In Which She Rocks Out

Last night, I went to my second Bruce Springsteen concert. I am incredibly grateful that I have had the opportunity to see the living god of rock twice in the span of three weeks. First off, the seats in Hartford were great. That whole experience was dedicated to absorbing every single tiny details I could glean from 2 hours and forty-five minutes of rock and roll. I immediately stole the rest of my father's Bruce Springsteen collection and listened to it a lot over the next three weeks. I wanted to be ready for the next one.


As you can see from the above picture, my Hershey Park seats were less spectacular. But, you know what? It was now my second experience. I didn't have to watch the band like a hawk. I could just party. I had the fortune of meeting two very lovely gentlemen of a similar age sitting next to me and the three of us danced and sang and BROOOOOOOOOCEd our way through the concert. It was, in a word, fan-freaking-tastic. I came into the concert having done more research. I knew Spirit in the Night had been in most of the recent setlists and The Fever had even shown up once. There were four songs I was hoping to hear: Spirit in the Night, The Fever, Thunder Road and Rosalita. Guess what? I heard three of those.

That's right, I got Spirit in the Night, Thunder Road and Rosalita. And, for a bonus of extra-deliciousness, Born to Run. I have learned, these past two concerts, that there will never be a greater song than Born to Run and it will never sound greater than it does when Bruce has an amped-up horde of fans singing and screaming along. I mean, there are great songs and then there are songs that are eternal. Born to Run is eternal. I can't explain the feeling you get when you're in the midst of that joyous chaos, but I'll say that's it's pretty freaking spectacular. Thunder Road is also a personal favorite and it did not disappoint.

Now for the nitty gritty. Jay Weinberg, son of regular drummer Max, played the whole set. This guy? 18 years old. He's unbelievable. A wild man on the drums. Yes, I will admit, I (and some older ladies I heard talking about him in the parking lot) have a crush. Best part about watching him is that he's just charged up throughout the entire set. I can't imagine seeing the whole E Street Band when they were that excited for each song and could offer that insane level of energy.

The concert opened with Badlands. Funny story: as I was paying for parking, I had Badlands playing low and the nice ticket lady politely asked if I hoped he'd play it at the concert. Of course I hoped he'd play it! End scene. Badlands led immediately to Spirit in the Night, at which point I called home so Dad could hear...and then my phone died. Sad panda. Spirit in the Night was just as awesome as I had hoped it would be. Highlights: Radio Nowhere, Twist & Shout (he did this in response to a sign that read "If you play Twist & Shout I'll burn my Hannah Montana cds"), Working on a Dream, Raise Your Hand, Give the Girl a Kiss (I hadn't heard this one before--super fun!), Trapped (my friend Sarah was hoping for this one), Waiting on a Sunny Day (this one caught my attention at the last concert and was even better this time), The Rising, and Born to Run (I can't emphasize enough the sheer power of this one). And then came the "encore."

When Bruce Springsteen plays an "encore," it's six songs long. Really. I felt bad for the morons who left after Born to Run because next followed a spiritual-like Hard Times, Thunder Road (!!!), Tenth Avenue Freeze Out (always good for sing-alongs and hardcore dancing), Land of Hopes and Dreams, American Land (this one's like a pub song and gets the biggest audience response second only to Born to Run--maybe Bruce should do another gig with the Dropkick Murphys? I like it because it reminds me of most of the concerts I go to, which are all Irish-like), Rosalita (YES), and then, in a surprise move, as Bruce was saying good night, we love you, etc, he totally caved and was like "Aw, one more!" and did Bobby Jean.

Now, this was a three-hour-long concert. THREE HOURS. Some people had the audacity to bitch about the dearth of greatest hits. I'm sorry, Radio Nowhere, Thunder Road, Born to Run, The Rising, Badlands and Spirit in the Night weren't enough for you? Here's the thing: Bruce Springsteen doesn't owe us a damn thing other than a fantastic concert for our ticket money. He doesn't owe us Glory Days or Born in the USA or Dancing in the Dark or any of that. And I think three hours of rock and roll is certainly more than I get at any other concert. Artists should be allowed to evolve past their decades-old work. Now, if the new stuff isn't great or the B-sides less than worthy, then some bitching might be in order (Eagles, I'm looking at you). But Bruce has great B-sides and I love some of his new stuff.

