Pissed. Off.

I feel pissed off for some reason (hormones? lack of sleep?). Grrrawrrr. Not at anything specific, but silly things are irritating me way more than they should. I'm annoyed that the housekeeper covered my desk with clothes and then disappeared, when I was planning to do my homework. I'm pissed off at myself for being too lazy to wash the blender properly after my sister used it, and instead just giving it a thorough rinse; it leaked gross metallic water into my food (I keep forgetting it does that if it's not completely dry).

I mean, what kind of loser gets mad because of things like that? They're not important. Nothing to hold grudges over.

Ugh.

Today I registered and got my photo taken for my voter's I.D. (finally). I'd made an appointment for 10:30 a.m., but for some reason I didn't show up on the appointment list ("Oh, that happens sometimes, just print out your confirmation email"), nor was I sent a confirmation email ("Huh! Well, you'd best take a number and sit down... the wait won't be too long, two hours at most"). So I got a slip of paper that said my turn would be at 12:20. They saw me at 1:40 p.m.

Oh, the whole time there was this fucking kid playing a game on her mom's Blackberry, with loud, annoying music after every level.

I did take a bit of a walk. I bought a box of chocolates for my Systematics class. This is because I forgot to put my phone on silent mode during class, and my Mom sent me a text message. If your phone interrupts the class, you bring everyone a chocolate. Dumb rule, since everyone is too cheap to bring nice chocolate, and bring crappy stuff instead (actually, I've still got my shares sitting around. I should throw them out or give them away or something).

I still feel pissed off. Mostly at myself, for letting myself feel pissed off for no reason.

Oh, yeah, I made cupcakes last night. Vanilla, with amaretto icing.

Grr.

Oooh, I know! I'll watch British T.V.! That always cheers me up.

Train of thought (& books 17, 18)

Aah! Another month of my life whizzed by and I didn't blog. Like, at all.

So books #17 and #18 are done and over with.

I read another book, Bridget Jones: The Edge of Reason. Yes, more chick lit. It was okay for the first half, and the second half was awesome (it picked up quite a bit when she went to Thailand. that was hilarious).

I also read Northanger Abbey-- YES!!! I'VE READ SOMETHING BY JANE AUSTEN!!! Actually, I haven't actually finished it, because I misplaced it about a week ago. But I'm only a chapter short, and I'll just lug The Complete Works of Jane Austen off the shelf and read it from there. I saw a girl reading Sense and Sensibility on the bus once from an Austen compilation. It looked, um, inconvenient. I breezed past with my 150-gram copy of N. Abbey and felt smug.

Har.

I've been on a baking kick. Within the last week, I've made three batches of cookies (double chocolate chip, white chip chocolate, and vanilla pudding with peanut butter chips) as well as chocolate marbled banana bread (which is really more like cake, but "banana bread" has a nicer ring to it. And "banana loaf" sounds even better, because it rhymes with "oaf"!) and marinated tofu from Sundays at Moosewood Restaurant. Oh, I made granola, too. With cinnamon and applesauce. And nutmeg.

Mmm, chocolate. I've nearly polished off an entire bar of 85% Lindt chocolate. But everybody knows that dark chocolate is somewhat good for you, which means that I can eat as much as I want. Hurrah!

Although I do try to eat no more than two pieces of fruit a day, or they crowd veggies out. And fruit is just sugary veggies.

Speaking of granola, why do people think granola is so healthy? It's bits of oats and seeds stuck together with sugar and oil. Honey, too. People think honey is magical or something... it's sugar syrup (I mean, it's got trace amounts of minerals, too, but that doesn't give one license to smother stuff in honey).

What else? Oatmeal cookies. They're cookies with a few oats mixed in. Oh, and All-Bran: wheat bran stuck together with corn syrup. Seriously! I bought some plain toasted wheat bran the other day, and it's WAY cheaper and tastier (and without the stupid stick shape. Why is All-bran shaped like sticks? They could make it into little rings, like Cheerios!).

I'm way off topic. Well, there was no topic to begin with, but I'm still way off. Now I'm just ranting about stupid things nobody cares about. People can eat oatmeal cookies if they so wish. Cookies!

Perhaps I need a nap. I feel a bit woozy.

It rained today. Unfortunately, it was extremely sunny while I was jogging in the morning and now I'm all caramelized.

I took Reyna, one of our dogs, for a really long walk on Friday. I met a man who told me that I shouldn't let her lead me around, and that I should be the one telling her where we would go. I lied and told him that I lead her for the first half of our walks, and then let her sniff around at will. He nodded and we talked about our dogs for about ten minutes. Reyna tugged around at her leash and got scared of things (like the mans' dogs), and eventually flopped down in the dust, while his dogs sat next to him nicely and payed attention when he spoke to them. They nuzzled his hand and all.

