have a TV. But I'm pretty sure that this is a good indication that you don't need my $25, which will instead be spent on the previously mentioned beans and coffee.

Therefore, I have to ask you to stop sending me e-mails, Barack and Joe and David Plouffe and David Axelrod and Mrs. Obama (although I do like you, Mrs. Obama, and I think you have excellent taste in sheaths.) I will be watching you on election night, and I hope that you do well and that a victory does not make you stupid and that a loss does not make you depressed. I think you have done a good job over the past two years, and a lot of my friends feel the same. Hope is not as important as money, I know, but it is the mainstay of your campaign, so please accept my hope for your success instead of my $25.

Thank you, and say hi to Michelle for me!

Catherine

The Gods of the Copybook Headings

When I was a freshman or sophomore in college, I went to my dear (now-soon-to-be-a-mom!) friend Anne's house for Thanksgiving. Her mother had a personality test that we took for curiosity's sake. I buzzed through it and checked in heavily as an ISTJ: Intuitive, Sensing, Thinking, Judging. What does that mean? Well, in the explanation of this personality type, there were many useful nuggets. For instance:

ISTJs have tremendous respect for facts. They hold a tremendous store of facts within themselves, which they have gathered through their Sensing preference. They may have difficulty understanding a theory or idea which is different from their own perspective. However, if they are shown the importance or relevance of the idea to someone who they respect or care about, the idea becomes a fact, which the ISTJ will internalize and support.

So true! And this:

ISTJs tend to believe in laws and traditions, and expect the same from others. They're not comfortable with breaking laws or going against the rules. If they are able to see a good reason for stepping outside of the established mode of doing things, the ISTJ will support that effort. However, ISTJs more often tend to believe that things should be done according to procedures and plans. If an ISTJ has not developed their Intuitive side sufficiently, they may become overly obsessed with structure, and insist on doing everything "by the book".

Reading these descriptions assured me that I was not alone and in fact fit comfortably into a box, which was wonderful. I love boxes! More importantly, though, it taught me that...get ready...not everyone thinks like I do. I know. This was a revelation. I always thought that other people didn't follow rules and traditions just because they were, I don't know, rebellious. Or stupid. Or something. It never occurred to me that their relationship with rules and tradition was entirely different from mine. It, for instance, makes me extremely uncomfortable to vary from tradition, whether that means not celebrating Christmas the same way every year or not filling out the correct paperwork on time or using correct grammar. (Granted, this tendency has been mitigated by spending time in the Middle East where "by the book" has different...interpretations and consequences. Sometimes there is no book, and sometimes the book is flat out inefficient. I can appreciate that.)

This is perhaps one reason I have such a love for old things. I majored in history. I like old poetry with rhyme, meter, and patterns. I think old furniture is better made and prettier than that new stuff. I am always tut-tutting when I hear newfangled ideas. I am hopeful about progress but also believe that there is nothing new under the sun. Progress is a misleading idea. I prefer to think of this perspective as "realistic." Some prefer the word "pessimistic." Whatever.

So when I run across instances when history repeats itself or comments on our current struggles, I feel somehow vindicated, as if I could legitimately say, "I told you so!" Even though I didn't actually tell anybody so.

Here is an old thing which makes me feel particularly vindicated. It's another Kipling. And needless to say, I believe in the usefulness of copy book headings.

AS I PASS through my incarnations in every age and race,
I make my proper prostrations to the Gods of the Market Place.
Peering through reverent fingers I watch them flourish and fall,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings, I notice, outlast them all.

We were living in trees when they met us. They showed us each in turn
That Water would certainly wet us, as Fire would certainly burn:
But we found them lacking in Uplift, Vision and Breadth of Mind,
So we left them to teach the Gorillas while we followed the March of Mankind.

We moved as the Spirit listed. They never altered their pace,
Being neither cloud nor wind-borne like the Gods of the Market Place,
But they always caught up with our progress, and presently word would come
That a tribe had been wiped off its icefield, or the lights had gone out in Rome.

With the Hopes that our World is built on they were utterly out of touch,
They denied that the Moon was Stilton; they denied she was even Dutch;
They denied that Wishes were Horses; they denied that a Pig had Wings;
So we worshipped the Gods of the Market Who promised these beautiful things.

When the Cambrian measures were forming, They promised perpetual peace.
They swore, if we gave them our weapons, that the wars of the tribes would cease.
But when we disarmed They sold us and delivered us bound to our foe,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: "Stick to the Devil you know."

On the first Feminian Sandstones we were promised the Fuller Life
(Which started by loving our neighbour and ended by loving his wife)
Till our women had no more children and the men lost reason and faith,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: "The Wages of Sin is Death."