Getting out of the parking lot, on the other hand, less fun. Took me an hour and a half to get out of the parking lot and another twenty minutes to get the mile down the road to get on 83. I'll be honest, for a moment there, I wasn't sure how I was going to make it the two hours home without a nap on the side or something. But, through the power of fresh air and REALLY LOUD rock music, I arrived home alert and ready to take care of business...at 3am. Yeah. I slept until 1 today. GLORIOUS.

And now for a barbecue and my triumphant and looooooong over-due return to karaoke.

In Which She Geeks

Have you seen Star Trek? If the answer to that question is no, stop reading this blog and go see the movie. I say that not only as a Trekkie, but as a general connoisseur of badass movies. Star Trek has big explosions, hot babes, hot dudes, a slightly crazy and definitely evil villain and actors worthy of your attention. What's there not to like? Aside from the insane temporal issues that come with any story involving time travel, J.J. Abrams took one of the most rabidly beloved universes and gave it a much-needed shock of vitality, which still tossing in fabulous little moments for the Trekkies in the audience (of which, at least at tonight's showing, there were pleeeeenty). The trailers beforehand were all appealing, giving me hope for the summer movie season. All in all, a most entertaining few hours. GO SEE IT.

And last night, I watched my cousin kick ass as the Beast in his middle school production of Beauty and the Beast. I'll be honest. I have never seen such high production values in a middle school show. The sets were awesome. The costumes were astonishingly put-together. The leads all had at least one charming factor about them. The Gaston, for example, could really, really sing--not just for an eighth-grader, but for a young man in general. My favorite part, though, was that he clearly hadn't hit his growth spurt yet and was relying on heavy padding to simulate brawn. For the scene in which he riles the township into a mob, he was surrounded by most of the guys in the show with the females spread around him. One problem: the tallest guys were leads and thus not in the scene, so he was surrounded by teeny tiny guys singing much like Munchkins. On the plus side, they were proportional to Gaston. I really enjoyed the show and not just because I'm as proud as I could possibly be of Nicholas. But I am. Really, really, really proud of him. He had a kissing scene and everything! Next, he has to be involved in a scene with prostitutes and he'll have completed the family circuit of odd scenes to be in.

As I sit here typing this, I have a small red dog curled up next to me on my bed. My parents adopted the cutest dog ever in the history of dogs. I enjoy her immensely--she has a perma-puppy face, doesn't bark much and snuggles like a champ. I kind of hate to say this, but seeing the dogs Dixie and Ginger has been incentive alone for me to go home. I just can't help it, y'know? They're awesome dogs and they're always happy to see me.

Yes, I know I still owe dating stories, but I'm trying to format them better in my head. Editing, my pets, is key to producing something at least worth skimming. Meanwhile, blues dancing will either break my already somewhat busted knee or break my already somewhat busted lower back (see: March 2008 and the Percoset frenzy that followed the slipping of the disk). Actually, the odds of it breaking any of the above seem to be low but the odds of the blues dancing loosening up key areas and strengthening others seems to be high. Yes, yes, I am slowly but surely creeping towards dancing again. I'm even going to brave College Night again at CCB! While I feel a little broken Friday mornings post-dancing, I also feel a spark within that I haven't felt in a long while and I am most grateful for that. Forget la revolution, vive la danse!

In Which She Brings News and Great Joy

First off, go watch this:



Feel better now? I certainly do. No, I don't know what's going on and no, I have no explanation for the whole thing.

Secondly, my news is pretty awesome. I'm taking an extended business trip December through April to a REALLY REALLY cool place. Hit me up IRL if you want more details. I'd hate to bore the blogosphere (those left, anyways, after an extended break) with all the nitty gritties.

Now, I know, you're all on the edge of your chair, begging, "Tell us, oh Great CairoKate! Tell us of dating misadventures!" I am here, my cherubs, for you. There have been boys, there have been dates, there has been drama! Yes, even high-school level drama---alas, my computer is in need of a break and a reboot so I shall return with more details later.

In Which She Relaxes

I have finished my taxes! Hallelujah, praise the Lord, I am getting back enough to take care of little necessities like a 10k mile check-up for Serenity (who has 13k on her already....yikes!), an eye check-up for me, and more contacts. That sight thing, it's wonderful. Every now and then I toy with the concept of laser surgery, something I once said I'd never, ever do. But the idea of waking up and being able to look around at things clearly or to go to a ball game and not worry about the fact that I'm wearing glasses and can't thus wear my sunglasses--it's appealing. Seriously appealing. Anyways, that's likely never to happen, given the fact that my eyesight deteriorates slowly every year. But it's a beautiful dream!

