“(773): before i die, we are going to oregon and playing oregon trails for real. like putting things in a hat & people will pull out whether they live or die. and they die of fun things like typhoid, dysentary, or hunting accident.”—An entire generation, upon reading this, goes ‘OOOOO! I WANT TO DO THAT.’
Reading over this thread I pondered my own feelings on this and came up with one fairly trivial but pressing concern. I had always vaguely thought (vaguely since I am nowhere NEAR wanting to be married) that if I was fairly well established in my career I would keep my name for professional purposes but adopt my husband’s for personal use.
This seemed pragmatic and inoffensive and easy enough. But looking over these comments one thing occured to me (thanks to a question): Email.
No, seriously. This would be my issue.
My beloved gmail account is megan.foran@gmail, no numbers, no initials, plain and simple. So is my twitter, my Duke email and someday soon my alumni email. My internet identity is intrinsically tied to the sequence megan.foran (or meg.foran, but you know). I OWN my google results (in a good way).
So as much as the day to day use of someone else’s name seems like not a bit deal and even kind of fun (plus it would likely have a more definitive pronunciation than mine— people just refuse to believe that I don’t know or care about whether it’s Foe-rin or Four-Anne). But giving up my email? Or just switching it to some other married name address?
Well that makes me sad. But saying I would take my husband’s name personally would imply doing things just like that. So, I think I’m undecided on the topic. When and if the time comes where I have to ponder such a thing, it’s going to be much more a matter of circumstance (and how many digits and weird symbols would have to go in my new married email) than dogma which seems like the way it should be.
“Sometimes you’re quiet and sometimes I’m quiet, Hallelujah! Sometimes I’m talkative and sometimes you’re not talkative, I know… Sometimes you hear me when others they can’t hear me. Hallelujah! Sometimes I’m naked and thank god sometimes you’re naked. Well, hello.”
This song always makes me happy. Its frantic pace also reminds me of water slides.
Forgive me they were delicious so sweet and so cold
This morning I had this very simple but very delicious, sweet and fulilling (but hot) breakfast of cinnamon oatmeal with slices from a peach (not a plum, but you know, same diff) that I bought at the Durham Farmer’s Market on Saturday.
As a breakfast it was perfect— the peach was just perfectly ripe and the oatmeal was instant but delicious and it was all from a real bowl with a real spoon, so there was that nice clinking sound every time I used the edge of the metal to portion of a segement of soft peach and a glob of yummy oatmeal.
It was an ideal way to start the day (at 8AM, entirely too early, but such is life). My mind keeps wandering to how pleasant it was (and the food rules the memory, not the fluttering of Danielle around the kitchen, or Jordy on the poof, mumbling sarcastic comments). I am happier now still for having had that meal (which cost all of two dollars, tops). (It would be much less, but peaches are a little pricy, particuarly straight from the farm.)
This is just to say that Jordy, you are forewarned should that I steal one of yours to replicate the experience.
"Especially if you’ve been burned in romantic relationships, there is no quicker recipe for a hopeful attitude toward future relationships — and a continued appreciation for half the human race — than a male friend who treats you well and doesn’t try to sleep with you."
Harry: You realize of course that we could never be friends. Sally: Why not? Harry: What I’m saying is - and this is not a come-on in any way, shape or form - is that men and women can’t be friends because the sex part always gets in the way. Sally: That’s not true. I have a number of men friends and there is no sex involved. Harry: No you don’t. Sally: Yes I do. Harry: No you don’t. Sally: Yes I do. Harry: You only think you do. Sally: You say I’m having sex with these men without my knowledge? Harry: No, what I’m saying is they all WANT to have sex with you. Sally: They do not. Harry: Do too. Sally: They do not. Harry: Do too. Sally: How do you know? Harry: Because no man can be friends with a woman that he finds attractive. He always wants to have sex with her. Sally: So, you’re saying that a man can be friends with a woman he finds unattractive? Harry: No. You pretty much want to nail ‘em too. Sally: What if THEY don’t want to have sex with YOU? Harry: Doesn’t matter because the sex thing is already out there so the friendship is ultimately doomed and that is the end of the story. Sally: Well, I guess we’re not going to be friends then. Harry: I guess not. Sally: That’s too bad. You were the only person I knew in New York.
