the Muffin has moved in

I am in a losing battle with the Cosmic Muffin who has set up camp in my life. Like unpacked the summer clothes and decorated.

Today, I spent 5 hours seeing 3 mechanics (and the DMV), spending $228 on a rear oxygen sensor in order to pass the mandatory smog test so I can get my car registered in California. Well, this project has been extended, since the check engine light is still on. The last mechanic told me to drive the car 100 miles to see if the check engine light clears itself. Unfortunately, I never drive anywhere except the grocery store. Also, if this oxygen sensor isn't the problem, then I get to drop even more money on a new catalytic converter, even though there is still honeycomb catalyst still there. But I got a free espresso truffle latte at Starbucks, and I got a few pages of Judith Butler read. I drove home feeling largely frustrated because I really got nothing accomplished today. And then my day got worse.

Drove up to the 4th floor of the parking garage where I always park, because no one else ever parks up there. Parked in my diva spot, got out of the car, keys in hand to unlock my bike. Which wasn't there. Every time I move my car, I ride my bike (it's on the opposite side of the complex). I take the bike on the elevator and lock it to itself up on the 4th floor, out of the way. I can put my groceries in my basket and ride home, instead of schlepping bags for the 10 minute walk. Now it's missing.

I called the police, afraid, but hoping the bike was just impounded. Instead, they send over an officer to take a report. The officer was really impressed, because I could give detailed information, including providing a receipt with serial number, printing a photo, and giving a narrow window of disappearing. Then he told me they probably wouldn't ever find the bike. ARGH!!!

As a consolation prize, I walked into IV to get a cheesesteak. And there is a matte periwinkle bike! With black basket and leather handles!! I call the police; the "owner" comes out, insisting it's his. There was drama. Squad car. Only to find out that there are 2 matte periwinkle bikes out there. Part of what was so appealing about this bike was how unique it looked. Now I feel like a prat for calling the cops, accusing this perfectly innocent exchange student. I offered to buy the guy a pizza or something, but he was really nice about it, and just wanted to get home.

This is the 3rd bike I've had stolen from me. My first bike was stolen in Williamsburg. Another bike was stolen off my front porch at Yellow House. The red bike I bought to replace the first one was hit by a car, which bent the front fork irreparably. And let's not forget the stolen car adventure.

It sucks because I loved that bike, and I don't like walking places, because it's inefficient. I liked walking in Chicago as leisure not transit, but that was back when my iPod still worked (The battery doesn't hold a charge). I don't have the $150 for a new iPod OR a new bike.

Just another charming event in a list of bad luck I've been having. Last month, I tried getting a new phone, but that turned into drama because it was a lemon. Friday, I got slapped with a parking ticket in L.A. because I punched in the wrong parking space number to the kiosk. Someone got free parking, and I got a $48 ticket.

And all my chocolate has fat bloom, which makes it crumbly and yucky. But I can't just curl up and hide, because I still have Judith Butler to read, presentations to assemble, grants and book reviews to write.

Californians are wimps

Winter in California means 50F and rainy. Not even the non-stop typhoon season of Williamsburg, but a couple days here and there. The whole thing is laughable really. Suddenly, people are bundled in ski parkas and scarves. (The UGG boots are always in season here.) I am guilty of busting out the pea coat, because the light jacket isn't quite enough on the bike, and the pea coat has a hood. It's not cold, which I occasionally have to remind myself.

Light rain is the California equivalent of snow, because apparently the weather is just too inclement for Californians to leave the house. Seriously, in my 42 person history lecture, 20 people showed up today. That's PATHETIC! Even worse - the professor wasn't even a little surprised! Oy! Virginians just pull on the slicker and pack extra socks in a plastic bag. Chicagoans just laugh and enjoy the "warm" weather.

The last time it rained like this, I got drenched riding the bike home. I HATE riding my bike in rain. Wearing glasses is extra difficult, and waterlogged jeans make it harder. I came in, called a warning to SuperK if he was in before I stripped down to my undies before scurrying into the bathroom to dry off and pull on toasty, warm, dry jammies. Of all ironies, I was wearing my W&M t-shirt.