In the Carboniferous Epoch we were promised abundance for all,
By robbing selected Peter to pay for collective Paul;
But, though we had plenty of money, there was nothing our money could buy,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: "If you don't work you die."

Then the Gods of the Market tumbled, and their smooth-tongued wizards withdrew
And the hearts of the meanest were humbled and began to believe it was true
That All is not Gold that Glitters, and Two and Two make Four
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings limped up to explain it once more.

As it will be in the future, it was at the birth of Man
There are only four things certain since Social Progress began.
That the Dog returns to his Vomit and the Sow returns to her Mire,
And the burnt Fool's bandaged finger goes wabbling back to the Fire;

And that after this is accomplished, and the brave new world begins
When all men are paid for existing and no man must pay for his sins,
As surely as Water will wet us, as surely as Fire will burn,
The Gods of the Copybook Headings with terror and slaughter return!

Cities and Thrones and Powers

Cities and Thrones and Powers
 Stand  in Time's eye,
Almost as long as flowers,
 Which daily die:
But, as new buds put forth
 To glad new men,
Out of the spent and unconsidered Earth
 The Cities rise again.

This season's Daffodil,
 She never hears
What change, what chance, what chill,
 Cut down last year's;
But with bold countenance,
 And knowledge small,
Esteems her seven days' continuance,
 To be perpetual.

So Time that is o'er-kind
 To all that be,
Ordains us e'en as blind,
 As bold as she:
That in our very death,
 And  burial sure,
Shadow to shadow, well persuaded, saith,
 "See how our works endure!"


Rudyard Kipling

All of a sudden, the internet is only good for Googling IR theory definitions

I am often walking down the street thinking deep thoughts and then thinking, "Dude, I should totally put that on my blog!"

Except that I don't. And do you know why?

Grad school.

I've been in school for three weeks and have read like, 6 books. Maybe 5. Anyway, a LOT. So I haven't been blogging much, or reading many blogs, or really anything blog-y. This is unfortunate.

But I have learned so much! For example: The first week, before class, we read Conoleezza Rice's Foreign Affairs piece on national interest and American realism. I skimmed it and was like, "Yeah, ok, democracy is important, our efforts to democratize make the world better, blah, ok I get it." But now I get it. I read the same article yesterday and it was like putting on 3D glasses: "Whoa! I totally get why she chose the words she chose! And what they mean!" Not that it was unintelligible before, but now it makes so much more sense.

If the rest of my grad school career is equally enlightening, the tuition will be worth it.

Fall To-Do List

Hi! It's August. I know. Things got crazy.

So here's an easy blog to get back into the swing of things: a list stolen from a fabulous cooking blog, Chocolate and Zucchini. To quote: The Omnivore's Hundred is an eclectic and entirely subjective list of 100 items that Andrew Wheeler, co-author of the British food blog Very Good Taste, thinks every omnivore should try at least once in his life.

He offered this list as the starting point for a game, along the following rules:
1. Copy this list into your blog or journal, including these instructions.
2. Bold all the items you’ve eaten
3. Cross out any items that you would never consider eating. I am going to italicize these.
4. Optional extra: post a comment on Very Good Taste, linking to your results.