Let's see...I promised you a few things last entry. First off, my fantasy baseball team, OMGWTFLOLZ, has already become the Sad Pandas. I have NO idea how I hit the basement so hard, but I'm there, luxuriating in my suckage. I think some of my guys just need that time I promised them to really bounce back from injuries and the like. I remain resigned to my fate, yet quietly hopeful that a team with relative promise can at least get out of last place. My needs are few; I only ask that I be better than SOMEBODY.

Secondly, Robbie's birthday celebration. My beloved bandmates (remember? my band? The Boogie Knights?) joined me in toasting the kid at a pirate-themed bar in Silver Spring called Piratz Tavern. I had an absolutely wonderful time and it was unquestionably hugely better than drinking by myself, which was my other option. I think the kid would have enjoyed himself. I miss him. I wanted to buy him his first legal drink on his 21st birthday and to take care of him when he got sloshed and to help nurse him out of his hangover the next day. Some stars burn brighter and faster than others, I suppose. Doesn't mean I don't miss him, doesn't mean I'm not pissed as hell at the universe for such a senseless act of cruelty, doesn't mean that I'm not occasionally overwhelmed with a sense of bitter aloneness without him, doesn't mean I'm okay with it all, but it happened and I have to stop trying to make sense out of it all because there just isn't any and the more I think about things like that, the less I like God. Oh, my burning Catholic soul writhes in guilt, but it's true.

Thirdly, requisite cherry blossom photos from possibly the most beautiful day in the history of man:Oh, did I mention we stopped at the butterfly exhibit at the Smithsonian afterwards? God, I love me some butterflies.


Me and my poor, sainted friend Rob who was incredibly patient with my inanity that whole day. He only threatened to shove me in the Potomac a few times and agreed to at least not do it while I had my leather jacket on.

And now? Now, I am giving the online dating thing a shot again. It's kind of fun. Because I'm doing with absolutely zero endgame in mind, I'm refusing to lower my standards or compromise on what makes me happy--I'm talking geekdom, people, real geekdom. So far, I found a few promising beaux. We'll see, shall we? Surely, dating adventures make for excellent blog fodder.

In Which She Checks In

Right. I have about a thousand things to say and pictures to match most of them, but I'm off to fight club. In the mean time, tell me, go on and tell me the model featured at the bottom of this article, Crystal Renn, is not stunning. Remember, I'll be off LEARNING TO HIT PEOPLE.

Things to look forward to: how my fantasy team is already sucking, cherry blossom pictures, Robbie's birthday, and a vicious article about how women can't (not don't, but can't) cook.

In Which She Hurts...a lot

As you might have surmised by the title, my beloveds, I hurt. It is, unquestionably, a good hurt, but I strongly suspect I will not be able to move my arms much tomorrow. Why, oh KT, would you be in pain, you might be asking. Well my darlings, a friend of mine runs an informal boxing ring/mixed martial arts kind of club. One might even called it...a fight club. It starts out with a brief jog (for those who run faster than me, anyways, which is to say: if you can outrun a glacier, you're in the money! If you're me, you likely get about a quarter of a mile and then get the side stitch to end all side stitch and powerwalk painfully along with your Air Force girlfriends, who are extremely patiently jogging alongside) and then a variety of strength training exercises. Following are MMA training techniques, like holds and guards and the like, all on the ground. After that? Boxing. After that? More fighting, this time MMA with smaller gloves and waaaay different rules.

My life rocks in so many, many ways. One of them is apparently getting to fight every Monday and Thursday for the foreseeable future.

In Which She Drafts

Oh yes, OH YES, repent for the end is nigh! The end of all irrelevant sports, that is to say. Can I get a "Go baseball!" please? That's right, with the NCAA tournament over in a blink of an eye, we can all get back to the important things in life and that is most certainly the national pastime of all holy baseball. Today was my fantasy league draft and, barring one error in which I blew my second-round draft pick on Vladimir Guerrero instead of Johan Santana due to a mis-click, I feel okay about my team. Last year, I completely ignored my hitters and accidentally dropped Evan Longoria from my team in April (HUGE MISTAKE). This year, I have my obligatory Mets (K. Rod, Mike Pelfrey, and Ryan Church, though you can bet your sweet granny that Church is staying benched until I believe he's unconcussioned...) but I also have solid players. I tend to avoid AL guys just 'cause I don't know that much about them, but my first round draft pick was Mark Teixeira, a freaking Yankee. Boy better perform, let me tell you!