I think we can all agree that listening to the sound of one’s own voice is one of those weird, vaguely grating and potentially even unsettling things that only DJ’s and politicians ever really get used to.
So imagine the low-level torture experience that recording voiceovers for a mysterious project (Duke related, natch) for over an hour was. I really would have prefered not having any playbacks but the man just kept doing them! Baaaaaaaaaaaaaaah.
"Reasons I love Alex Whiting: i like to believe i’m the kinda man from paula coles where have all the cowboys gone… not the cowboy… but the husband who spends all his time drinking beer with his friends."
He is so dear to us all. And so very special. SPARKLES.
“I just sat on a nail backstage during a show. I just got nailed in the ass. This is my life.”—Erin, love of my life, who is clearly having a GREAT time at summer stock. (She actually is, but should come to me here anyway.)
it’s official. my love goes out to everyone involved
But uhm, they’re sending the kids home on planes? From a camp that is being closed because of an outbreak of nasty influenza? Am I the only one seeing a disconnect in the logic here? Are we masking the little rugrats before we send them out into the world to spread the germs?
Also, fail on the parents (which there were supposedly a lot of) who send their kids to camp knowing they had flu symptoms. You ruined the fun for everyone and potentially compromised the health of a lot of other children.
Black Kids— I’m Not Gonna Teach Your Boyfriend How to Dance With You
One! I’m biting my tongue Two! He’s kissing on you Three! Oh, why can’t you see? One! Two! Three! Four!
So because I generally try to be at least six months late in getting to a song or album (I just this summer finally got my hands on Viva La Vida and have been Strawberry Swinging around campus), I only got this song onto my iPhone last night and have been bopping around to it all morning. I think I’ll make it into a ringtone.
To the person who found my blog by googling the phrase “swampgirl porn,”
I am mildly disturbed that such a search produced my site (I blame the post where I called Twilight “sparkly vampires and abstinence porn”) (also now this post which has so far used the word “porn” three times and will use it a couple more times, surely boosting my page views).
I am glad that you remained on my blog for a total of zero seconds, mostly likely quickly realizing the distinct lack of porn of any sort on my blog, much less swamp girl porn (whatever that is).
So yes, the internetz, they are interesting. Also, yes, I have google analytics on this thing (blame Cain) so shout outs to Ash and Kenny who I think are probably reading this and also Caryn, whose Tiffany’s ISP gives her away.
And you, Mr. Odd Porn Fetish Man (…or Woman, I guess, we’re not gonna assume anything, this blog is LGBT friendly), can go away now. THERE SHALL BE NO PORN HERE.
I decided that to 1) match my newish theme and 2) because they’re pretty, I would like to follow a blog that posted lots of pretty pictures of clothes just like I follow ones that post pretty pictures of clothes and well-decorated homes. I pondered for a second, realized exactly what such a tumblog would be called and hit search—
(In which I go old school and actually write words and over-share in an overly lyrical manner.)
We are approaching with frightening rapidity the beginning of senior year. Rather than dwell to excessively on the realities of that mildly terrifying statement (how did we get here so quickly?) I have been taking the occasional moment to ponder my junior year, if only to see what lessons I might take away from it. Summer has been so languid and lovely that as much as three years passed impossibly quickly, May simultaneously seems very far away. The change of pace from this spring to this summer had made it possible (I think?) to look back on the past year with something approaching perspective; some appreciation of the good and the bad and the insane.