1. Venison
2. Nettle tea
3. Huevos Rancheros
4. Steak tartare
5. Crocodile (Not yet, but I ate Cayman in Peru, which is practically the same thing.)
6. Black pudding
7. Cheese fondue
8. Carp
9. Borscht
10. Baba ghanoush
11. Calamari
12. Pho
13. PB&J Sandwich
14. Aloo Gobi (I...don't know what this is.)
15. Hot dog from a street cart
16. Epoisses
17. Black truffle
18. Fruit wine made from something other than grapes (I tried Cherry.)
19. Steamed pork buns (...don't know what this is, either.)
20. Pistachio ice cream
21. Heirloom tomatoes
22. Fresh wild berries
23. Foie gras
24. Rice and beans
25. Brawn, or head cheese
26. Raw Scotch Bonnet pepper. (No, thank you.)
27. Dulce de leche
28. Oysters
29. Baklava
30. Bagna caude
31. Wasabi peas
32. Clam chowder in a sourdough bowl
33. Salted lassi
34. Sauerkraut
35. Root beer float
36. Cognac with a fat cigar (I don't condone smoking. But maybe one day, if offered, I would try this.)
37. Clotted cream tea
38. Vodka jelly/Jell-O
39. Gumbo (eaten in New Orleans)
40. Oxtail
41. Curried goat
42. Whole insects (I would try them, but they'd have to be dead, and cooked.)
43. Phaal (Again like Clotilde, I'd try a forkful, but wouldn't order it for myself)
44. Goat’s milk
45. Malt whisky from a bottle worth £60/€80/$120 or more
46. Fugu (Absolutely not.)
47. Chicken tikka masala
48. Eel
49. Krispy Kreme original glazed doughnut (I have had it, but I did not like it, not one bit. In fact, I hated it. That's right.)
50. Sea urchin
51. Prickly Pear
52.Umeboshi
53. Abalone
54. Paneer
55. McDonald’s Big Mac Meal
56. Spaetzle
57. Dirty gin martini
58. Beer above 8% ABV
59. Poutine
60. Carob chips
61. S'mores
62. Sweetbreads
63. Kaolin (Um...)
64. Currywurst
65. Durian
66. Frogs’ legs
67. Beignets, churros, elephant ears or funnel cake (all of the above)
68. Haggis
69. Fried plantain
70. Chitterlings or andouillette
71. Gazpacho
72. Caviar and blini
73. Louche absinthe
74. Gjetost, or brunost
75. Roadkill (No.)
76. Baijiu
77. Hostess fruit pie
78. Snail
79. Lapsang souchong
80. Bellini
81. Tom yum
82. Eggs Benedict
83. Pocky
84. Tasting menu at a three-Michelin-star restaurant (Someday...)
85. Kobe beef
86. Hare
87. Goulash
88. Flowers
89. Horse (I don't know if I could do this one.)
90. Criollo chocolate
91. Spam (Ew.)
92. Soft shell crab
93. Rose harissa (ooh, sounds yummy!)
94. Catfish
95. Mole poblano
96. Bagel and lox
97. Lobster Thermidor
98. Polenta
99. Jamaican Blue Mountain Coffee
100. Snake

My score: 55/100. Looks like I have some tasting to do.

Cornmeal Muffins

My dear friend Anne visited DC last November when I was, unfortunately, in Jordan. The plus side for them: she and her (equally dear) husband Jasen got to use my apartment instead of getting a hotel. The plus side for me: a thoughtful gift of blue cornmeal from New Mexico.

I hadn't opened it until last night when I was wondering what one does with a lot of souring milk. The answer: mix it with blue cornmeal, some eggs, and some baking powder for blue corn muffin deliciousness:

Everyone needs some Prada, if only in haiku format

Go to the superfabulous blog Daddy Likey, pen a quick haiku about your favorite/most hated/most coveted designer, and see if you win some Prada.

At the very least, you get some amusing poetry. Go now!

Hamming It Up

I am not an extrovert.


Extroverts are those people who thrive in large groups. They are not the people whose faces flush at the thought of making three brief announcements at a staff meeting. They are not the people who forget to breathe in the middle of a speech, thus making their voices quaver and break. They are not the people who have to collect themselves after a walk on stage in front of a crowd, no matter how small. And usually, they don't understand those of us who do.


That's a broad generalization, of course. Some extroverts probably do, on some level, understand the sheer terror of the introvert upon being pushed into a public situation. But for the most part, I've found the opposite: extroverts who nod politely and/or stare blankly when I say, "... No ... I hate public speaking." The response is usually, "Yeah, me too!" But the introvert can see in the extravert's eyes that it is a lie. He doesn't hate it. He is just saying that because it seems appropriate. Everyone is supposed to hate publicity. I've found far more introverts who can at least comprehend that someone - not them, of course, but someone - enjoy the heat of the limelight.


Last time I was in Istanbul, we took our group to a dinner-and-show called Karavanserai. It was dark and seedy and in a basement. There were hard-edged belly dancers who never cracked a smile, inedible desserts, and an emcee who delighted in passing the microphone to unsuspecting audience members. It was, in short, sort of a personal hell. So I sat in the dark corner and tried to remain inconspicuous. Just as I was getting to enjoy myself, or at least, the company around me, I heard my name being called by the emcee.


Now, when this happens-my name called unexpectedly, bidding me to get up on stage and perform, my heart quickens, my face reddens, and I lose my voice. I said, "No," firmly and numerously. So he moved on to my co-worker, who gladly got out of her seat and went up on stage. Greeeeeat, she goes, now I have to go too. I don't mind being a party pooper and have little trouble saying "No," but this was a work event, and she was my colleague, and now I had to get up. So I got up and tripped toward the stage. Fellow introvert and partner in embarrassment, Jenn, joined us.