I wonder if this is how mothers with fussy toddlers feel when they see other children who are well-behaved, and their own kids are screaming for candy?

Anyway, I took the guy's advice (his dogs really were lovely... cute bastards) and spoke to Reyna the whole way home. She seemed to be pulling less at the leash, but I think it might be because we had been out for a long time and she was tired. I won't let her pull next time, though. And I can put a bandana on her when we go out so she looks endearingly klutzy instead of fluff-brained.

Books 15, 16

Har. Once again, all I have to write about is books.

Actually, there are other things, but I'm lazy (SHOCK!). I will try to make amends by following this post with something else, because I'm getting a sneaking suspicion that when (if?) I'm 72 years old and hire someone to read my blog to me, I'll just skim over the whole book bit and go, "Eh... let's hear the bit about the rogue pony instead". Provided, that is, the blog and me have both survived, and I have money to hire someone to read it. Or I can bribe them somehow. Maybe I'll have grandchildren, or –OR– literate cats! Oh, and also I'd have to say something about a rogue pony.

Anyway, I'll keep this brief.

Book 15: Illegal Alien, by Robert J. Sawyer.

My sister brought this book back from Canada when she came to visit sometime last year. She also brought back a trilogy by the same author, about Neanderthals living in a universe parallel to ours. I enjoyed the first book and abandoned, out of disinterest, the second, after about 3 pages. But that was last year, so it counteth not toward this book count. I'm just throwing that in there so you can see how awesome and literate I am (har).

This book was pretty fun, mostly because it deals a whole lot with things happening during a criminal trial, inside a courtroom. That may sound boring, except I do enjoy Law & Order: SVU whenever I catch it on TV (and since I usually get home around 11 p.m., that's at least once a week), so I know who the prosecutor and the jury are, and what "Objection! The defendant is arguing their case!" mean. Actually, I have a much better idea of how the justice system stuff works in the U.S. than in Mexico.

See, Mexican-made television includes a lot of telenovelas, which I'm not exactly a fan of. Recently there have been efforts to produce proper T.V. series, though, which is good.

This book earns an extra brownie point because it's science fiction and has aliens in it.

Book 16 was Mini Shopaholic by Sophie Kinsella.

That's 3 of her books I've read this year, I think. Lots of chick lit. Hee hee.

I'm a big fan of the Shopaholic books, especially the three first books. The fourth, fifth and sixth (which is the one I just read) I progressively liked less, just a bit each time. Which is not to say I didn't enjoy this –I really did– just... not as much as the first half of the series.

That's it. Whooo!

Books 13, 14, Singleton

Good thing I've been taking notes of the books I've read, because otherwise I wouldn't touch the blog. Ha.

Book 13 was Time Cat by Lloyd Alexander.

I picked it up one day when I was late and just needed whatever to take to school and read. It turned out to be a childrens' book, and it was okay. I like the cover, it was quite spiffy (but nobody seems to have uploaded a picture of our version to the Internet for me to steal. Granted, I didn't look too hard).

Book 14 was Bridget Jones's Diary, by Helen Fielding.

I was surprised I finished this– I'd started it about twice before and stopped after about 20 pages for reasons unclear. This time, though, I thought it was great. Marvelous. Lovely. Particularly because Bridget spends a good deal of her time feeling lonely, dejected and bingeing. I can identify.

Anyway, what is it with British chick lit always pairing off the protagonist with one of the country's richest bachelors? In Shopaholic, Becky gets with Luke, who lives in a pile of cash; in The Gatecrasher, Fleur gets with what's-his-name, who has oodles and nothing to spend them on (!); and Bridget Jones is suddenly swept up by Mark Darcy, who not only has millions of pounds stashed away, but is also called DARCY! I mean, come on. I'd be happy if the dog licked me, forget a rich Mr. Darcy.

Actually, no, because I've seen the dog eat revolting lumps of slime from the garden. But my days have passed in sorry Singleton existence while everyone else is running around being social. I just sit there getting old and spinster-y. I mean, I'm not even interested in anyone. And the only guy who's shown any interest whatsoever is this totally boring guy. Oh, and also my weird ex who contacts me every few months to remind me he still thinks of me bla bla bla. But I'm not sure he counts. And also that girl from Biochem who may or may not be hitting on me but who I find intimidating either way.

Anyway, I'm not saying I'm much of a catch (even I know there's not that much to me) but surely I can do better than that?

Sorry, I've gotten side-tracked. The point of it was, I'm with Bridget all the way up to the last three pages, when who should show up but Mr. Darcy, the rich hottie. Jealousyyyy.

- . - . -

Ugh, tonight I was feeling desperately thirsty but we were out of drinking water. I found a bottle of mineral water and, after not having a sip of fizzy drink for months, guzzled about a pint of it in all of fifteen seconds. Big mistake, as within seconds I thought my stomach might burst and I'd be found dead the next morning on the kitchen floor amidst a pile of jumbled intestines. "Oh, yes," my mother would say, "I thought I heard a popping noise last night".