Now, see this fellow to my left? This is a dude we like to call Alexei Ramirez, not to be confused with Aramis, Manny or Hanley Ramirez. Sure, he looks kinda wimpy and a little confused about the camera pointed at him, but I have faith in this guy. Baseball is about faith. I didn't have faith in Evan Longori and holy crap was that a poor life choice. So, barring another concussion (RYAN CHURCH) or a busted whatever, I'm willing to give my guys all of April to do their thing. Y'hear me? Go do your thing, my loves. Same goes for the Mets. MLB.com just put it all on the line and picked you guys to take the NL East. LIKE YOU SHOULD HAVE THE LAST TWO YEARS. Can you not make us all wanna cry again? kthanxbai.

My team name, for those interested...OMGWTFLOLZ. Should the suckage commence as I am sure it will mid-season, the name will be changed to the Sad Pandas.

In Which She Contemplates the Meaning of Zen

Today was one of those days where you wake up and are immediately exhausted by no less than the very process of getting out of bed. Needless to say, I left work an hour early and introduced my friend to the loveliness that is Roman Holiday. We followed it up with Willow for the most random, yet incredibly solid movie night.

This is what my life has become: one day at a time. Get out of bed being the first and often hardest task of the day, of course. I run my day by miniature milestones. Shower, drive to work, make it to lunch, make it through the mid-afternoon slump of death, try to hit a second wind and stay a little late, drive home, eat dinner, attempt productivity, sleep. There are totally bright points! I've been going almost every week to this karaoke bar about twenty minutes from where I live. The people there? Incredible. No matter who you are or how well you sing, for 3-5 minute, you are a rock star with them. Now, if you're known to be a decent person or sing well, then game on, brotha! It's kind of a seedy bar but I wouldn't have it any other way.

Shenanigans at Remy's, Poison-style. If that weren't a friend of mine singing, I would not be making that face so quit yer judgin'.

Which brings me to my next point. I have called a moratorium on social activity starting the end of work Friday to Mass on Sunday. Oh, poor KT, she's had such a busy social life. Yeah, I know. World's tiniest violin. But I do need a break. I haven't been knitting or reading or catching up on my shows. SO I QUIT. For about 36 hours, anyways. My room needs some TLC and so do I. Even God agrees. How can I tell? It's going to rain all of Saturday.

Finally, I would like to share this with you all because I love it:

God Says Yes To Me

Kaylin Haught

I asked God if it was okay to be melodramatic
and she said yes
I asked her if it was okay to be short
and she said it sure is
I asked her if I could wear nail polish
or not wear nail polish
and she said honey
she calls me that sometimes
she said you can do just exactly
what you want to
Thanks God I said
And is it even okay if I don't paragraph
my letters
Sweetcakes God said
who knows where she picked that up
what I'm telling you is
Yes Yes Yes

In Which She Revives

My dearest ladies and gentlemen, lo for I have missed you these many moons. And it has been many, many moons. I have done all kinds of exciting and not-so-exciting things in your absence. (I write this, mind you, as I try to ignore the sounds of my roommate making out with her new boyfriend--I do this not out of the kindness of my heart, but because I hope she would do the same for me should the occasion arise. And her boyfriend seems like a decent guy.) In other words, life has moved on since we last spoke.

In all direct honesty, it is certainly for the best that we took our little break. You didn't miss a whole lot of fun over the first few months after my last post. My heart broke and it took me until about a month or two ago to really put it all back into a semblance of a person again. I changed. Physically, mentally, I went through what you might call a "phase." And I'm out! I'm back. Sure, I've got cracks and all it'll take is one solid blow to knock me off my feet again, but that's the current state of most of the human populace. I got lucky in my life and had the solid kind of growing up that meant I was a whole person before I even finished becoming a person. At least I'm aware of the cracks. I know there are still nights where a "generous" glass of wine and two Advil PMs are necessary to even pretend to sleep straight.

