This morning I took the LSAT. So that I can see just how many different types of graduate degree programs I can get accepted into.
The instructions said "arrive no later than 8:30 am." At about 7:45 I was seated comfortably in a chair waiting for the excitement to begin. After a minute "Chris" sat in a chair nearby and we struck up a conversation. He recognized me as an LSAT taker by the tell-tale Zip-Lock bag with snack, pencils, erasers, etc.
At 7:57 a flood of other LSAT-takers entered the building. At which point Chris asked, "8:30 is check-in, right?"
I chuckled and said, "Yeah. But this is the LSAT, and with this group of overachievers, 8:30 apparently means 8:00 or earlier."
1:45 pm. The LSAT is done. Time to go home. I feel pretty good about it. I'll find out for sure in a few weeks. In the mean time, the magic 8 ball at the coffee shop yesterday told me that it was "Highly Likely" that I'd do well.
Saturday, September 29, 2007
Monday, September 24, 2007
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Thursday, September 20, 2007
Lost
For Labor Day weekend Marty and I took a quick trip to Washington, D.C. We had a great time seeing some of the sights and just getting away for a couple of days. On Monday as we were leaving Mount Vernon to head home I had a sudden realization—I’d left my blanket in the hotel room. My blanket that I made when I was 12 as a first year at girls camp. My blanket that Pogo liked to snuggle under. My blanket that while we lived apart Marty insisted must stay with him because it smelled like me. My blanket that’s needed to be completely recovered and is now the perfect heaviness and softness—Great for or sitting on at a campfire or riding in the car on roadtrips and yarning with (unless I’m driving, and then it must be in the backseat). My blanket that has been admired by many a niece and nephew because it has cars and trucks on it. And who doesn’t like cars and trucks—especially when they’re being driven by bears and dogs?
Although I considered asking to return to the hotel right then, I thought that was too extreme and the situation could be fixed with a phone call. So, I immediately called the hotel and left a long detailed message for the Lost-and-Found Dude. And in the next week or so I left more messages. No call back. Finally today Marty was able to get a response to his message (I think left with the General Manager). Lost-and-Found Dude said nothing matching its description has been turned in, but that the cleaning lady for the floor where we stayed was off today. Lost-and-Found Dude said he would talk to her tomorrow and call Marty back (but that it’s their policy to turn everything in).
I’m afraid that it’s gone for good. And that makes me sad.
Although I considered asking to return to the hotel right then, I thought that was too extreme and the situation could be fixed with a phone call. So, I immediately called the hotel and left a long detailed message for the Lost-and-Found Dude. And in the next week or so I left more messages. No call back. Finally today Marty was able to get a response to his message (I think left with the General Manager). Lost-and-Found Dude said nothing matching its description has been turned in, but that the cleaning lady for the floor where we stayed was off today. Lost-and-Found Dude said he would talk to her tomorrow and call Marty back (but that it’s their policy to turn everything in).
I’m afraid that it’s gone for good. And that makes me sad.
Monday, September 10, 2007
Another day at church
I have a confession: lately I've been wanting to quit church. Just stop going for awhile. Not forever. Just awhile. It's not that I'm losing my faith. It's that I'm tired. Tired of not fitting in to the social system of the Church. Tired of going to church, week after week, by myself. Just tired.
I don't actually plan on dropping out of church, but I think about it a little bit. And truthfully, I'm glad that our church meetings have recently changed from starting at 9:30 am to starting at 1:00 pm. It makes it a little more difficult to justify not waking up in time for all of church because I didn't sleep well the night before.
Yesterday I thought I was doing pretty well. All I had left was Sacrament meeting. I entered the chapel and selected a spot to sit--not on a row by myself, but not with anyone either. My lone island. The previous meetings had been good, and I was looking forward to this worship service.
I was approached by an older gentleman in the ward. A man who loaned us a bed when Marty and I moved here with only what fit with us in the car.
Him: I hear you're moving soon. Can I get that bed back?
Ugh. This is a conversation that I never wanted to have. And I thought I'd taken care of it a year ago--I'd mentioned the situation to my bishop who assured me he'd talk to this gentleman and I didn't have to worry about it. But here I was--forced into the conversation that I'd hoped never to have, just moments before the start of Sacrament meeting.
Me: Well, last year my husband...
Him: Yeah. I knew about that.
Me: Well, the bed's gone. I'll have to get you a new one.
Him: Nah, that's ok. But the box spring--Can I get that back?
Me: No. I'll have to replace it all for you.
Him: Oh. No, you don't have to do that.
He walked away to his own pew.
And I sat. Stunned. Frustrated. Surprised at the sudden rush and intensity of emotions that the conversation had stirred up. Pushing back memories. Images. Uncomfortable at the needing to have the conversation in the first place but also at the time and place of it. No longer focused for worship. Absolutely no longer ready for an hour of sacrament meeting. I gathered my stuff and went to the foyer. I tried to make it out before the tears came, but I didn't quite make it.
I was joined in the foyer by a couple of very nice and lovely women who wanted to help. And eventually I was coaxed into trying to explain what was wrong to one of them. But she didn't really understand how the sketch of events I'd told her had reduced me to a ball of tears. And the words that she was trying to comfort me with were only aggravating me more. I finally got up and left. Out of the building, to my car, home.
Maybe I shouldn't have worked so hard to stay in the same ward when we move. It'd make it easier to drop out of church for awhile.
I don't actually plan on dropping out of church, but I think about it a little bit. And truthfully, I'm glad that our church meetings have recently changed from starting at 9:30 am to starting at 1:00 pm. It makes it a little more difficult to justify not waking up in time for all of church because I didn't sleep well the night before.