Books 10, 11, 12

So I settled down for the weekend and knocked off another three books (much helped by the fact that I swung into a deep pit of self-pity and possibly hormone-ridden dispair, and spent most of the time either reading or staring at the wall and trying to keep my mind blank). Not great literature, but still.

Book 10 was The House on the Gulf, by Margaret Peterson Haddix. I quite liked some of her books from the time when I was about twelve to fifteen years old. I'd read this one a few years ago and felt it deserved about 8/10 back then. When I re-read it on Friday it didn't seem so great; I'd give it a 6/10 this time around. It was just... meh.

- - - -

Book 11 was Donna Parker Takes A Giant Step, by Marcia Martin (which Wikipedia says is a pen name, thank god). I read this one out of curiosity, because it's old (published in 1964) and sounded dorky. It met my expectations perfectly.

Donna is this girl starting high school. She says "Golly!" a lot. The teenagers in her town throw parties every two minutes, but the students from the neighbouring town crash them and spoil all the awesome fun by starting water fights with garden hoses and the like. And get this: Donna's classmates don't like that the parties have been getting too wild. WHAT?? Nobody was even drinking or anything! Pardon me, but if there was none of that cheap tequila that everyone says makes you go blind, then it was no party*.

But I've gotten sidetracked here. The kids decide that what they need is a community center dedicated to the town's teenagers so that their parties can have proper adult supervision. Yes, really. So all their parents bust their hides and in, like, a week, the kids have a fixed-up house where they can throw their boring chastity club meetings and eat crackers with cheese while sipping apple juice (or whatever it is they do at their "parties").

Oh, yeah, the "giant step" that Donna takes is realizing that people are multifaceted or something.

It was like 300 pages long (although with relatively large print and the occasional picture that makes the kids look 35 years old) but it was worth it to plough though. Mostly because then I could compare it to the next book...

- - - -

Book 12 was Hangin' out With Cici, by Francine Pascal. This is from 1977 and I really liked it.

Victoria is 13, is about to be expelled from school, hates her mother, is extremely cruel towards her little sister (which made me stop liking her for about 30 pages, seeing as I was the victim of much bullying, flying objects with pointy edges, injustice, twisted arms, insults, etc. back in the day. It sucks), and gets caught smoking weed. Basically, she's the anti-Donna Parker, and two years younger.

Then she whacks her head and travels back in time to 1944, where she meets and befriends her mother when she was Victoria's age. Turns out her mother smoked, shoplifted, tried to steal a test, etc., but eventually –with Victoria's help– learns to take responsibility for her actions (only after she got caught, I might add). Victoria smacks her head again, travels back to the 70s where she belongs, follows her young mom's example, and gets along better with her real-time mom.

I liked it because it was pretty funny AND it proves that Donna Parker and her "parties" are absolute bull. Also I thought it was weird how Victoria thinks. Like, she smokes weed but wouldn't let anyone feel her up. Huh?

* Have I mentioned that I don't like parties? I don't drink, see. I'll make an exception for eggnog (if it ever crosses my path, which it hasn't for about a decade) and maybe the very occasional mojito. Oh, and flavored beer in Belgium. I mean, chocolate beer. Chocolate!

Books 8, 9

So! Book 8 was Anne Frank's diary. I liked it a lot! I guess I should note that we have the "definitive" edition, consisting of a mash-up of her original diary, the one she edited herself after considering it might be published, and the one released by her father. In case anyone was curious.

It surprised me that Anne was such good writer, making me want to smack Mrs. van D. up the side of her head and everything! And about Peter: when she first got to know him better she was like, "Oh, he's nice as a friend. I feel nothing else for him", and I was all, YOU'RE NOT FOOLING ANYONE, ANNE!! And sure enough, a few weeks later they're making out in the attic! (Or the Netherlands equivalent, which involves hugging and pecking each others' cheeks).

My classmates have gotten used to my carrying a book around 90% of the time*, so they just pick it up, remark about its being in English, and then tell me about the one or two books they've read in the past five years. I smile and nod. One of my classmates in Algae lab picked up the diary and said,

"Oooh, Anne Frank's diary! I read this book, I liked it soooo much!"

I thought, "Awesome!" and, wanting to discuss it further, said the first thing that popped into my head:

"Yeah, it's really great! It surprised me, though– she sure writes a lot about sex, huh?"

My classmate look at me for a few moments, bug-eyed, and then answered,

"Uh, I think I, uh, read the abridged version."

Oh. Well, how was I supposed to know?