What I remember most about those brief minutes on stage is our extroverted colleague singing Proud Mary, complete with "Rollin'! Rollin'! Rollin on the river!" hand motions. I also remember looking out to the blurry audience and feeling sort of like my insides had caved in. I suppose we made it through the song, and I remember tripping back to my seat, face burning, tears welling up in my eyes. The combination of the surprise element + not knowing the words + already sort of hating that song + performing in front of colleagues and strangers + work event, for Pete's sake was too much for my shy inner child. She was traumatized.


So on this trip to Istanbul, I told Alp (who is a wonderufl person but also the person responsible for our Proud Mary rendition), "OH NO, NEVER AGAIN, UH UH I AM NOT GETTING ON A STAGE AGAIN, NOT IF YOU PAID ME."

Below are some pictures of me on stage, wearing a harem hat, being fed watermelon by a pretend sultan, and later, mimicking (in front of approximately 150 people, strangers and friends) the belly dancer, despite the fact that she had said to me, "No dance, just sit!" while coaxing me up on stage. You will note that Samia, because she is The Awesome, came up with me for moral support. Samia is pretty much my favorite person.








The things I do for my job.

Sometimes My Life Surprises Even Me

So, in my previous post I listed the plusses and minuses of various grad school experiences and how I would be happy to go to any of them, but of course I had my favorites, and one of those favorites (or, the favorite) was Columbia University because, guys, it's Columbia and then I would have a very good reason to move to New York. When I posted that, I also had a long conversation with two of my Favorite People about how I will probably go to SOAS (London) or SAIS (Italy/DC) if I don't get into Columbia because blah blah blah London! and blah blah blah Italy! and Georgetown ... well, not so much, maybe.

Except then I didn't get into Columbia. I read the e-mail in an internet cafe in Lima, Peru, and didn't break into tears but felt a little hollow and sad and then a little mad at Columbia because in their previous rejection they said, and I quote:

In your case, unlike that of many other applicants who were not accepted to the program, we feel confident of your academic potential. Rest assured your application was among less than five percent of all applicants whom we strongly encourage to reapply to the program after acquiring relevant job experience. We think this will greatly enhance your chances of admission in the future.

And what had I done? I had gone out and gotten me some relevant job experience.

So the rest of my Peruvian vacation, while I floated down the Amazon and fed monkeys and marvelled at Machu Picchu, I mulled the whole thing over in the back of my mind. I made no decisions until my 12 hour turnaround in DC: 12 hours to land at Dulles, go home, sleep, re-pack, drive to Dulles and get on a plane bound for Athens, Greece. My always-helpful mother came over at about 10 am and was greeted more or less by me yelping, "WHERE SHOULD I GO TO SCHOOL?!" (At least I waited to yelp after I'd given her her alpaca shawl.)

And then I raced around my studio, half-dressed and in hot rollers, listing for my alpaca-draped mother my various feelings on the subject of grad school. It went sort of like this: "I mean, SOAS is a good school, but is it good for what I want to study? The lady said...And SAIS is nice, and maybe I should just GO TO ITALY because who doesn't want to live in Italy and that would be kind of stupid to turn down, right? Right?...but I really think Georgetown has the best program of them all, and it's very competetive and if you get into the best school, maybe you should just go to the best school even if you would rather live in Italy and I WOULD be making new friends so it wouldn't be exactly the same..."

And by the time I had packed my carry-on and unrolled my curlers and put on my black travel trenchcoat, I had answered my own questions: Georgetown it was. (Thanks for listening, Mom!) My reasons are very good, and I was surprised at how comfortable I was with my own decision given that not a month earlier my general attitude toward Georgetown could be thusly summed up: "Meh." No, not comfortable; excited. There's nothing like a good, confident decision to turn your whole world a little sunnier. I'm excited about the program, about my future classmates, about my change in lifestyle come August, and about being a Georgetown grad student, and about what I will learn.

I sent in my $500 (unnngh) matriculation fee, joined the Georgetown MSFS 2010 facebook group (Hoyas!) and politely declined the other schools. And then I went to New York to visit Vera Who Lives in Brooklyn because even if Columbia doesn't want me, I'm still only 4 hours - and $3 - away from the Big Apple.

Something Old, Something New

It's about that time, of life and of year, when the wedding bells start a-ringing. The snow has melted, the sun is shining, couples are beginning to emerge from their dens holding hands. Some have even ditched their winter scarves.

Many of my high school classmates, at least, the ones I've managed to stalk keep in touch with via everyone's favorite application, Facebook, are married, about to get married, or are thinking about getting married. When the first of us signed up for the Other Side of singledom, it was nary two weeks out of high school, and I'm not sure what happened to him/them. It seemed very rash and dangerous because we were just beginning our adult lives and was he even dating anyone?! What?