Part of the changes I found in someone else. I had been dating this guy and...not the healthiest relationship I've ever been a part of. I really changed to fit him better and in the end he actually didn't care about me, new me, old me, whoever. It's a tough thing to realize. I met him right after I got back to work in August and I think I actively welcomed a new direction. I was raw and he was a broken person himself and things were good for a while together. I can't say where the split came, but it eventually fell to pieces and I kind of fell to pieces again with it. Awesome, right? I thought so as well. But now...now the original version of CairoKate is back again. No one who lived through 2008 with our family will ever be the same again (AGH, CLICHE) but Mom and Dad adopted a new kid dog to accompany Dixie and I have, she says with great trepidation, met someone who seems a whole helluva lot nicer than the last one. No comment on that one until further notice.

So, there's your broken girl post. Life sucked hard for a while and then it got better. I guess it always does in the end, huh? Welcome back to CairoKate: Blog Edition.

In Which She Breaks The Silence

Rest in peace, kid. I hope you're air-guitaring to Journey right now in heaven.

For details, see here.

This is us at our finest:



I miss him more than words can say.

In Which She Stops

Hey guys,

So after over two years and 262 posts, CairoKate is closing up shop. After I left Cairo, this blog sincerely lost its purpose and I don't think it's worth maintaining anymore. It seems very self-indulgent and this new life I'm moving on to shouldn't be so.

I'm not deleting the blog because I like having all these memories written down, but don't expect any new posts for a very, very long time.

With love,

Cairo Kate

In Which She Gets Feminist

Alright, so I'm browsing the local Honda dealers, scoping out potential cars, and what do I find, but this:

Tips for Woman Buyers

If you click on that, you'll find they are some of the most obvious tips out there. Test drive! Check out prices! Look, honey, any woman worth her salt knows how to go shopping and, if not, chances are she has a best friend who does. These are not helpful tips. Did I miss the memo that says all women are clueless when it comes to purchasing a car? Y'know, the one that says we females are helpless little creatures who have no idea that it's a good idea to put some research into a multi-thousand-dollar purchase?

Newsflash: those of us capable of looking your dealership up on the internet probably have already figured out that we should look up prices across a few dealerships. In fact, chances are good we've got a little more than a clue.

In Which She is Home

Well, me and my 3,000lbs of crap got home with minimal incident. Let's be totally honest for a second: if it had just been me, my bag with my iPod, laptop, DVDs and knitting, and my teddy bear, I would've survived. I would have had to replace an ungodly amount of makeup and the small assortment of wardrobe I call my work clothes, but I could have survived and been pretty content. As it was, however, I was That Girl with the body bag on wheels. So I'm not a great minimalist. What are you gonna do?

I've been home now for just shy of a week and the time is speeding by. I had an embarrassing situation in which I was paralyzed with indecision and helplessness at the mall attempting to put together a summer-suitable work wardrobe and my mother so graciously stepped in and hauled my ass straight to Marshall's. I now have a much, much shorter list of things required to exist in my dresser prior to me stepping foot into anything resembling an office. It's a good feeling. Now all I need is...let's not talk about that. I have somehow stumbled into adulthood and it wears a lot of button-downs. One thing that's particularly strange is the loss of my morning routine. At the apartment, I would get breakfast and/or coffee, sit down at my desk and read through all the blog posts from the previous evening. I would return to that same desk right before leaving to apply makeup for the day--the light was glorious, being right in front of a giant south-facing window (I miss that window!). I haven't been able to get my makeup right since I got home. I need my desk and window back. I don't know what to do with myself now that I read blog posts before bed. Such little things, but I really feel their loss. I need to find a way to work the breakfast and makeup thing.

In Which She Aches

How is possible for me to own so much when it just doesn't LOOK that much? I need to investigate the minimalist's life/throw out 80% of my worldly possessions.

That's all. I'm just finally about done with my final packing and cleaning and am sitting down to dinner, a beer, and some Arrested Development. The final test will be trying to navigate the damn Metro with 800lbs of crap. See you in CT.

In Which She Graduates

Yes, I am now an official graduate of The George Washington University, magna cum laude, a member of the University Honors Program and special honors in my major. Blahblahblah. How many useless honors can you get at this school? And shouldn't there just be a point at which it all gets scrubbed and your diploma and transcript say:

Kathleen M. Greenberger
Bachelor of Arts in Middle Eastern Studies
General Academic Badass

I think I'd prefer that title to all the mess up above. You could sign your emails, "Kathleen M. Greenberger, B.A., G.A.B." Yes. If I ever start a scholarship, it's going to come with the title "General Academic Badass."

