Going the distance
Since Tuesday, Big Mama and I have traveled 867.4 miles. Tomorrow I will get on a plane and travel much farther than that, and then I'll be in Ireland. I say that, but it still doesn't seem real. Perhaps it will have a chance to sink in during the eight hour flight to Dublin. Anyway, this blog will be going on hiatus for the next eight weeks. Go here instead to keep up with our jaunt about Ireland. Bye!

Replacing one vice with another
My family doesn't get cable TV, and in Belvidere that means not getting the WB. So I haven't watched Elimidate or Shipmates for at least a month. Then the other night I stumbled upon Meet My Folks. It's so trashy. I love it. Good thing I'm leaving the country before I can get truly addicted.

Spreading the blog bug
After seeing my blog just once, my friend Amber (I was in her wedding in May) started her very own blog.

Milage
So far Big Mama and I have racked up 80 miles traveling through Kingston and Genoa with various stops in Sycamore and Dekalb. Tomorrow we will cover a whole lot more as we head off to Terre Haute. Don't worry. We won't be there long because Indiana is a bullshit state.

Logging some miles with the Big Mama
Between tomorrow and the end of the week, I will be piloting Big Mama to and from the following locations:
-Sycamore, Illinois
-Terre Haute, Indiana (I must really like Julie because this trip to pick her up involves driving the entire length of I-39 twice in one day.)
-Milwaukee, Wisconsin

That's a lot of miles. Good thing Big Mama recently got a new pair of shoes. I'm thinking of it as a prep for spending the next eight weeks traveling about Ireland (and England). Well, for me, not Big Mama. I think the roads in Ireland are a smidge narrow for her.

Why do I keep running into my old gym teachers?
Saturday I went to 5:30 mass, and one of the ushers was my elementary school gym teacher, Mrs. Hauser. I haven't seen her since sixth grade. She looked exactly the same, except without the whistle. I wonder if she's still as mean as she used to be. Then tonight I was eating dinner at Chedder's with my friend Amber, and who sits down at the next booth but Coach Fritz and Assistant Coach Salines. (And by assistant coach, I mean special life partner. Really. They lived together and wore matching rings.) Coach Fritz was my tennis coach for three years (until she heartlessly cut me from the team my senior year) and my gym teacher for two semesters. She yelled at us a lot and stood with her hands in her arm pits. That's two gym teachers in two days. And that's not counting how many times I've seen my geometry teacher jog past my house with one of the art teachers. Middle-aged men + Spandex = frightening. Especially when one of them is Mr. Neff. He was the scary math teacher. We always wondered what was really in that Pepsi can he carried everywhere. And he would do things like start yelling about the Pythagorean theorem and ask us "If someone was holding a gun to your head and asked you what A Squared plus B squared equaled. What would you say?" Pantomines holding gun to a student's head. "WHAT WOULD YOU SAY?!" As a result, I was afraid of Neff Hall for most of freshman year. Okay. I'll stop rambling about former teachers now.

Sometimes life calls for mass-market fiction.

Working for the enemy
Okay. Working isn't exactly the right word. But my name has appeared in the Columbia Daily Tribune. At the honors reception in December, I was cornered by a reporter from the Trib while I was on my way between the line for cheese and cookies and the line for beverages. I meant to check and see if I made it into the story, but didn't get around to it until now. I'm the last quote in this story. I would like to point out that in just one paragraph, the reporter managed to squeeze in one error, one technical inaccuracy (or maybe I'm just being picky on this one) and one sentence that makes it sound like I said something I didn't. (See if you can find them all.) Way to go, Trib. Someone remind me why people in Columbia think this is the better paper.

Maybe this is why my parents think I'm a crazy feminist
So I was eating dinner with my parents tonight (hot dogs and beans, ah, the memories of a Midwestern childhood). The news was on in the background on the little black and white TV (circa 1985) my parents keep on the counter so they can watch the news during dinner. Some sort of commercial (for trucks maybe) came on. It was spoofing Ponderosa (the TV show, not the restaurant). My parents began discussing Ponderosa and trying to remember all of the characters. My mother seemed to remember all three sons having different mothers but that these women were never really on the show. My father said something to the effect of, "I wonder what the National Organization of Women would think about that. They would probably say he abused them or something like that." Because I sensed a definite oh-those-silly-women-always-making-a-fuss-over-nothing tone in my Dad's voice (and partly because I knew I could shock him), I said, "Oh, it's just the patriarchy using up, wearing out and throwing away women. No big deal." He didn't know what to say. My mother seemed amused in a ha-take-that-husband kind of way. My father finally responded by asking my mother what she had put in that brownie I was eating. Sorry, Dad. I don't think feminism is in the brownies. If it was, wouldn't women have already baked up a big batch and fed it to the patriarchy so we could have solved all of this long ago?