- - - -

Book 9 was Madeleine Wickham's The Gatecrasher. I enjoyed it while reading it, but the end was a bit unsatisfactory and afterwards I got a feeling like I didn't really get to know the main character very well. I mean, you get told about her past, and her motives and all that, but not so much about her personality beyond "frivolous" and "charming". But altogether, it was a fun read.

Madeleine Wickham is Sophie Kinsella, author of the Shopaholic series (much beloved by myself). I knew "Sophie Kinsella" was a pen name, and I thought "Madeleine Wickham" was, too. Turns out that's her actual name, which is weird because it sounds totally fictitious, whereas S. Kinsella sounds like a real person. Oh, well, such is life.

*Sometimes I forget my book at home, but I came up with the solution of keeping a back-up book in my locker. Brilliant. Except I don't want to keep anything too valuable there (a book we only have one copy of or something) because what if something spills in the locker above mine? I might open the door one day to discover all my stuff is drenched in cat pee. Or something.

Pictures! Animals (deceased) and book 7

Here's a toucanet to get you interested. It was soft and silky. I know that because OH, THAT RIGH THERE HOLDING IT UP IS MY HAND!! I GOT TO TOUCH IT!! I GOT TO TOUCH IT!!!

On Monday my Systematics class got shown around the Faculty's zoology museum (museum as in collection of stuffed raccoons and speared butterflies kept in cabinets, not museum as in stuff on display for a Saturday visit and a picnic afterwards). I always thought you had to handle stuffed specimens with the utmost care, lest you snap off a claw or poke a hole in a wing, but my teacher was picking up birds, poking them, and passing them around like nothing.

Actually, he picked up a woodpecker and, to demonstrate how loud it could be when carving the fancy wooden panels and balustrade for its bird-house, began banging its beak against a cabinet right over my head (he was right, they're loud).

It wasn't all fun and desecrating bird bodies, though. It's saddening as well. Like when we were shown a beautiful, HUGE woodpecker: an Imperial Woodpecker. The largest in the world, in fact, except they're extinct.

I didn't get a picture of the woodpecker. Here's a roseate spoonbill to make it up to you.

My teacher is an ornithologist, so 80% of what he showed us was birds. He didn't even start with the mammals until there was a general clamor for furry things. "You want to see furry animals? Instead of these beautiful birds? Fine!" and he pulled out a drawer full of rats.

And you know what the AWESOMEST part is? Their freezer broke!! DO YOU KNOW WHAT THIS MEANS!?

"Ah," you might say if you're a bit slow, "their waffles will thaw so they'll have to eat them soon. There will be a waffle party!"

No! That's silly. Who would share their waffles? No, the freezer broke– the freezer where they keep animals that are dead but not yet gutted, stuffed, etc. SO they need to fix them up before they decompose. So they need help. They need... newbie students who are willing to handle rotting corpses!

And that's where I come in. When I finish this post, I'll get ready and leave. Whee.

ALBATROSS! Get it on a stick!

This pelican was massive. A girl almost got smacked in the face when the prof picked it up.

I took the above pictures with my crappy phone camera. They don't really do justice to the real things, but just so you have an idea, I included some birds (the other pictures didn't turn out at all. Like the bats and the raccoon, which is a pity).

- - - - -

I finished reading The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society, by Mary Ann Shaffer and Annie Barrows. I really liked it, which was unexpected because I'm not really big on war; but then again, I loved the Tomorrow series, and I recall enjoying The Guests of War trilogy (it's been ages! When did I read those? I think around five years ago*). Other than that, though, I haven't read much about war. Oh, there's When Hitler Stole Pink Rabbit... I feel like I'm forgetting some.

Anyway, this has turned into a boring list rather than an interesting snapshot of my life meant for posterior examination.

Since I really liked the Potato Peel Pie book, I started on Anne Frank's diary. Embarrassingly, I've never read it. I do know the basic plot, though:

Anne Frank is 12 or so, calls her diary "Kitty", lives for a few years shut up in an attic with her family and others– according to Angela from My So-called Life, there's "a guy she really liked" there, too, so there's room for some romance or at least sexual tension here– and can't make any noise (they have to sneeze into pillows) lest someone hear them and figure out that they're there. They get found, though, after a few years, and are taken to a concentration camp where Anne dies when she's 14 or so.

I'm about 50 pages in, and at first I thought Anne was a bit conceited, but now I'm thinking maybe it was her age (except that when I was an tween I didn't think quite so highly of myself. But then, I don't think much of myself now either, so I'm biased).

*Someday when I'm old and withered I'll read this and marvel at how five years could be described as "ages". But five years ago I was thirteen and not quite the same as who I am now (much more sullen and cynical, I was back then. But I often wonder, if I could go back in time as I am now and meet my younger selves, would they like me? Would they be glad I didn't turn into a dithering ninny? I have, actually, a bit. But of course I wouldn't dither in front of them.)