My roommate moved out. My best friend went home to St. Louis. I am ALL ALONE IN THE WORLD. Except totally not, so it's cool. My friend Kate is coming over tonight for strawberry wine and a movie. There's another meeting of the Boozy Knitters tomorrow night. I'm good. I just spackled my wall in preparation to repaint the divots my recliner left in the wall. I feel very capable, like my ability to take care of such an issue somehow indicates my ability to handle any practical issue that crosses my path. It does, right? I took off my pants to do it because I was afraid of getting spackle on my work pants and it occurred to me that "Half-Naked Home Repairs" would be a great selling point to the housewives of America. Somebody go try and market that.

In Which She Goes "Duh."

GW participated in the 2007 National Survey of Student Engagement and is now pissy about the results. They did not make the scores public because they feel that the test is more biased towards smaller schools. Why? Because they value things like student/faculty interaction. GW needs to recognize that students who come into the school are now paying over $50,000 a year to attend this institution and that GW students are not expected a state school level of education with enormous classes and an inability to get in touch with the professor.

While I firmly believe that any school offers the opportunities to get a decent education and that one's undergraduate education is very much what one makes of it, I also think that people who pay over $50,000 a year should not have to fight to make the most of those opportunities. It's an insult to those of us who want to value their degree and trust me, speaking as someone who's taken her fair share of useless classes to fulfill requirements, I don't want to have to bust my ass to get some professor to give me thirty seconds of their time. One of the star professors here teaches a lot of classes on Islam. And by teach, I mean he actually co-teaches the class with his lackey while he flits away on conferences, being Highly Important and Knowledgeable. I refused to take any of his classes because I don't want to be so privileged as to see my professor once a month. I got lucky and found a few professors in the honors program here and a few at AUC who really did take the time to communicate with their students and to really help them along in their academic duty, professors who wanted us to get the most of our undergraduate education. Now that the honors program is getting totally revamped, that opportunity just disappeared for the kids coming into UHP now. Why should people pay $50,000 a year to have a lackluster education minus any benefits of reputation? The only people impressed with the name of GW either know about certain programs or think we mean Georgetown.

I'm pleased with what I made of my degree and I know that this was the best school for me taking all factors into consideration. But I look around this place and I really wonder sometimes. One university official said that it was troubling to see from the study that GW students spend more time working for pay and in internships and study less than students at other universities. To which I have one thing to say: duh. One of the things I hate the most about this place is the feeling that you absolutely must have several internships on your resume or no one will hire you or love you and you will die. It's this constant drive to have the best names on your resume. You're really not anyone of note until you have at least two separate Hill experiences on that little piece of paper. I can't wait until I'm an alum of this place and can come back and smack the kids around, shouting, "Repeat after me: I do NOT need internships to succeed in life! What I do need is a marketable skill!"

In Which She is Totally Finished

I owed you guys this a little while ago, but haven't really had the time to write it until today. I finished my undergraduate career as of 5:50 Thursday evening. I turned in my thesis, I took all my finals, finished all my final projects, got my final critiques, so on and so forth. I'm done. I have to say, it feels fantastic. One of the biggest issues I had with this year was how burned out I got. Just the thought of grad school makes my toes curl. That's something I need a serious break from before I even consider it again, especially after hearing how useless a Master's in Security Studies can be. Doesn't mean I don't want one, but it does confirm my desire for real world experience before leaping back into a degree. Also, the thought of writing a dissertation makes me want to cry and I should probably time this so that the feeling begins to subside right as I have to start writing it. I cannot fathom the people who are leaping straight into a graduate program. I couldn't do it.

Part of the celebration has included pretty much non-stop social activities, including shopping and lots of movies. Last night, a few friends and I made the pilgrimage to the Georgetown theater to see Iron Man. It did all comic book fans proud. Robert Downey, Jr. is absolutely a perfect Tony Stark. Gwyneth Paltrow still irritates the crap out of me (who the hell can run in those stilettos??? I was so distracted by her literally running from the bad guy in like four-inch stilettos) but she was fine. And the end bit after the credits...holy badass motherf*cker, Batman! I can't say more for fear that all six of you who read this thing might go see the movie and not want the last surprise spoiled, but all the comic fans left in the audience were cheering. The thought still makes my geeky little heart go ka-boom.