But now we are older and many of us are wiser, and now Decent Men have started appearing, which means that those single friends are venturing to the edge of singledom, peering over the ledge, and shrugging that it's not nearly so scary when you're a grown up.

I've been in one wedding, when my friend, the wonderful Anne, married Jasen, also wonderful, in the hills of Rancho Cucamonga, California. We wore long pink dresses and the day was hot and deserty. Now, make that two weddings, because weekend before last, Vicky up and go herself hitched, too, and to a fine man.

As Maid-o-Honor, I suspected I was supposed to do real work for the wedding preparations. Bridesmaids are not that important, work wise. They just show up and look pink. But Maids-o-Honor, they do things. The interwebs told me that I was supposed to plan a bachelorette party and also "provide support for the new bride." Well, I'm in DC, and she's not, so no bachelorette party without substantial travel bills. But Anthony and I DID give a lovely party, complete with Samia-cake (Have you had a Samia-cake? You need to have one.) At least I know that when I get married, I have a good cake-provider, assuming that Samia is not rich and famous by then, with her own Beverly Hills-based bakery. Even then, maybe she'll give me a discount? Vicky and Dave and the rest of the DC contingent came to my parent's grand house and had a lovely evening, complete with salami. Maid-o-Honor duty #1: check.

The maid-o-honor, the bride, the best man, and, most importantly, the cake.

And the rest was basically *talk*, but important talk about men and relationships and weddings and shoes and undergarments and honeymoons and expectations and babies and mothers-in-law and fathers and tuxes. And then the weekend came, and I put on my Girl Friday hat and got on the direct flight to LAX with Best Man Anthony.

We clean up real good.

Vicky, incidentally, is the Lowest Key Bride Ever. Any fears of a Bridezilla attack or a sudden sob of emotion five minutes pre-aisle were quickly put aside. She was chill. Except at 5 AM, wedding day, when we had to get up for our hair. That was not so much fun. But dang if we didn't look good afterwards.

Beautification at 5 am

We are grateful for Becca's cosmetology skills

It's strange to look at a newlywed couple, even if they've been dating a while, and really think about what they're jumping into together, hands held. They're jumping into an ocean. And even if you both know how to swim, the ocean is big. There are storms. Ships are wrecked on oceans. I look at the wedding pictures and wonder, in 20 years when they look back on these photos, what will they feel? Where will they be? What will they say about their wedding day when they were so young and new to life and each other?

I hope they'll say that their love has put down roots so deep that they will never be torn up, and I hope they look back on this day with wisdom and sweet nostalgia.

To the Nicks!

Ahem...long time, no see.

Much like … everything else in my life, once I get out of the habit of blogging and Thinking About Writing, I tend to stop doing it because I find that I vastly prefer, say, eating chocolate chips on my bed while surfing YouTube. But I realized that I have not updated for two months, thus alienating my loyal audience of approximately 4 people.

While I was away, when I was not eating chocolate chips and surfing YouTube, I applied to graduate schools. It costs a lot of money to apply to graduate schools. I am not sure how this is fair, since I am applying not only for a place in their incoming class, but also for the opportunity to give them more money. The applications should be free. In fact, if I get in, they should pay me as a thank-you for applying. Here is The List of Schools I Would Be Happy To Go To, in order of preference:

Columbia SIPA and/or Journalism (dual masters)
University of London School of Oriental and African Studies (SOAS)
Johns Hopkins SAIS
London School of Economics
Georgetown MSFS

I mean, I’m happy to go to ANY of them, particularly if they give me money (unlikely) but I guess if I had to choose, it’d be Columbia. And they did tell me three years ago that I should reapply after gaining some professional experience, which I did. But hey, London is also not a bad choice, and if I went to SAIS, I could stay in DC...

In other news, Lori, who is awesome, came and visited me for Christmas break. It is very nice to have a visit from a former roommate. There is no, "I hope she doesn’t mind that I don’t do the dishes every night" or trying to impress with my glamorous lifestyle, or…whatever. We lived together for two and a half years in college, and I mean, what bond is stronger than that, besides maybe the parental bond, or the bond you get with someone with whom you have sat, naked, in the Turkish baths in Istanbul? We had many low-key adventures, such as touring the Aquarium in Baltimore and the USS Constitution and also opening Christmas presents. And to top it all off, we celebrated our friendship/vacation/roommate bond/francophilia with a dinner, including wine and dessert, at Bistrot du Coin, which was heart-breakingly delicious.

Upcoming events: Vicky and Dave’s wedding in California in LESS THAN ONE MONTH, w00t! And a trip to Peru for another wedding/vacation in less than two months. And also, a work trip to Greece, probably. And trying to figure out how to pay for grad school. And more blogging.