A Visit from Dr. Who
Today, my friend Eric visited. He's the friend who came to prom dressed as Dr. Who. The friend who's been trying to get me to listen to Phish ever since we were sophomores in high school. The friend who once served a month in the Coles County jail. The friend whose hair is longer than mine. It's curly and messy. Julie would love it. At El Mocajete (home of the best burritos in Belvidere), the owner brought us menus and said, "Hello, Ladies." It took him a minute to realize his mistake. There was a lot of apologizing. That's how long Eric's hair is. Also while at El Mocajete, I ran into Steve from Belvidere. This might not seem unusual, as I was in Belvidere at the time, unless you realize that by "Steve from Belvidere" I mean "Steve the kid from Belvidere who goes to Mizzou and works at Chipotle." I had just been telling Eric about how I love Chipotle's crunchy steak tacos. Eric is also the friend who smoked an illegal substance while driving me home from lunch today. This was a first for me. I always thought people were more discreet than that. Especially when they're on probation. Huh. I've made Eric sound a bit frightening. I didn't mean to. He's really a good guy. I swear.

It's like I'm Martha Stewart (without a pesky insider-trading scandal)
In the past 2 days I have
-cooked a fabulous sausage-spinach pasta bake for the family. (Thanks for the recipe, Family Circle.) My father seemed shocked that I knew how to cook. How did he think I fed myself for the past year and a half?
-made two hostel sheets. I used a sewing machine for the first time in years. Mrs. Shipman (the home ec teacher with the biggest hair ever) would be so proud. We just won't let her look at how ugly my seams are.
-mod podged the cover of my New York scrapbook (for my first summer there, not this past summer. Yes, yes, I procrastinated a little bit.) and finished more than half the pages.

I almost baked chocolate chip cookies, too. I really must be stopped.

Belvidere's answer to Teller's
I went to Belvidere's newest restaurant for dinner tonight. My mother had gone on at length about how fancy it is. It's supposed to be a wine bar and restaurant. I could respect that except for its name: Bacchus Nibbles. Okay, Bacchus is the god of wine and all that, but Bacchus Nibbles? That's just silly. The restaurant ended up being a little nicer than I thought it would be, but it was still very Belvidere. There were strings of plastic grapes on the walls. I guess it's hard to pull off that swanky, yuppie, wine-bar atmosphere when you're across the street from the Piggly Wiggly.

If you ever find yourself in Orfordville, Wisconsin ...
There are two bars. Knute's and The Spot Bar. Both entertaining in their own way.

Knute's
-There were about a dozen people there. When we walked in, they all stared at us in a who-the-hell-are-these-girls kind of way.
-The bartender was cute.
- Miller Lite "shorties" were on special for 75 cents. They're the cutest bottles of beer ever. They're just so short and fat; they're almost cuddly. If a bottle of beer could be cuddly. (Sorry, August. I drank some. I'm not dead. Deal with it.)
-When we left, someone shouted something to the effect of, "Hey, Wilber, your ladies are leaving."

The Spot Bar
-We were the only people there besides the bartender.
-In all of the hubbub of actually having customers, the bartender got our order wrong and gave me the wrong beer. (Sorry, August. It was still from Wisconsin. I'm still not dead.)
-As we were the only people there, my friends and I got to play as much pool as we wanted and put lots of songs on the juke box. (With "Sweet Home Alabama" and "Every Rose Has Its Thorn" on the juke box, what more can a girl ask for? Okay, maybe "Brown Eyed Girl.")

F.I.B.s in mourning
My friend Lizz, the one who lives in Orfordville now, just got her Wisconsin driver's license. She has officially gone over to the dark side. She's quite distraught. I feel as if I should be wearing some sort of black arm band.

Am Absolutely Ancient
My three closest friends from high school:
-One is getting married in August
-Another just got engaged about an hour ago
-The third has been dating her boyfriend for over 6 years

Oh, the green and red of Mayo, I can see it still
Today, I found out that my Irish ancestors come from Pollagarraun, County Mayo. I have directions to the old family house. I could rent the cottage next door for a week. I'm bloody excited. It's right near (but not actually on) the Mullet Peninsula. Perhaps this is where the hairstyle originated. Hmm ... I'd like to think my ancestors had a better sense of style than that.

