All My Gettings

My Hebrew professor, in discussing the etymology of some words has been known to contemptuously spit out that the root comes from "the Indo-European storehouse". He's not exactly a purist, but I can see the problem. Why borrow words from a system that doesn't really meld well with your own? Especially when these words aren't particularly complicated semantic undertakings. Though, some languages like to borrow. It's what they do (I'm looking in your direction, English. You're pretty much willing to invite any morpheme into your bed, aren't you?)

I spend way more intellectual energy and effort on carefully my crafted Facebooking than I really should. The curating of photo albums takes a good deal out of me. I. must. be. funny. And status updates are (generally) reserved for something rather clever*. They don't always have to come from me. In fact, a fair amount of the time, I just take a quote of some sort and tweak it.

My sister works an irregular schedule, with several days of very long shifts and then a block of time off. According to her, this contributes to her eating patterns being Pavlovian. That is, without the cues of working, she loses track of the need to eat. She’s, obviously, not bothered by this. However, some of the rest of us can be. Because, see, we go to visit her when she’s not working and (if you’re me) are too timid to admit that you need food.

What’s weird, though, is that, left to my own devices, I’m not a very good eater. I don’t think my eating is Pavlovian, though. I think it’s social. If other people are around, I eat. If not, I don’t. It’s not that I avoid eating. It’s just that it doesn’t seem to happen. Sure, I snack. I nibble. I maybe even nosh a little bit. (Oh, let’s be honest, I’ll munch on some chips or consume some candy). But I don’t eat.

The fact that, periodically, my body decides that taking in calories in any form is beneath its interest doesn’t help my tendency to suddenly realize Sunday night that I have, in fact, gone two days without eating anything. The thing that usually gets me to realize this is trying to figure out why my head should be hurting so much.

On the plus side, this method of eating really cuts down on the grocery bills. On the downside, my body hates me. But then, I see this as some appropriate payback for all the times it’s decided it didn’t want to play nice.* I think, though, it's probably in my best interests to get out of this bad habit and, y'know, learn to take care of myself.


*Naturally, I refuse all blame from those situations.

I don't actually mind the taste of envelope glue. In fact, I sort of like it. I'm always a little bit sad when I buy stamps now because they only sell self-adhesive ones. But, if I did find the taste of envelopes unsatisfying, I'd probably buy myself some Mmmvelopes. These little guys TASTE LIKE BACON!!!

Life in the 19th Century was rough. Want proof? Look to the Brontë family. Patrick Bronte managed to outlive his entire family. By six years. No, no, wait for it, it gets better (worse?)

Patrick marries Maria in 1812, she dies less than 10 years later, having given him six children. Of these six, the two eldest die in 1825 (of consumption). The youngest three all die within 10 months of each other in 1848/49. Of course, all three died of some respiratory ailment. Because that's what people did in Victorian England (see above). Especially, if like Branwell, the son, you were an opium addict. I'm curious how Charlotte felt, out-surviving every single member of her family except her father. Apparently she got over it enough to get married. And pregnant. AND THEN DIE. Yep, she died with child, less than a year after her wedding.

Even better than all this is the fact that the sisters were never considered to be the success stories of the family. All the family's hopes were centered on Branwell. Then, of course, he seems to have either lost or stolen some money from his railway job, had an affair with the mother of the pupil he tutored, and became an alcoholic. So, maybe his death isn't so tragic. Well, it is tragic that it all had to happen at once to this family. So much dying. All over the place.

Sheesh, how did anyone survive in Victorian England?

Also: why did no one tell me that William James and Henry James were brothers? Doesn't that seem a bit excessive to have that much century-later impact birthed in one family?

I'm back in school, which is actually a pretty good thing. Now, all that extra mental energy that for the past month I was directing at myself can focus on other problems. Y'know, important things like Greek participles and learning a Tai Chi short form. A few things have been happening to me. Not enough for a whole post each, so instead, I present the highlights of my first three days.

• My Greek prof is in his mid-sixties, I'd guess. But, he fist bumps. This happened on the first day when he put out his fist for me and I wasn't quite sure what he wanted. But, I went in for the bump and yep, that's what he was after. I'm not sure if the fist bumping makes him quirky/awesome or just sort of pathetic/trying too hard. He, does, also, though, wave to us. Like a little up-down of the fingers. This is more bizarre if you know he does this at random times. And that we meet in a seminar room which is just a big table. So he waves across the 3 feet. He also, though, does pitch accents when reading ancient Greek, which pretty much forgives everything.
  
  
• I'm taking directed studies from the Hebrew professor. He sort of intimidates me (and by sort of, I mean, I feel super awkward and dumb around him). But, I bumped into him on campus yesterday and he handed me three bow ties. "Pick two," he said and then walked off. He's given up wearing ties and had told me last semester that I needed better ones. I didn't expect him to personally remedy the situation, though.
  
  
• I find it so adorable, Sociology, that you think you can act like a social science when you want and then pretend you know what you're doing in the humanities world. You talk about experiments and data and hypotheses and then move on as if you understand deconstruction. I really don't know what to make of you. Also, how, precisely are you not anthropology?
  
  
• I was in a class that was going to be horrific. On the first day, we were assigned a group. A group that would discuss questions together every. single. class. AND would be doing a group project together. The same group all semester. But, I found out it was waived with some transfer credits.
  
  
• Of course, finding this out and getting this to actually happen has proved a headache. The adviser for languages and literature seems particularly useless. And, I feel like I'm going to get sucked into a catch-22 because the transfer admissions won't accept transfer by classes from previous degrees until approved by the adviser and the adviser won't approve them until the transfer admissions accepts them. Good thing they make everything so smooth and easy.
  
  
• I'm not able to take Star Trek. I feel sort of glum about this, but as a bonus, the directed readings will provide me, I'm sure, with an endless supply of funny stories.
  
  
• I'm always reminded the first few days of class that I'm such a snob. Like, in my institute class where one irritating guy said he was going into business and I thought to myself, "Of course you are." Or a guy in another class casually let it slip that he lived in Israel and Chile and San Francisco. So, you know he's cool, right? I probably shouldn't be allowed around people.

I have a very complicated relationship with the notion of traveling. On the one hand, I love it. There's new places to see! Adventures to have! Friends and family to visit! On the other hand, there's bags to be packed! Planes to be boarded! Time to be consumed by simply waiting! Money to be spent! Fears to be had about overstaying your welcome! New places to navigate! Foreign bathrooms and beds and furniture to negotiate! It exhausts me even thinking about it. But it also exhilarates me.