Yesterday I thought I was doing pretty well. All I had left was Sacrament meeting. I entered the chapel and selected a spot to sit--not on a row by myself, but not with anyone either. My lone island. The previous meetings had been good, and I was looking forward to this worship service.
I was approached by an older gentleman in the ward. A man who loaned us a bed when Marty and I moved here with only what fit with us in the car.
Him: I hear you're moving soon. Can I get that bed back?
Ugh. This is a conversation that I never wanted to have. And I thought I'd taken care of it a year ago--I'd mentioned the situation to my bishop who assured me he'd talk to this gentleman and I didn't have to worry about it. But here I was--forced into the conversation that I'd hoped never to have, just moments before the start of Sacrament meeting.
Me: Well, last year my husband...
Him: Yeah. I knew about that.
Me: Well, the bed's gone. I'll have to get you a new one.
Him: Nah, that's ok. But the box spring--Can I get that back?
Me: No. I'll have to replace it all for you.
Him: Oh. No, you don't have to do that.
He walked away to his own pew.
And I sat. Stunned. Frustrated. Surprised at the sudden rush and intensity of emotions that the conversation had stirred up. Pushing back memories. Images. Uncomfortable at the needing to have the conversation in the first place but also at the time and place of it. No longer focused for worship. Absolutely no longer ready for an hour of sacrament meeting. I gathered my stuff and went to the foyer. I tried to make it out before the tears came, but I didn't quite make it.
I was joined in the foyer by a couple of very nice and lovely women who wanted to help. And eventually I was coaxed into trying to explain what was wrong to one of them. But she didn't really understand how the sketch of events I'd told her had reduced me to a ball of tears. And the words that she was trying to comfort me with were only aggravating me more. I finally got up and left. Out of the building, to my car, home.
Maybe I shouldn't have worked so hard to stay in the same ward when we move. It'd make it easier to drop out of church for awhile.
Saturday, September 01, 2007
Cher and her crumbles
I haven't written much about my kids lately. So this one's about Cher.
Cher has always seemed to think that getting pet is an important part of her being able to eat. So when we'd walk in the general direction of where we keep her food she'd get excited, walk under our feet, and meow as she led the way to her food bowl. Letting us know just how hungry she was because how could she possibly eat if one of us wasn't there to pet her? We've tried to break her of this habit, and she no longer expects morning and evening petting sessions while eating. But she does still like it, so every once in awhile we'll give her that special treatment.
Cher's food is dry cat food, and all of the kibbles are the same shape and size. She doesn't seem to mind that, but she's not 100% efficient at eating those kibbles. Sometimes as she bites them a crumble or two will fall back into the bowl. And eventually there are only crumbles left--no full sized kibbles.
Cher does not like the crumbles. Cher HATES the crumbles.
One night a couple weeks ago Marty declared, "Cher doesn't get any more food until she finishes her crumbles!" Yep, it was sort of like saying to a child, "You will eat your vegetables, and if you don't eat them now, you'll have them for breakfast."
Now, I'm not certain if Cher understood the meaning of Marty's decree, but shortly after that she began really letting me know how hungry she was. Meowing away, "I'm so hungry and Dad won't feed me." Marty is generally the one who takes care of feeding Cher. And in coming to me with her hunger complaints, she was coming to the softer, more sympathetic parent.
I went with her to her food bowl and I began petting her to encourage her to try the crumbles. And she did. Every few bites she's look up at me like, "Can I be done now? That's three big bites. Isn't that enough?" We checked with Marty and he held firm on his declaration--she needed to eat all of those crumbles. I kept petting her while she choked down more crumbles. Then she stopped eating, looked at me, and puked.
She looked at me and began purring--apparently quite satisfied with herself for proving her point about her crumble dislike. Razor got to finish of the rest of the crumbles and Cher got a new bowl of full-sized kibbles.
Cher has always seemed to think that getting pet is an important part of her being able to eat. So when we'd walk in the general direction of where we keep her food she'd get excited, walk under our feet, and meow as she led the way to her food bowl. Letting us know just how hungry she was because how could she possibly eat if one of us wasn't there to pet her? We've tried to break her of this habit, and she no longer expects morning and evening petting sessions while eating. But she does still like it, so every once in awhile we'll give her that special treatment.
Cher's food is dry cat food, and all of the kibbles are the same shape and size. She doesn't seem to mind that, but she's not 100% efficient at eating those kibbles. Sometimes as she bites them a crumble or two will fall back into the bowl. And eventually there are only crumbles left--no full sized kibbles.
Cher does not like the crumbles. Cher HATES the crumbles.
One night a couple weeks ago Marty declared, "Cher doesn't get any more food until she finishes her crumbles!" Yep, it was sort of like saying to a child, "You will eat your vegetables, and if you don't eat them now, you'll have them for breakfast."
Now, I'm not certain if Cher understood the meaning of Marty's decree, but shortly after that she began really letting me know how hungry she was. Meowing away, "I'm so hungry and Dad won't feed me." Marty is generally the one who takes care of feeding Cher. And in coming to me with her hunger complaints, she was coming to the softer, more sympathetic parent.
I went with her to her food bowl and I began petting her to encourage her to try the crumbles. And she did. Every few bites she's look up at me like, "Can I be done now? That's three big bites. Isn't that enough?" We checked with Marty and he held firm on his declaration--she needed to eat all of those crumbles. I kept petting her while she choked down more crumbles. Then she stopped eating, looked at me, and puked.
She looked at me and began purring--apparently quite satisfied with herself for proving her point about her crumble dislike. Razor got to finish of the rest of the crumbles and Cher got a new bowl of full-sized kibbles.
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