Another movie experience of the weekend was Mister Lonely. I was distracted when I read the premise but only needed to see Diego Luna as a Michael Jackson impersonator to be game. It was a strange, kind of wonderful, kind of hideously depressing movie involving flying nuns. Go look it up on IMDB. I was left feeling very conflicted when it ended. What I was NOT conflicted about was my need to go see The Fall. Crazy beautiful imagery? Check. One of my favorites, Lee Pace? Check. Heroes out to avenge the wrongs perpetrated by an aristocrat? Check. Does this sound familiar? It should; it has similar elements to one of my all-time favorites movies, Hero. It's in limited release, so I hope it comes to a theater somewhere around either here or Fairfield.

The next few days promise to be action-packed...with packing! Hahahaha, I crack myself up. I'm not leaving until next weekend, but I'm sending a bunch of stuff home with Mom and Dad (read: almost all of it) so packing is an imperative for the next few days. I intend to treat myself to last week's Gray's and BSG tonight after getting work done, so it's all good, even if some guy named Noah is out building a boat right now.

In Which She Snaps

It's 11pm; do you know where your seniors are?

In the honors office writing papers, that's where. We have all officially lost it. After drinking a lot of caffeine, I went to dinner with a friend where we split a bottle of wine. This somewhat shockingly combined to result in a highly focused and productive mode. However, when I returned, I discovered that my compatriots--locked in the office for hours on end like myself--had lost it. One professed how much he missed me. I got a hug from another. My friend Chris smacked me upside the head for the umpteenth time of the day and discovered what happens when you wake the sleeping giant: violence. Then we started throwing thing and Chris threw an individual packet of Airborne at his friend down the long table. She threw it back. He threw it at me after me warning him clearly not to do so. I threw an orange at him. He threw a walnut at me. We concluded that he was snorting the Airborne.

Ladies and gentlemen, I present...your future. Aren't you comforted? (side note: 5/20)

In Which She Shares

http://www.facebook.com/video/video.php?v=551892525844&oid=2200123682

It's really inside-jokey, but should give you a good idea of what I was doing all those hours. The senior stuff is towards the end.

In Which She Takes Claritin

I don't have allergies. I don't. I never have. But I'll be damned if I can't find another explanation for the mild-yet-constant sneezing, irritated eyes and the random cough I picked up last night. My sinuses are extremely displeased with me. WTF? Who the hell develops allergies at 22? I mean, rumor has it on weather.com that the tree pollen count is unreal right now, but still! And the stupid Claritin is only kind of helping. I stopped sneezing and coughing, though, so I'll take what I can get, considering it's EDDIE IZZARD NIGHT!!!

Yes, yes, my friends and I are taking a break from the finals madness to go see Eddie Izzard at the D.A.R. Constitution Hall. SO excited. SOSOSO excited. More on that later.

In the meantime, last night was the final ballroom social of the year. Despite not having danced since November, I went out after my final class to see the truly awe-inspiring slideshow that both recapped the year and honored the graduating seniors. I had forgotten one crucial thing somewhere down the line that I remembered rather sharply last night: I love to dance. Even after five months of no dancing whatsoever, I had a blast last night. I hope that's something I can continue to remember. Maybe I'll come back to this post years from now and go, "Huh. Y'know what? I think past me smokes crack." Or maybe I'll have a beautiful, gently-lit flashback and it will all be so clear to me and I'll go running back to ballroom. Either way, y'know.

In Which She Needs Caffeine

Oh yeah. I'm .5/20 on my paper. ROCK. (But I found some awesome new sources last night doing research so I feel good about that)

Expect similar updates throughout the upcoming days and rest comfortably in the knowledge that it'll all be over for all of us as of May 8, at which point I'll likely be indulging in lengthy reminiscing and frenetic posts consisting mainly of "OH MY GOD I'M GRADUATING AND THEN IT'S THE REAL WORLD AND THEN I DIE." Because, y'know, all that stuff in the middle doesn't count. It's graduation, work, death.

I keed, I keed.

I'm about to go to my final undergraduate class. Fittingly, it's Arabic. Seems an appropriate end to this Middle Eastern Studies major's undergraduate career. Really, we're going to eat whatever food people bring in and then listen to a few presentations and do just about nothing. Good times!

So, what do we think about this? I think it's kind of ridiculous, but what do I know? It's fun and better than the one I posted where I apparently looked exactly like a string of Korean actresses. Are you trying to tell me something here?