We William and Mary kids got used to this. We packed spare clothes, grocery bags, umbrellas. At the theater, we had the added bonus of getting throw wet clothes into the costume shop dryer occasionally. You always had a couple of pairs of shoes so that there was always something wet, something dry, and the emergency backup flip-flops (I always hydroplaned in flips, but if the other option was soggy sneaks, it could be a tough call.)

What I found really abysmal wasn't even that the kids didn't show up, but the fact that those who did mostly just took up space. It was embarrassing, disrespectful and distracting. The girl in front of me was doing the crossword. The girl next to me was reading a book for a different class. When she wasn't texting on her iPhone. The guy behind me was reading the paper, and the guy next to him read the school paper. By comparison, I was less offended by the kid who left in the middle of class with his phone, because it was probably something serious, or at least he had the courtesy to not waste time.

Rain isn't my favorite, and I would much rather be tucked in my bed with some fiction, but it's not gonna keep me from doing what needs to get done.

on the DVR: "Trust Me" pilot

Classics geek

In the past couple of weeks, my inner classicist has been rearing her head more often. We read Bourdieu a couple weeks ago, and none of my classmates knew the proper plural of his central concept of Habitus (it's habitus - long U, 4th declension - NOT habiti). The repeated use of habiti was making me cringe, especially since someone actually asked the correct plural.

Tonight, I met with DJ Grad to discuss Austin's How to Do Things with Words. There, I got to geek with another classicist. (Well, technically medievalist, but he took Latin too). It's an odd sense of community - the few, the proud, the extra-nerdy. And Latin attracts a certain personality. For this particular book in particular, a knowledge of Latin was super-helpful, since so much of Austin's argument and structure reflect his Latin-training. As a result, our discussion was so stimulating, because it used parts of my brain I haven't used lately. Since we didn't have to explain the Latin-ness to each other, we could really take off philosophically. 2 hours flew by, working with text, riffing on each other, making connections, extrapolating--this is what I love about grad school. (DJ Grad and I joked about co-writing a book, mostly using SuperK and the bull as primary metaphor.)

The book itself is really interesting to geeks like us, because it is so deliberate, orderly, systematic. All about the notion of a performative (a statement that is also an action ~ 'I warn'). Lots of grammar and minutia. Oddly applicable to performance. It appeals to me because of its focus on action and specificity. It makes me want to diagram sentences and re-read Alice in Wonderland. (I think JL Austin was a/the Caterpillar).

Roommate food

98% of the time, SuperK is an awesome roommate. We keep different hours, so there is never any fight over the bathroom. He's pretty neat (in both the tidy and fun ways). He will wash the dishes (admittedly, poorly) if I make dinner for both of us. And it's fun to snark with him. But right now, he has committed two food violations in a week.

Last week, I got home from the grocery store to make a chicken sandwich, incorporating some of the fresh produce I just got. Only to find exactly 1 slice of bread in my bag. Not enough to a sandwich, but not enough to either throw away or grab my attention as something I needed to get. Just now, I go into the fridge to enjoy some cold cheesy bread that I splurged on the other night. That night, I had 2 slices. Yesterday, 1 slice. And I know he asked to have a few, but I didn't realise that a few meant "all but a really tiny slice." ARGH!!

In his defense, he did ask to have SOME bread, and some cheesy-bread, which was fine. I just didn't know the extent of the damage until it was too late. The only time I ever eat his food is when I am making a big pot of pasta that both of us will eat. (The boy doesn't know how to cook pasta, and I had to teach him how to wash dishes. I'm not sure how he got through college.)

The good news is I found a Little Caesars (Pizza! Pizza!) who does crazy bread and it's way cheaper than Woodstocks. Bad news - Little Caesars doesn't deliver and closes at 10PM. Why are there no good delivery places around here? I miss my Papa Johns student special! And if I am gonna drop cash on pizza, I want the organic, hippy insanity of Avalanche. (Their Godzilla and Cheeseburger pizzas are awesome). I also think they should cater to the niche market of graduate students who want cake at 2AM. Because I'm sure I'm not the only one.

Back to Ballroom

Blending my research with my resolutions, I have started attending ballroom practice regularly. Last quarter, I tried it a few times, but there were too many people, most of whom had never danced before. While I love me some newbies, it's not great for learning or even crowd control. Also, practice was scheduled after my Pedagogy class, which was the last class of the week, after which I was always pretty tired/burned out.