This blog entry will end soon ... I swear
I was going to say something snarky about how this title is a lot like one of these titles. (Note the dates.) :P But this blog entry is already really long. That's all. I'll stop now. I swear.

Yesterday
I saw Gangs of New York and liked it, but I do have big soft spots for both New York City and the Irish. I guess I was predestined to enjoy it.

Today
Umm. I went to the dentist. It was a truly cosmic experience.

Tomorrow
Three words: barhopping in Orfordville.
The town might be the size of my belly button, but it has two bars. My friends and I plan on going to both of them. Maybe we'll raise some hell. I haven't danced on any benches for a while. But then again, that might scare the locals. Don't worry, Wisconsin readers, I plan on consuming only beverage of Wisconsin origin. It seems appropriate for the setting.

Having an epiphany on the Epiphany
Okay, so I didn't really have an epiphany. And it wasn't really the Epiphany, just the Solemnity of the Epiphany. But close enough.

I went to mass by myself this morning as my parents were serving communion at the early mass (8 a.m.), and as I'm on vacation (or at least that's how I like to think of it) I opted for the more human hour of 9:30. I lucked out. I got the "good" priest. Father Ricardo came to Belvidere from Mexico a couple of years ago after he got ordained. He's a really funny guy, and he likes to tell stories. These are two traits I like in a priest. He started off his homily with a story. (Apologies. I won't be able to do his broken English justice. It's really quite endearing.)

"Last night, while I was doing some research for today's homily, I opened one of my Christmas presents. It was from Debi, the parish secretary. She had given me some coffee from the Gloria Jean's. It was very good. It was so good I took six cups. With the caffeine, I was all, how you say, like jelly."

imagine a short, balding Hispanic man in his thirties jiggling about wildly

"When I went to bed last night I vowed never to take more than two cups of coffee. ... This morning I had three. So I am again a bit ..."

again with the jiggling about wildly

"how you say, crazy."

Then he launched into his homily. He started out talking about the number of magi and wondering why we think there are three. His grandmother always used to say there were four. He explained the magi were kings and used to living in palaces and such. So they started out as four, but halfway there one of them quit because it was too difficult. The desert is very hot during the day and very cold at night.

"Kind of like Belvidere in the winter. Now my grandmother always said, imagine him doing an impression of his elderly Mexican grandmother'He was not a wise man. He was estupid. I always felt sorry for him, though. He miss Christmas.'"

Father Ricardo then branched off from the magi theme and gave a homily that I've been needing to hear for a long time.

So I was already really happy with mass, but there was more. There was a lullaby that needed to be sung. At the beginning of mass someone had carried a baby in the basket up to the altar. I was confused. But the baby wasn't moving, so I decided it wasn't real. But I was still confused. Then at the end of mass, Father Ricardo asked if we could give him five minutes. There is a Hispanic tradition of singing a lullaby to the baby Jesus on Christmas Eve, Christmas Day and today, the Epiphany. He wanted to share this with us. He called all of the children in the congregation up to the altar. Then he asked the choir to sing the entrance song again ("We Three Kings"). He asked the rest of us to lullaby along. He meant hum, so we did. He then took the baby Jesus doll out of the basket and handed it the first child in line. As the choir sang and we hummed, the kids all took turns rocking the baby Jesus to sleep. It was so cute. Father Ricardo hummed along and then started talking.

"Go to sleep, baby Jesus. We love you, baby Jesus. We want to hug you. Are you hungry, baby Jesus? Look at those feet. Baby Jesus has the most beautiful feet, doesn't he? We love you, baby Jesus. Go to sleep."

So for the first time in a long time, I left church smiling. That means a lot to me.

(P.S. Props to all of you who actually make it to the end of this mammoth blog entry.)

Ringing in the New Year in style or at least in a bridesmaid's dress
It's like I'm an adult. For New Year's Eve, I got dressed up (and by dressed up I mean adding a sparkly silver scarf to a formal navy blue dress to make it seem less bridesmaid-esque. I think I was successful at disguising it, or at least Julie and Tiffany were nice enough to lie and say you couldn't tell.). I went somewhere where there were lots of adults also wearing fancy clothes. This somewhere happened to be on a boat on a big river. I ate filet mignon and jumbo shrimp for dinner. There was a champagne toast at midnight. I listened to the worst DJ in the world and watched lots of middle-age white people dance to Nelly. Comedy, trust me. The Mississippi might not be too scenic at night and the fireworks were hidden behind some buildings, but overall, it was a high-quality way to spend New Year's.

Something for all of my New York readers
The other day, I saw the FedEx commercial that was filmed down the street from our dorm. That's all. Don't you like stories?