When I look back on the year in parts, it was a happy one. There were many ridiculous nights out and just as many absurdly entertaining nights in; long, relaxed dinners filled with gossip and stories and other quality things; little trips and quiet drives. I achieved goals that I had been aiming at vaguely since freshman year (FAC Board Cochair; involvement in a bona fide, Duke-Edit-Board-endorsed scandal, low-level fame, lots of great connections with profs and admins). I met a lot of new people (they know who they are and they are awesome; many of them are baby Boarders); I became closer than I ever expected with others (Melissa, Megan and Alex, I’m looking at you in particular; also the Lipin-nator, ACat and Thermidorian); and, you know, continued to find infinite numbers of tangents to explore with those who have been there since the nitty-gritty beginnings (Manda, Danielle, Nicole, Caryn, Gab et all, you continue to rock my world).
So that was all good.
But when I look back on the year as a whole, the first thing I think of is stress. Not heightened, paniced bursts but a low grade burn, a constant underpinning below the fun. It’s harder to truly enjoy yourself dancing on the bar at Shooters on Saturday night when you know that the next morning you need to be out the door to the library by 10 AM (with no hope of leaving before 11PM) if you have any hope of making a dent in your homework and extracurricular obligations. It was the sort of stress and ongoing tension and simple lack of time to do all the things that need doing that I had heard about for two years (six if you count high school) and had not understood. It was the sort of year where simple life maitenance tasks like laundry or eating became began to feel impossible to achieve if I was going to even attempt to get everything else done. It took a week to get my car into the shop after the window was broken because there simple was no time to take it in during business hours. I spent more time in meetings and the library (where there is a special club of daily patrons who know each other and bond together in their endless suffering) than I did in my apartment, and yes that included sleeping.
Becase I was tired. For a year, I was tired. Almost every day. I came home for spring break and slept for twelve hour spurts because I was operating on such a sleep deficit. It sucked.
The thing is, this isn’t meant to seem like whining or complaining. I was doing things I loved and thriving on the pressure. I swear to God I do better when I have fifteen things to do and not enough time than I do with two things to do and time to spare.
I wasn’t alone either. When we talk about effortless perfection, or the Duke mentality, or student leadership, or over acheiving, this is what it means, this is what it looks like. Stephen Temple has a theory that leaders (especially in college) don’t possess some intrinsic charisma or other personality trait, but that they rather are simple those most able to function with little to no sleep for the longest stretches of time. I’m inclined to agree; there isn’t a student leader on campus who’s not running on the same crazy hours or suffering the same lack of sleep. It’s just not possible to do it all and be well-rested and sacrificing sleep (and bathing and eating actual meals) is a (Blue) Devil’s bargain that most of us are willing to make.
But it wasn’t healthy and I see that now. Things in the schedule are lightening up (thank goodness) and frankly I simply won’t allow myself to spend senior year chained to a table on the Perkins-Bostock bridge nor in a conference room nor even on the 3rd floor of Crowell (past October). I plan to honor and enjoy the commitments I have left; delve into my classes with vigor and take advantage of what opportunities may arise (though no more supposedly-36-hour-long trips to NJ please). But I am going to try my damnedest to incorporate the lessons of this summer— the satisfaction of a home-cooked meal, the joy of little rituals like Saturday morning at the Farmer’s Market or Tuesday night pub quiz or Sunday morning burnches or lovely outdoor concerts, the excitement of Triangle and NC adventures, the simple happiness of now-longtime friends in all settings.
Junior year was not misery but it was work and while the work was accompanied by lovely human beings who I adore, I can’t do it again. Senior Year shall be the Year of Awesome. And if I’m giving up sleep it’s going to be for entirely different reasons.
And I just had to sign a THESE PEOPLE ARE NOT FULLY TRAINED. AND YOU MAY SUSTAIN INJURY OR EMBARASSMENT DUE TO A SHITTY CUT agreement. Keep your fingers crossed that I don’t end up bald or something.
I was at the Chapel Hill Aveda at almost exactly the same moment you posted this (it’s a small world). All went well enough, though the chick did not know how to properly blow out my bangs. Overall, I still have hair, which is sometimes a dicey expectation at Aveda.