In case I didn't miss it enough, I have the double incentive of a professional instructor AND a partner! Last night we had a 90 minute lesson in bronze-level international waltz. Learned more than half of a routine that combines some cool elements. Little bit of technique. I danced with one of the team members who is nice and tall, and has this freakish ability to grow another 6 inches getting into frame. Then one of the alumni (who is currently competing) taught the fan in rumba. The waltz was awesome, but I keep wrecking the timing on the fan. Intelligently, I have a good idea how it works, but my timing is utter crap, even with the best lead.

It is so striking to me though how very out of practice I am. Rusty doesn't even begin to describe it. It's like the super-rusty bike frame in the shed that you hope will not disintegrate under you. I haven't competed in 6+ years, and I haven't even taken lessons in 4. Also, my training is primarily American-style, which is less rigid than International. The timing is different, just a little faster, which is throwing me.

My partner is a science guy, again. Which makes for some fun, since I am arts/humanities-oriented. If I will be dancing alot and competing again, I now have a reason to buy new ballroom shoes. The old Latin shoes are dying, and I may have lost my smooth shoes in the many shuffles. I really want these fabulous purple shoes, but I know I should get sensible tan satin. *sigh* And the purple shoes wouldn't match my old costumes, but then again, I don't know I would still fit into those costumes... I see major spendy-bender with sparkles in my future.

Celeb snark

Watching Princess Diaries over breakfast (Julie Andrews is genius in this one, even if it totally underuses her talent.), I saw an add for this movie - New in Town. They billed it as "Legally Blonde meets Sweet Home Alabama" - both Reese Witherspoon movies. Except that the blonde in this one is the pinched-face Renee Zellweger. I do prefer Witherspoon, and aparently she wasn't available, so they went to the next best thing. Or something.

The movie looks more like Fargo meets Legally Blonde, but that might just be the accent thing. And seriously, what is up with Zellweger's face? It looks like her face was just removed from a Dyson vac or something. And while I appreciate her moving away from her uniform of strapless Caroline Herrera, she looked like a serious train-wreck for the Globes. Then again, most of the celebrities looked a bit rough. To hell with writer's strike, where are all of the good stylists? Looking at pictures, everyone looked either old, overly-made up or that they just had major work done. And I know they are all of those things, but generally they don't look like it. It's bad when Miley Cyrus is the best-dressed/styled one at the party!

Ironies of weather

For the past week or two, I have been alternately amused and surprised by the weather reports. Or the extremes and disparities. I mean, I remember those anomaly days in VA where it was so nice, I had a t-shirt on in December. Last year, the day I left Chicago for Christmas, it was so warm, I forgot my coat!

For the past week, the highs have been in the upper 70s. Total t-shirt weather. Or if you are a Santa Barbie, bikinis and teeny tiny terry "cover-ups." I have been totally enjoying it. Makes the laundry schlep oddly pleasant, the 8AM class pretty, and the apartment nice and fresh from all the open windows. Meanwhile, my east coast kids, or even worse, my Chicago peeps, are in the throes of deep freeze. Chicago spent the better part of this week below zero, even before windchill. East coast was well below freezing. I feel minorly evil as I bop around in shorts (and then brag about it). The funniest moment I had was reading the Trib, who wrote an article surveying why people choose to live in Chicago. And they actually called out Santa Barbara as the absolute opposite, the "perfect weather." This week, that was totally the truth. But the inner Chicagoan in me felt kinda dirty, sad, homesick. Then I went outside and took care of that. The article made me think. I love Chicago. I have survived a Chicago winter. Why would I go back, after living in "paradise"? Because the summers make the winters worth it. Because those crazy winters have made the Chicago personality more hardcore. It's harder to faze them; and when it gets that cold, it builds a weird sense of community. We're all hatin' it together. And paradise has lame architecture, overpriced ethnic food, and just not as much fun. But paradise doesn't require the dork coat.

Today it is lovely all over again. Unfortunately, I woke up at 3PM, which limits the daylight. And then I made the mistake of roasting a chicken, which has trapped me inside. Oh well, it's not like I can't bike along the beach in my t-shirt tomorrow.

on the toob: Step into Liquid - a surfing documentary