I Believe I Can Fly.

Apparently I am old.

That song... "I believe I can fly... I believe I can touch the sky..." kind of epitomizes the awkwardness that was the middle school dance for me. I'm not sure that I ever had the pleasure of dancing to it (I don't think I actually danced with a boy until the end of my eighth grade year) but that makes it even more awkward, doesn't it?

There's a shuttle van that runs in between the two campuses where my classes are, and there was this 80s-90s music station playing on the radio on the way back tonight in the shuttle. This song came on, and I'm sure that the kid next to me thought I was going into convulsions because I was trying not to giggle. If it hadn't been eleven o clock at night back in the rest of the World, I would have called someone and probably started singing into the phone. But since the youngins in the shuttle obviously did not have the memories associated with the song that I did... I kept my mouth shut.

And then I wondered. Did they think of songs like that the way I think of songs from the 60s and 70s? Is the music that I went to school with going to be oldies? good grief, I"m only 23, I shouldn't feel that old!

Machetes, Spears & Bows and Arrows, Oh My!

I don't know about anyone else out there, and perhaps it is just because I've done an inordinate amount of research on Rwanda, or perhaps I'm simply over sensitive, but even just the word, machete, gives me chills. But now lets add spears and bows and arrows to the mix.

Several of the reports that I've read about Kenya have emphasized the use of traditional tribal weaponry, especially in stark contrast to the polished suits and air conditioning enjoyed by the politicians who seem to be encouraging the violence. (duh... look at the history of Kenyan politics and elections and violence will no longer seem novel...) Here's something new from Reuters, written by one Nick Tattersall. According to this, the death toll has now risen to more than 700. But the use of traditional weaponry is important, I think. Well, it scares the crap out of me reading about it, I can't imagine what it would be like to have a man dressed in fur rugs holding a ginormous bow and arrow come to the door... the psychological implications are enormous and are indicative that this fight is not about the election. It's about something more and that there is no quick and easy fix.

Side note, is it a sign of the hopelessness of the situation that the best mediator available is Kofi Annan- whose record in Rwanda (when he was the head of the DPKO at the UN) is way, way under par in halting ethnic violence? ugh. Again, I've got too much of a Rwanda spin and so it is hard for me to look at him objectively but really... I'm frustrated.

Question

Does it somehow discount our military experience (Ranger Man and I) that we know he's not a lifer? Does it somehow mitigate the experience of being a military couple? We don't actually know when he's going to separate- but we know he will. Does that make us somehow less than other military couples? Does that somehow mitigate my decision to enter into a wartime military relationship?

I think my brain is slightly skewed- I am much more comfortable with the retiring with the Army idea. At least that is steady, guaranteed work. In my family, growing up, steady work was paramount over all other options- changing jobs willingly for the major breadwinner was unheard of, especially if there wasn't an option already lined up. Of course when the time comes, I will trust Ranger Man to line up his options in time and I will (finally, hopefully) be working by then also, but to me the idea of separation is more terrifying than the idea of staying in and getting shot at. Is that backwards?

I guess that was two questions. hm. funny how that happens.

QOTD

Modified slightly to remove the misspelling...

Upon receiving an email replete with yarn-induced ramblings from me, from Ranger Man-


"you are completely nuts and i am totally in love with you and am planning on keeping you forever.

love
me"

Ahh... how nice
I needed that.

Rant.

UGH. I hate Islands and I hate Oceans that surround Islands and I hate Super Secret Schools. I hate it all, I am ready for a normal life, in the same place as my guy. really- should that be too much to ask?

What I learned today in Grad School - Part Two

1.) No matter how much I desire to complete the pre-first class of the semester readings... it is NOT worth it to try to go the bookstore on the first day of classes. Not worth it.

2.) No matter how awful standing in line for hours may be... the look on the (2) separate undergrads faces that rang up only half of my books this semester-- priceless. "Wow, that's a lot of reading!" lol- it was only 9 books! that may be the most gratifying experience of my graduate career thus far.

(Can you tell I'm easily pleased?)

Oh, and btw- I'm going back later in the week to get the second half of my books... hehehe.

And the hardest part about going to Grad school is...

That my mother has grown so attached to my cat that I'm afraid to take him back whenever I finally do get off this Island.

Here he is underneath the Christmas tree for his first Christmas- he looks so sweet and innocent. Probably because it was right after he was neutered (is that what it's called for cats, I don't remember- I'm a horse girl), so he was still a litle high...



This is him (ahem) helping me study... obviously we were both hard at work- him napping and me snapping pictures.




This one is from this last Christmas (I wasn't there), Webster-cat
getting along with Jack-the-Dog. It's actually kind of a rare picture,
because Webster's kind of the bully of the relationship and he
thinks that little piece of carpet that is supposed to be dog bed is actually his. And yes, he likes to pick fights with the ginormous black lab who luckily is not only the most gentle dog ever, but also the most scare-dy-dog ever. So Webster can continue in his Napoleonic dreams.

But my mom is having enough of a hard time dealing with the fact that I'm moving across the country (or across the ocean as I am presently). I mentioned something about getting Webster to take him to Georgia the other day and she just about lost it. So Ranger Man and I have decided that it may become necessary to leave Webster behind as a peace offering of sorts, and get a new little kitten of our own. I'm thinking Patton might be a good name...